Run Baby Run Read Free

rattle turned into a dull thud when the fence became wood, then metal. By the time the fence was cinderblock and he moved past it, his scuffed elbow began to bleed. The last part of the fence, merely scraps of tin and wood, before opening up to the train yard, delivered the final blow.
    "Rooster... yellow... ceiling span," he said, louder than before, in further pain from the jagged metal and nails catching his now pulpy left elbow.
    But yet, he held the beer case firmly. Bloody nose continued dripping, building up on his shirt and shorts, a few drops still making it to the street.
    A gravel and pothole filled stretch was alongside the tracks. Toes stumbled through it all.
    The railroad yard began to widen at Marais, a parallel block toward the river, and continued to swell with tracks until its widest point between Claiborne and Galvez.
    New Orleans' initial existence came to be as a port city. The trains and yards were a reminder that despite modern changes, the city existed to ship goods in and out. Tracks threaded the city and surrounding areas, from St. Bernard to upriver, along I-610, through Old Metairie, alongside Airline Highway, and more.
    Navigation of the tracks at hand by Toes was a different matter. His broken nose and jumbled mind led him forward.
    Initially he bumped his feet on the train tracks and stopped. In his confusion, he was trudging through a few feet of flood water, saving paper products.
    "Rooster... ripple... ceiling span," he told the world while he lifted his legs high through the imaginary water. Box held above his head to keep it dry for the crossing.
    High-stepping like he was crossing a swollen creek, Toes maneuvered through the series of metal tracks, wooden ties, and gravel filler. He bobbed and weaved, asserted and complied. Had any eyes been on him, they'd not have expected him to make it across but instead pitch forward on his face.
    Toes looked to his right, where the tracks led to the river. He leaned back to tilt his head up at the moon a little to the left of the Crescent City Connection bridge.
    In doing so, along with the weight of the beer case above his head, gravity almost got the better of him and sent him down again on his back.
    He groaned and swayed, righting himself and high-stepping like a Clydesdale horse over the last couple sets of tracks.
    At least he could walk normally again, which still resembled a drunkard's shamble or zombie shuffle. He was also able to drop the beer case to his chest. Trouble averted. Imaginary paper products kept dry.
    On the downriver side of the train yard, a chain link fence might've been an obstacle to his forward drive but for the fact that it had been crudely torn open as if by a train itself.
    Toes moved through it, pleased in some way, despite his state.
    "Rooster... red... all day long," he hollered.
    The mission of Toes continued along Urquhart, past the long linen services building on the right that spanned the block.
    A few doors across Feliciana, he paused and registered in a distorted-mind way the music lightly heard over the wooden fence to his right. He loudly added a variation to his refrain, which in turn could be heard by those inside the fence. At first there were chuckles of bewilderment at how the clumsy braying matched up to the song playing.
    "Nina Simone's not a rooster! No pizza for you," a husky voice called out.
    The response struck Toes as a threat, reeling as he was.
    He lurched to the other side of the street, bumping into a parked food truck that had Bentley's Meals on Wheels painted along the side.
    This continuing threat compelled him to take the next left, turning on Clouet. Toes kept to the middle of the street.
    He steadied himself midway before Villere on a For Sale sign posted between the street and the sidewalk. He was out of breath and drenched with sweat. Both his nose and elbow had stopped bleeding, though the former was bent to the side and the latter was a raw mess.
    Soft voices carried through the