Incline to Survive

Andrea ran in place while the world outside refused to move. The treadmill’s belt whispered beneath her feet—quiet enough that she could still hear the wind rattling loose shutters and the distant crackle of old solar panels fighting for power. She’d set the incline high, simulating a hill none of them dared climb anymore.

The houses on Maple Lane had once promised safety and good schools; now, they were just shells with boarded windows and tangled lawns. Inside, the living room was crowded by necessities: water jugs, canned beans, boxes of scavenged clothes. The treadmill—her last luxury—sat wedged between the sofa and the barricaded front door.

It wasn’t so much about fitness anymore as it was about keeping sane. Or maybe both. The digital display glowed in blues and purples, measuring distance as if it mattered. Andrea pressed her palms into the handlebars, sweat running down her temple.

“Turn it down,” Noah called from the kitchen table, where he hunched over his battered tablet, trying to catch another scrap of news from the citywide mesh network. “You’re making me anxious.”

She kept walking—steeper now. “You know this keeps my knees from locking up.”

He grunted but didn’t argue further. Since everything went sideways two years ago—when the water got bad and food deliveries stopped—Noah had grown cynical fast. At fifteen, he eyed every adult like they were one bad decision away from getting him killed.

Andrea slowed to a walk, thumb flicking off the rainbow display. The quiet felt heavier without her footfalls filling the room.

“Anything from Mrs. Lutz?”

Noah shook his head. “Her kid’s still missing.” He tapped nervously at his tablet screen. “People are saying he went over the fence.”

Andrea’s gut twisted; everyone knew you didn’t cross the chain-link at the end of Oak Street unless you wanted trouble—the kind that didn’t end with a simple scolding.

She wiped down the treadmill’s handlebars, glancing at its folded frame—a marvel of old-world engineering built for small spaces, its shock absorbers still soft despite months of daily use. Her ex-husband used to joke that people would never need mountains again with this thing around.

She heard it then: an irregular thumping at the back door—a code knock, familiar but frantic. Andrea tensed, feeling every muscle tighten with years’ worth of practiced dread.

“Noah,” she hissed. He darted behind her as she crept to peek through the curtain.

It was Evie Lutz, cheeks streaked with dirt and tears, clutching her little brother’s dinosaur backpack like it held all her remaining hope.

Andrea yanked open the door and pulled Evie inside. “What happened?”

Evie gulped air like it was rationed. “There were people in masks—they tried to grab us near the park.”

Andrea locked every bolt she could reach while Noah fetched water for Evie and her hands trembled as adrenaline ebbed away.

“You need to run,” Evie managed between sobs. “You need to be fast.”

Andrea glanced involuntarily at her treadmill—the irony wasn’t lost on her—but nodded grimly all the same.

That night she couldn’t sleep; outside was too quiet after Evie’s warning. She unfolded blankets beside Noah’s mattress on the floor but kept one eye on their makeshift barricade.

At dawn, she slid onto the treadmill again, setting it to incline level nine—the steepest climb possible. Her calves burned as she pushed herself harder than ever before; if she had to run for real someday soon, she needed her body ready for anything this ruined world demanded.

Noah watched from his perch on the window sill, silent for once.

“What if we leave?” he asked quietly after a while.

Andrea panted between steps. “Where would we go?”

He shrugged, looking smaller than usual in yesterday’s too-big sweater.

She pressed play on an old playlist—music pulsed through hidden speakers—and let herself imagine just for a moment: hills green with promise instead of rot, neighbors who waved instead of vanished children’s faces haunting every doorway.

After breakfast, Noah surprised her by stepping onto the treadmill himself—a rare concession for someone who spent so much time stewing in gloom.

“I want to try it,” he said simply.

Andrea showed him how to adjust speed and incline: gentle at first until he found his rhythm—then steeper as he gained confidence, muscles remembering what hope felt like when given something solid to push against.

As dusk approached again, Andrea realized there was no guarantee tomorrow would be kinder or safer than today—but there was value in being ready to move when standing still became too dangerous.

And sometimes survival looked like running up an artificial mountain while your child learned to do the same beside you—sweat mingling with fear and stubborn willpower under flickering LED lights.