Herbert Moore hit the brakes a little too hard, the sudden stop forcing him forward in his seat. He winced as the seatbelt dug into his fleshy chest, the steering-wheel into his substantial stomach. He quickly pulled to the kerb before he could be rear-ended by the vehicle that was coming up fast behind him. He turned off the car's engine and stared at the expansive, tinted plate-glass window of the store that had caught his attention.

Use It and Lose It, the store's sign proclaimed.

Herbert grunted. Since when had the sleepy little hamlet on the edge of nowhere acquired a sporting and fitness store? He frowned, his chubby face a picture of flushed concentration. No, he couldn't recall seeing any Grand Opening pamphlets in his mailbox, nor could he recall reading any proclamations in the town's small community newspaper advertising Use It and Lose It's imminent opening.

Perhaps the store's owner preferred the more cost effective, tried-and-true method of announcing he was now open for business, Herbert mused. In any language, word of mouth was still widely trusted as the best, most reliable form of advertising. The principal had worked wonders for the accountancy firm he worked for.

Herbert continued to study the window, his fingers unconsciously drumming on the steering-wheel's leather cover, unsuccessfully trying to see what lay beyond the tint. He emitted another grunt, opened the door and heaved his quivering bulk out of the car. No longer weighed down by the man-mountain, the car's suspension gave a noise almost like a sigh and the vehicle visibly rose a good two inches.

Hitching his trousers, Herbert walked to the store and peered through the window. Beyond, he was able to make out exercise equipment of various shapes, sizes and description; treadmills with electronic consoles; exercise bikes that looked like they might have been designed by NASA for Tour de France participants; bench presses complete with weights Herbert was sure he would never be able to lift without rupturing something; sportswear; sports shoes of every description; tennis rackets hanging from racks; countless tins containing tennis balls; footballs and soccer balls. In a far corner, he saw a device comprised of an intricate pulley-system, its function he could only guess at.

Shaking his head, Herbert stepped away from the window. Who was he trying to kid? God, if every diet known to man couldn't help him slim down, what chance did this place have?
No, damn it, he couldn't allow himself to think like that. A defeatist attitude wouldn't erase the kilos. He had to at least try something different. He knew the consequences could be dire if he didn't. Besides, he owed it to Ruth. He had to show his wife that there was more to him than a string of broken promises wrapped up in two-hundred and fifty pounds of jiggling fat.

One thing he knew for sure; if he stood there any longer, the sun's heat was going to baste him to a turn.

Exhaling nervously, Herbert opened the store's door, the top of which hit a trio of bells which emitted a melodious jingle. He stepped out of the sun's oppressive heat and into the store's cool confines.

He blinked a few times, allowing his eyesight to adjust, then, in the soft glow of overhead fluorescents, he looked around the store. He spied a large display counter, its glass shelves being stocked with wristbands, headbands and hairbands by a trim, fit-looking guy wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts who appeared to Herbert to be in his mid to late twenties.

The guy raised his head and quickly ran his eyes over Herbert's obese frame. Herbert expected to the guy to grimace at what he saw, but was surprised when he received an openly friendly smile instead.

"You look like a man who's just stuck his head into a lion's mouth without understanding just why the hell you did it," the guy said. His smile widened, revealing strong, white and even teeth.

Herbert thought the guy's analogy was pretty close to the mark, and a wave of depression washed over him. Here he was, a middle-aged man obese to the point of grotesque, standing in a sporting goods store thinking he could turn back the clock, become something he hadn't been since his early teens. Christ, he really was nothing but an overweight joke.

Close to tears he said, "I'm sorry, but I think I've made a mistake."

As Herbert turned to leave, the guy said, "Walking out that door could be an even bigger mistake, my friend."

"Excuse me?" Herbert's pig-like eyes stared quizzically at the store-keeper.

"It's plain to me you entered my store for a reason. I'd really like to hear what that reason is." The guy flashed his sunny smile at Herbert, and Herbert found himself returning it. And before he could stop them, his feet carried him towards the counter.

The guy's smile widened. "My man, I do believe you've just taken your first steps along the road to physically recovery. Congratulations." Herbert couldn't believe how anyone's smile could be so huge. It seemed to take up his entire face. "Now," the store-keeper continued, "tell me your story. Leave nothing out. Like they say in the classics; nothing ventured, nothing gained."
Herbert looked deeply into the guy's eyes and was astounded by the sincerity he saw there. Nowhere could he detect condescension. In fact the guy appeared to be genuinely interested in him; his eyes seemed to say that he wanted to help Herbert in any way he could. Unlike most of the people Herbert came into daily contact with, the guy wasn't looking at him like he was nothing more than an over-weight pig whose idea of exercise consisted of lifting the next fat-infused hamburger to his slavering maw. Oh, and waiter, another truck-load of greasy fries if you don't mind. Thank you.

Whether it was because of the kind patience he saw in the guy's eyes or something else, Herbert didn't know, but his jaw unhinged, and what had been deeply buried within him, allowed to fester and grow like a malignant cancer, suddenly spewed forth.

"My wife's been at me for years, trying everything to get me to lose all this weight, and God knows I want too, but for me it's a thing easier said than done. I admit that I'm weak." Herbert uttered an embarrassed laugh. "I can't even walk past the pantry door without opening it and snacking on the chips or chocolates that are on the shelves. Even after I've consumed one of Ruth's large dinners, I find myself searching for something else to eat." Herbert saw how the store-keeper nodded, as if he too, at some stage in his life, had been afflicted with the same sort of weak-minded malady that had kept him going back to the table for more. "Lately I've been having trouble sleeping, and more often than not, I find myself silently sliding out of bed, and like a thief in the night, I sneak into the kitchen and raid the refrigerator." Herbert looked at his extensive belly and, shame-faced, tried unsuccessfully to suck it in. "It's funny in a ridiculous kind of way. My wife's constantly harping at me to lose all of this. 'You're eating your way to an early grave,' she's always saying, then she piles more fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy onto my plate causing me to lay the blame of my gluttonous ways at her feet, which I know is wrong. Ruth's not forcing the food down my throat, but that doesn't stop me from saying if she didn't replenish the potato chips, chocolate biscuits and jam-filled pastries after I'd eaten them all, then I wouldn't have any reason to raid the pantry, would I? She says she buys them to test my willpower, that maybe I'll develop the strength to resist the temptations placed before me. But when I tell her I have a weak disposition, that I can't help going rubbery in the knees at the sight of a Tim-tam wrapper, she gives me a reproachful look before shaking her head and walking away. I've come to believe that I'm nothing but an embarrassment to her. I don't even think she likes being seen out in public with me anymore." Herbert released a disspirited sigh. The store-keeper gave him a sympathetic smile and again nodded his head. Man, I understand completely what you're going through the nod seemed to convey to Herbert, and it gave him the courage to continue.

"You know things have reached crisis point when your sex life goes the way of the dodo. My wife's no wider than a stuffed piece of string, and although she hasn't come out and said it, I can see it in her eyes whenever I try and come across. She's afraid I'll squash the life out of her."
Herbert paused, shocked. He couldn't believe he had just revealed to this complete stranger one of his most embarrassing thoughts and fears, that he had spoken of his non-existent sex life like he was doing nothing more than discussing sport scores with the guys at work. But the store-keeper didn't appear to be phased by Herbert's disclosure one bit; he just stood there, his features passive, solemn-like as he waited for Herbert to continue.

And Herbert found himself wanting to continue. He pictured himself as a giant ball filled with vile, stinking pus that had finally been lanced by a scalpel sharpened on truthful revelations, imagined his body expelling even more of the poison as he continued to talk, the corruption oozing away to the point he was actually starting to feel good about himself again, a man again.

"But just lately something's been happening, something pivotal that I'm too afraid to tell my wife about. I've been experiencing chest pains, you see?" Herbert rubbed his sternum as if he were suffering one at that very moment, and concern rippled across the face of the store's proprietor. "Most times they're nothing more than annoying twinges, but sometimes they're strong enough to force the air from my lungs. It's like someone's holding my heart in their hand and they're squeezing it. It's those pains that have convinced me it's time to act, and act now. I'm starting to think that tomorrow might be too late.

"I don't know if it's fate or not, but your store couldn't have opened at a more opportune time for me," said Herbert as he surveyed the store. "The only thing is, I don't know what to do or where to start. As you can plainly see, exercise and I aren't exactly on speaking terms," Herbert said with a shame-faced grimace. He looked pleadingly at the store-keeper. "Can you help me?"

"Yes, my brother, I can," he said, and Herbert felt tears of gratitude well in his eyes.

The proprietor looked around his store, and frowned. "I think starting you on the exercise equipment might do more damage than good," he said. "Exercise isn't something to be taken lightly, especially if you're not used to it. You've been extremely honest with me, a perfect stranger, so I'll be honest with you; if you start off on a treadmill or exercise bike before your body's had a chance to adapt to a little physical exertion, then you're liable to have a heart attack. I suggest you start off by walking. Not too far at first, just around the block. Then, as your body gets used to it, you gradually increase the distance. After a few weeks of this, you'll be right to up-grade to something a little more strenuous. How does that sound?"

The idea of engaging in actual physical activity scared Herbert, but the consequences if he didn't do anything terrified him more. "I guess that might be okay," he said.

"Sorry," the proprietor said, "but that's not good enough." He leaned towards Herbert and stared at him with eyes that gleamed somewhat maniacally. Herbert found the look a little disconcerting, but he found it impossible to look away from the guy's face. "I want to hear some real conviction from you. You just asked for my help, and I'm giving it to you. I'll ask you only once, Herbert; how badly do you want to lose all that weight?"

Did he tell the guy his name? Must have, he thought. How else would he have known it?
The proprietor was waiting patiently, and Herbert said, "I'm sick of lugging around all of this... this lard. I'm sick to death of being sneered and snickered at, of being the brunt of fat jokes at work. Christ, I can't even remember the last time I was able to see my feet while standing. More importantly, I want my wife to respect me again, to love me and make love to me." Herbert's face hardened and steel-like determination filled his eyes. "I want to lose all this flab. If I have to walk to hell and back to do it, I will."

"My man, that's exactly what I was hoping you'd say." Grinning broadly, the guy skirted the counter and placed a companion-like arm around Herbert's wide, meaty shoulders. "Man, do I have the perfect pair of shoes for you," he said. "They're a new design. Only been on the market for a short while. And I can say with absolute sincerity that I haven't heard a single word of complaint about them or had a pair returned. These shoes will transform you into a shadow of your former self. I guarantee it, or your money back. Wait here and I'll go and get you a pair."

The guy gave Herbert's shoulder a friendly pat before he whipped back around the counter and disappeared into what Herbert presumed was the store-room. He returned moments later carrying a plain brown shoe box which he placed on the counter. He looked expectantly at Herbert.

Herbert gazed down at the box. On the lid, he saw the smiling caricature of a man enjoying a leisurely stroll. Stencilled below the character was: Trail Blazers -- These Shoes Were Made for Walking.

"Take a look at them," the store-keeper eagerly prompted.

Herbert removed the lid, laid open the waxed paper and stared at the box's contents.

He didn't quite know what to expect, but what he saw didn't infuse him with an overwhelming sense of excitement. The shoes liked like an ordinary pair of joggers; white in colour with two thin red lines running down their sides.

Feeling somewhat deflated by the shoes' plainness and not understanding the guy's exuberance for the product he was trying to sell but not wanting to appear ungracious, Herbert picked up one of the shoes. He flipped it over to check the sole. The tread was heavily grooved, and did appear to have been designed exclusively for travel over long distances. Herbert peered into the shoe and saw it was nicely padded. A little extra comfort when pounding the hardtop, Herbert thought.

"So, what do you think?" asked the proprietor. "Do you like them?"

"I don't mean to sound rude, but they look like ordinary joggers to me," said Herbert.

"Don't be deceived by their plainness," the guy said, his tone serious. "These shoes will go the distance. Guaranteed. Like I said, I've never received a single complaint about them. You want to lose weight, right?" Herbert nodded. "Walk in these babies and you'll find it impossible to stop. You'll have the pounds falling off you, and that's a promise."

Herbert couldn't help but smile. The guy's sales pitch was good. With a spiel like that, he could sell sand to the Arabs and ice to the Eskimos.

Apart from the pounds and what remained of his self-esteem, what did he have to lose? Nothing, Herbert thought. "Okay," he said. "I'll take them. How much do I owe you?"

"They retail for seventy dollars, but since you're my first customer and I want to help you, let's make it an even fifty."

Herbert thought that even with the discount the price was still a bit stiff, but he knew if he didn't lose weight he'd pay an even bigger price.

Reaching into his rear pocket, Herbert took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to the store-keeper, who, with a wink and a deft, fluid-like motion, made the note disappear into a pocket of his shorts.

Herbert picked up the shoe box, said thanks and good-bye to the guy and headed for the store's exit. Herbert opened the door and turned to give the guy a final wave, but he was nowhere to be seen.

He must have ducked back into the storeroom, Herbert surmised and left the store.

It was only a short walk to his car, but by the time Herbert squeezed his bulk into the driver's seat, he was sweating profusely from the blistering heat. He placed the shoe box on the passenger seat, mopped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief and started the car. He turned on the air conditioner and luxuriated in the icy blast that washed over him.

Driving home, two thoughts surfaced in his mind. He must have spent a good half-hour in the store baring his soul to a perfect stranger, revealing embarrassingly intimate details about himself that he could never speak to his wife about because of the ridicule he knew he'd receive from her, and during his time in the store, he had not seen a single prospective customer enter. Surely curiosity towards the town's newest store hadn't waned so soon. And just as perplexing was if the shoes were as good as the guy was making them out to be, why weren't they on display? Why keep them stowed in the storeroom out of sight of the consumer?

Then another thought intruded; he hadn't even tried the shoes on! What if they didn't fit?

Herbert chuckled aloud at this realisation. What moron bought shoes without first trying them on? Me, he thought, that's who. With tears of mirth sliding down his chubby cheeks, Herbert glanced at the shoebox. And his laughter abruptly died, and a scream lodged in his throat.
Herbert slammed on the brakes leaving dark tracks of rubber along the road. He stared at the caricature on the box's lid, his heart hammering painfully in his chest, his breath hitching.

His vision must have been distorted by the tears from his laughter, his mind reasoned. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light as a cloud passed over the sun because the character's smile looked like a smile and not a terrified scream, its gait an easy, leisurely amble and not a tortured, pain-filled shuffle.

The blaring of a horn forced a startled screech from Herbert. He looked into the rear-view mirror and saw the driver of the vehicle behind him waving his arms in an unfriendly fashion, his lips forming unheard obscenities. Herbert raised a hand in apology and continued home.
*
"Fifty dollars! What are the laces made of? Gold thread!?" Ruth gave an exasperated laugh and threw up her hands. "My God, Herbert, what were you thinking?"

"Considering the alternatives, I think fifty dollars is a small price to pay, don't you think? Besides, the guy said I get a full refund if I don't like the shoes." Herbert hoped this last detail would go some way in justifying the expenditure and pacify his wife, but he was wrong.

"Herbert, you silly man, how many stores give refunds on shoes that have already been wore? Honestly! Sometimes you're as gullible as a child," Ruth said, with a rueful shake of her head.

"The guy's only just opened his store. I'm sure he wouldn't want the bad publicity that would circulate around town if he reneged on his money-back guarantee," Herbert said defensively.

Ruth folded her arms and said, "Did you get a purchase receipt?" Herbert's stupefied expression told her all she needed to know. "I'm sorry, but he saw you coming. The fool and his money are soon departed, and in this case you're the fool, Herbert."

Unwilling to admit that his wife might be right, Herbert leapt on an idea that he hoped would put the store-keeper's so-called guarantee to the test.

After changing into a pair of baggy tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt that barely covered his enormous stomach, Herbert sat on the couch -- its inner springs protesting noisily -- with the shoe box. He looked nervously at the lid, but the character on it looked as happy and as spritely as ever. He removed the shoes, and after a brief struggle that produced beads of sweat on his brow and caused his heart to beat at an alarming rate, he managed to reach beyond his substantial gut and put on the shoes.

Duped or not, the guy had uncannily gauged the correct size of his feet; not only were the shoes a perfect fit, seeming to mould themselves to Herbert's feet like a second skin, they were as comfortable as they appeared. Herbert couldn't help but feel impressed.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Ruth demanded as she came out of the kitchen clutching a red and white striped tea-towel.

"Since you believe I've been conned out of fifty dollars by a slick-tongued salesman, I decided to take a walk into town and get that refund."

"Don't be silly. Not only is it hot out there, but it's a good forty-five minute walk each way. It'll be full dark by the time you get back. Besides, dinner's nearly ready."

"I'll microwave it when I return," Herbert said.

Ruth observed her husband's stubbornly-set features, and she wondered if perhaps she'd made a mistake in deriding him over the shoes. It was a long walk into town, especially for someone so out of shape and who hadn't attempted such a journey on foot in years like Herbert hadn't. Ruth felt fear for him, and for herself.

A nightmarish image took shape in her mind. She pictured Herbert walking, suddenly clutching at his chest and then collapsing to the ground. She didn't know what she would do or how she would cope if something was to happen to him. She knew she'd said some hurtful things to him lately about his ballooning weight, but she still loved him deeply.

"Why don't you wait and return them tomorrow on your way home from work?" Ruth said.

"It's better if I return them now, that way if the guy does renege on his promise to give me a refund I can pass the word that he's a liar and a fraud to everyone I meet while walking back. The town will ostracise him. He'll be out of business within a week. But if he does stand by his word, then I can do the opposite. I can promote his store, sing his praises. And walking there will at least prove to him that I did try the shoes, won't it?"

Herbert rocked back and forth on the lounge until he had gathered enough momentum to get to his feet, and made his way to the door. "I won't be long," he said.

"Please be careful, Herbert."

Herbert looked at his wife. It had been a long time since he'd heard such tender concern for him in her voice, and he was touched by it. "I'll be fine, Ruth. I'm only going for a walk. What's the worst that can happen?"

Ruth didn't answer, only clutched the tea-towel tighter.

After stepping off the driveway and onto the sidewalk, Herbert saw his neighbour hosing a flowerbed that was brimming with colourful blooms. "Hi, Walter."

"G'day, Herbert," Walter said, clearly surprised by his neighbour's unexpected appearance. "What's new?"

"Well, I've decided it's about time I did something about all this excess baggage." Herbert gave his protruding paunch a squeeze. "I checked out the new sports store in town today and bought myself a new pair of joggers. I've heard it said that walking is the best form of exercise."

Walter looked at Herbert's shoes. "I didn't know we had a new store, I'll have to check it out. Maybe we could pair up and walk together. I've got a few pounds I wouldn't mind shedding either," he said, pointing to his stomach which looked totally flat to Herbert.

"I'll be walking every evening so feel free to join me anytime. See you later, Walter."

Herbert encountered a few more familiar faces while travelling along the street, all of whom expressed undisguised but pleasant shock at seeing him out walking, unfeigned delight at the news he had finally decided to adopt a healthier lifestyle. Praise and encouragement flowed freely, leaving Herbert embarrassed but feeling warm inside, each conversation ending with a declaration to visit the new store nobody was aware had opened.

About halfway into his journey to town, Herbert began to understand just how difficult a task it was he had assigned himself. Exertion quickened his pulse, and sweat slid down his sides in rivulets before being absorbed by the waistband of his tracksuit pants, staining the material dark. And the friction being produced by the rubbing together of his thighs had begun generating an uncomfortable chaffing that caused him to wince with every step.

Total realisation at just how inept he was at exercise swept over him when his dry mouth told him he had neglected to bring the one thing he saw in the hand of every jogger he passed while driving to or from work; a bottle of water.But that was okay. He'd buy a bottle for the trek home from the refund he was sure he was going to get. In fact, he'd buy two bottles.

At least the shoes were comfortable, he couldn't deny that. He could barely feel the impact of his feet connecting with the sidewalk. Perhaps they had some sort on in-built shock absorber. Just because the store-keeper hadn't mentioned that didn't mean it wasn't the case, Herbert thought. Too bad he had to return them. But then again, why should he have too? Because, his mind reasoned, if he returned home with them still on his feet, he'd have to put up with his wife's nagging reproach at his wanton wasting of money. Better to just get the refund than to cause already choppy seas to turn into a seething cauldron.

Maybe he could get the refund and buy a cheaper pair of shoes. She couldn't complain if he bought something of lesser value, could she? He'd have a look at the alternatives when he got there.

At the same time as the dipping sun began to hide its golden face behind the craggy peaks of the distant mountains, a sweat-soaked, totally parched and huffing and puffing Herbert turned onto the town's main thoroughfare.

He prayed he wasn't too late, that the guy hadn't ceased trading for the day and closed the store. He desperately wanted that refund. He was going to buy the biggest, coldest bottle of water he could get his hands on.

At the thought of the cool liquid that would soon be sliding down his arid throat, his moisture-starved and swollen tongue slid out and licked at lips that were as dry as sandpaper and developing cracks.

He continued on, his gait beginning to resemble a stumbling lurch.

A moan of gratitude escaped him when, a little further ahead, he spied the exercise store's shop-front window. He frowned slightly. There appeared to be something odd about the store.
The store-front's sidewalk was littered with leaves and discarded food wrappers. The area looked as if it hadn't been swept for days, possibly weeks. But it had been spotlessly clean earlier, Herbert was sure of it. He would have noticed, otherwise.

And then he saw something that produced a gasp of disbelief. A For Lease sign was stuck to a section of the large, grimy plate-glass window. The Use It and Lose It sign was gone.

How could that be? Herbert's mind screamed. Where had the store gone? It had been right there a couple of hours ago, but now the place looked like it hadn't been occupied for months. But that couldn't be right! God, he was wearing proof of the store's existence on his feet. What the hell was going on?

Herbert slowed as he drew closer to the store. And then he abruptly picked up speed.

As his feet carried him past the For Lease sign he opened his mouth to scream, but the ululation refused expulsion, lodging in his throat like a fish bone.

Herbert detected movement in his peripheral vision, and his head turned on a neck that felt like a rusty cog. He tried to scream again, and again found he couldn't; his mouth refused to open.
Pressed against the window was the leering face of the store-keeper. Then his face began to change, his features to undulate, rising and falling like water under a film of algae. His eyes turned rheumy and thick yellow pus began oozing from the sockets like diseased tears. The skin covering his cheeks stretched and then split, peeling away to reveal bone that was a sickly grey and etched with deep fissures. His mouth opened impossibly wide and began to fill with dagger-like teeth that gnashed noisily, hungrily. The hair covering his cranium began to twist and curl into ringlets resembling writhing maggots which began burrowing into a scalp that was starting to rip and tear, and from the rents, knob-like growths were emerging, protuberances that thickened and elongated, transforming into horns.

The ghastly apparition pointed at Herbert's feet with a long bony finger, the nail at its end black and pitted, and began to jump up and down like a demented Jack-in-the-box, its laughter sounding to Herbert like the heads of babies being smashed together.

As Herbert passed beyond the window, the thing waved merrily.

His face twisting with effort, Herbert tried to release another shriek, but his throat remained stubbornly locked. He tried to stop, but his feet refused to heed his brain's command. And as his terror increased so did his pace, his large hips crazily mashing from side to side like an insane marathon walker.

When two elderly ladies exiting a hairdressing salon, their latest perms with pink highlights and how they seemed to make them look and feel younger the focal point of their conversation, saw the man with the twisted and grimacing features and ungainly walk rapidly approaching them, their opinions on how many compliments their new hair-dos could expect to receive that night at Bingo were over-ridden by the sudden need to retreat back into the sanctuary of the salon.

Through tears of pain and terror, Herbert saw two ladies come out of a salon who were talking animatedly and touching and buffing their hair primly. When they looked at him, he saw their eyes widen in fear and they quickly disappeared back into the hairdressers.

Oh, God, what was happening? Why couldn't he stop walking? He could feel his feet but he had no control over them; it was as if they belonged to someone else. God, he mentally scream, what had that thing in the window done to him?

As if in response to this a memory rose in his mind, vivid in its clarity. He saw the store-keeper staring intently at him from behind the counter and asking: How badly do you want to lose all that weight? Herbert heard himself say in reply: If I have to walk to hell and back to do it, I will.
Dread-filled understanding iced the blood in his veins, and his stricken throat held another scream of terror captive. In his mind's eye, he saw an extremely obese man enter a sporting goods store and innocently purchase a pair of shoes, a transaction he now realised was going to cost him more than just fifty dollars.

These shoes will transform you into a shadow of your former self, Herbert heard the thing that was the store keeper say in his mind, and an insane grin twisted his features into a horrible rictus.

Caveat Emptor. Let the buyer beware. If he was able to, Herbert would have laughed maniacally at this thought. Instead, he kept walking.

The multitude of houses around him thinned as he reached the town's boundary, becoming isolated clusters. Before him, the open road stretched inexorably onward, becoming blurred and indistinct as it neared the mountain peaks eclipsing the far horizon.

Something pressed against Herbert, moulding itself to him like he'd walked into a large, invisible spider's web. A shredding sound filled his mind and he found himself walking along a road he no longer recognised, a road paved with bones.

He discovered he was able to move his head freely and he looked around. He saw he was no longer alone but surrounded by hundreds of people, men, women and even children, each in various stages of emaciation, their faces gaunt, their eyes haunted and staring, their clothes hanging and flapping on their thin frames like ship's sails. Herbert had seen pictures of concentration camp survivors and he thought these people looked a lot like them.

"Help me" Herbert managed to mutter, but no-one appeared to have heard him. No-one even looked in his direction, everyone trudging forward like they all had a destination in mind and no-one was going to stop them from reaching it.

He looked at the feet of the person closest to him, and then the feet of the next and the next.

This time he was able to moan. Herbert saw a sea of ordinary joggers; white in colour with two thin red lines running down their sides, each looking immaculate, like they had just been purchased.

These shoes will go the distance. Guaranteed. Like I said, I've never received a single complaint about them, a merry voice said in Herbert's mind, eliciting another moan.

Unable to stop himself, Herbert joined the condemned ranks of walkers, his pace never faltering, his feet propelling him along a road paved with the dead, a road that seemed to stretch into eternity.