listened, sure to hear a cracking twig or grunt or groan, but nothing came. Nothing came.
I sucked a big, deep breath into my lungs and, wincing against the pain, struggled to all fours.
Somebody had shot me—I was pretty sure it wasn’t or couldn’t have been Mack from where I saw him standing last. Donnie maybe? That might make sense because Donnie’d been a real weird asshole since I met him. But motive? I don’t suspect Donnie had much reason to off me.
I forced my hands from the ground and, squatting, dusted my filthy palms against my knees. The pain throbbed like a hammer tapping a sore finger, thud, thud thud . I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight. The dim awareness that the flesh bags might still be coming sparked in my head. I couldn’t stay there, alone, exposed.
Rabbit groaned.
I stooped for my gun and limped to his side. He lay face down, his back dark and matted with blood.
“Unngh…”
“Quiet,” I whispered. “Quiet.”
“Fuck… Somebody…”
“Shhhh. I’ll get you out of here.”
“Y-you?” He tilted his head slightly so I could see the side of his face. His eyes flickered and rolled back in his head.
“Pete.”
His mouth opened again, but instead of words, another groan tumbled out. There was another sound, not from Rabbit, but somewhere behind us. A twig snapping. Footsteps.
My throat closed off. I couldn’t feel my legs for a moment, but the pain in my back vanished, too. The meatwads were coming. They were coming, and I couldn’t do anything about it. My right hand tightened around the stock of the shotgun. My left hand patted the thigh pockets of my worn BDUs. The shells. Whoever shot me hadn’t taken the shells.
Twenty-eight of them.
Whoever shot me had left both of us as food for the God-damned monsters. I slid a thumb over the shotgun’s safety and worked my index finger into the trigger guard. My gaze fell to Rabbit. His face had gone pale, but his eyes were open.
I counted down in my head.
Three…
Another broken twig. The wet crunch of damp leaves from last autumn.
Two…
I imagined the stale, rotten breath of the flesh bags on my back. My finger stroked the smooth metal trigger.
One…
I turned.
Three men had melted out of the woods and stood less than ten feet away, each of them pointing a crossbow at my chest.
“Don’t think about firing that damn gun.”
THE END
(for now)
Want more? Drop in at www.aaronpolson.net and sign up for the newsletter to receive updates on Pete’s plight. Hell, I’ll even send you a copy of part 2 (once it’s done) for free.
I sucked a big, deep breath into my lungs and, wincing against the pain, struggled to all fours.
Somebody had shot me—I was pretty sure it wasn’t or couldn’t have been Mack from where I saw him standing last. Donnie maybe? That might make sense because Donnie’d been a real weird asshole since I met him. But motive? I don’t suspect Donnie had much reason to off me.
I forced my hands from the ground and, squatting, dusted my filthy palms against my knees. The pain throbbed like a hammer tapping a sore finger, thud, thud thud . I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight. The dim awareness that the flesh bags might still be coming sparked in my head. I couldn’t stay there, alone, exposed.
Rabbit groaned.
I stooped for my gun and limped to his side. He lay face down, his back dark and matted with blood.
“Unngh…”
“Quiet,” I whispered. “Quiet.”
“Fuck… Somebody…”
“Shhhh. I’ll get you out of here.”
“Y-you?” He tilted his head slightly so I could see the side of his face. His eyes flickered and rolled back in his head.
“Pete.”
His mouth opened again, but instead of words, another groan tumbled out. There was another sound, not from Rabbit, but somewhere behind us. A twig snapping. Footsteps.
My throat closed off. I couldn’t feel my legs for a moment, but the pain in my back vanished, too. The meatwads were coming. They were coming, and I couldn’t do anything about it. My right hand tightened around the stock of the shotgun. My left hand patted the thigh pockets of my worn BDUs. The shells. Whoever shot me hadn’t taken the shells.
Twenty-eight of them.
Whoever shot me had left both of us as food for the God-damned monsters. I slid a thumb over the shotgun’s safety and worked my index finger into the trigger guard. My gaze fell to Rabbit. His face had gone pale, but his eyes were open.
I counted down in my head.
Three…
Another broken twig. The wet crunch of damp leaves from last autumn.
Two…
I imagined the stale, rotten breath of the flesh bags on my back. My finger stroked the smooth metal trigger.
One…
I turned.
Three men had melted out of the woods and stood less than ten feet away, each of them pointing a crossbow at my chest.
“Don’t think about firing that damn gun.”
THE END
(for now)
Want more? Drop in at www.aaronpolson.net and sign up for the newsletter to receive updates on Pete’s plight. Hell, I’ll even send you a copy of part 2 (once it’s done) for free.
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