06-22-2009

Start Fiction:


     Peter slid against the boulder, slowly trying to gain cover as the smoke rose. The gunman approached his position in a steady stride, guns drawn, no indication they were going to take cover.
     "Don't make this difficult on yourself, Mr. Jacobsen," one of the men called out.
     "What do you want with me?" Peter called back. The men did not reply; their footsteps grew closer.
     He searched for a new position, new cover, possible routes of escape.
     Peter's leg was bleeding, but he was able to move it, put weight on it; his only chance was to go now, no hesitation. He took a deep breath and moved towards the left, looking to slip behind the three men. He threw a rock to his right, knocking over a hub cap twenty feet away. The footsteps stopped.
Peter gingerly stepped around the boulder, moving behind a cast iron tub. He stopped, looked under the tub trying to spot the men as the smoke was beginning to clear.
     Three sets of feet were moving off towards the hub cap. Peter forced himself to wait; wait until he knew there was only three men.
He looked towards the exit and tried to plot a path. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He could hear the gravel shift under the men's feet; a car idled somewhere near the exit; a jet flew over, low; Peter's heart raced in his chest.      Another deep breath.
     He stood slowly, crouching, peeking over the rusty tub. The three men were dressed in black, wearing sun glasses, carrying Uzi's. What ever they wanted with him, it was serious.
     Peter stepped slowly towards a stack of crushed cars, in the open, exposed; if one of the men turned his head at all, he'd be seen. If he moved too fast, he'd be heard. But it was a risk he had to take.
     Sweat dripped from his brow.
     Two steps away.
     His pants were beginning to stick to his legs, he heard a slight rip.
     One more step.
     Peter stood and turned and leaned his back against the stack of cars. He made it.
     Now what? he thought.
     The exit was thirty feet dead on. Two stacks of tires were in his path; one would require him to move in to plain sight of the three men. He looked to the car, he could see the front bumper.
     What if there is a driver? Peter thought. Could I hide in the junk yard until they left? Or would they not leave until they found me?
     "Damn it!" one of the men shouted. "Back to the car!"
     Peter ducked to his right, using the tires as a block from the car. There was a small space under the next stack of cars. He could fit, he was sure. Three quick steps and a belly scoot.
     As he began to take his first step, a fourth man walked around the far side of the car with his rifle pointed right at Peter.
     Peter froze.
     "I got him," the fourth man called out.
     "Shit," Peter said as the other three men walked around the stack of cars. He raised his hands in the air and waited.
     "I told you not to make this hard on yourself," said one of the men as he grabbed Peter by the back of the neck and pulled him forward. "Let's go for a ride."
     The three men and Peter walked towards the car.


End Fiction.