Start Fiction:
Danny slid with back to the wall, scraping. The old brick in the alley was coarse; he could hear little tears with each slide. Even though he moved slow, he knew any faster movements could be his demise.
He never really cared for poker; why he agreed to a private game was lost on him. Tony and Stu had invited him, said they had fine to this game all the time. And it was total bullshit; no one there knew who they were, except that they were the two dead guys at the table.
The cuts on Danny's face burned as sweat began to creep in the wounds, flushing out the blood. He was lucky there was a fire escape on the other side of the window he dove through, although his ribs and shoulder would disagree. And his ankle might also have objections after jumping off the fire escape. Their objections would just gave to wait; this was far from over.
Now several blocks away, Danny thought, he slid behind a dumpster. The street light fell short of his location by an inch or two. The traffic was rather light, helping Danny listen for any voices, foot steps, or just too much silence. And that is how it was: silent. He knew that was a not a good sign. They were close, and listening just like him.
They were at the advantage. This was their neighborhood, their streets, their alley. Trying to control he breath, Danny wondered if he wasn't merely game for the hunt; they maybe waiting for the right moment to flush him out of hiding. He was determined not to let that happen.
Danny gathered himself, his breathing under control, he closed his eyes and listened. A TV; an old woman nagging someone, an a.m. radio; the L; distant sirens; a can down the alley. Danny's eyes popped open as his breath left him. He tried not to react; that would get him killed for sure He felt himself begin to slide down the wall a bit, but he stopped. No noise was good noise.
Damn I hurt.
End Fiction.
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