Flash Fiction Challenge 1 (Chuck Wendig). 15-09-2014
15 September 2014: This week’s Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge is to continue a story that was started by another writer in last week’s First 500 Words Challenge.
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By Amari Dixit ©:
“Don’t turn around or you’re dead,” she warns, the muzzle of a gun touching the small of my back. “Just keep walking.”
I heard the helicopter as soon as I entered the hallway. But there’s no one else in the library; only the shattered glass of the skylight looking accusingly at me like an abandoned child. I hadn’t heard it breaking, explosive though that must have been. It’s reinforced and triple thickness. They must have done it when I was out getting groceries. Dangling through the window is a wire rope attached to a hoist inside a large helicopter. It seems my captors were assured of victory, over tiny solitary me.
I eye the heavy bronze lamp to my right. My aim is pretty good, but it seems unlikely I’ll manage to use just one implement to stave off both of them in quick succession.
The unseen gun-wielders – there were two sets of footsteps behind me as I padded down the hall – didn’t even let me put my shoes back on.
Glad they are behind me, I smile to myself as a plan forms in my head.
I say in as plaintive a voice as I can manage, “There’s glass all over the carpet. And in case you haven’t noticed, you didn’t let me put my shoes on. Do you really want blood all over your helicopter?”
I can almost hear their mental cogs whirring. This is an unexpected question.
I’m used to being unpredictable. It comes with practice. I just have to think with my captors’ mind-set. When your hobby is to create bloodthirsty internet games, you learn to outwit murderers. I have changed my identity often enough, and moved countries whenever they’ve found me: mercenaries, dead gamers’ relatives, etcetera. I just didn’t expect they’d find me so soon in my temporary New Zealand hideaway. That’s why I’m unprepared, no bullet-proof vest on and no loafers.
“Let him get his feet bloody,” says a gruff male voice.
“Captain won’t want his precious helicopter bloodied,” she replies.
The male groans. “Okay, I’ll get his bloody shoes.”
I wonder if they will winch me, James-Bond style, to a mother ship, or to an airplane to whisk me away. The alternative is unthinkable; they wouldn’t just shoot me.
I’m too far inside the library to whisk around, lift up the lamp and thump the unsuspecting assassin on her head. Besides, her cries will bring her partner back, and then I will be shot through with glass fragments or peppered with bullets, or both. That option does not appeal.
This lot has managed not only to find me but to stake out my small pad. That must have been why I’ve been hearing helicopters overhead lately. And I thought they were rescuing boats. The feeling of being violated makes me angry. I’m dangerous when I’m angry.
The loafers are thrown at my feet. They will be very useful with heels inbuilt with steel for the very purpose of kicking people where it hurts.
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To be continued by: who knows ...