Part 8
Early The Same Afternoon.
I almost fire when a clutch of dead leaves falls. The responsible squirrel darts down the branch and into cover before I can take aim.“We’re not alone out here.”
“How wide is this crick.”
“About five feet. We can jump it if we have to.”
“No, dude,” Nepotism says, shaking his head, looking down at his pants.
“Why not?”
“You could lose a shoe in that mud.” He is adamant.
“You’re worried about your shoes?”
Nepotism throws up his hands. “I thought we were going to breakfast!” A sniper could pick him out from the next county. “We’d sit where that cute waitress is working, the one who’s been giving me the eye. I wanted to look good.” He stomps around the clearing. I grit my teeth and reach for him, but he’s gone, right into the path of whatever rock or sling or arrow or bullet that might be heading his way. “I didn’t think we’d be running through the woods getting shot at.”
The ground rises up ahead of us and gently slopes down out of sight. I pump a round into the chamber. “You got a full clip?”
“Always,” Nepotism says. “Let’s draw some fire.” He cackles like a mad demon and fires a round into the woven basket of a canopy.
A million fluttering feathers rubbing each other is almost deafening. Beneath it is the sound of men throwing off the cover of leaves, confused, dashing about madly, like the first day of hunting season, everyone desperate to reach the carcass first, shooting anything in their path to at least shoot something.
“You motherfucker,” I grumble and dash for the knoll, not daring to count the lasers tracing along the ground surrounding me. I pre-emptive fire at dashing shapes between trees, waiting for my lower legs or abdomen to explode.
It takes a moment to realize no one is shooting but us. All the while, Nepotism is laughing, blasting his hand cannon left and right, blowing apart trees and dirt. He reaches the knoll and does a military roll over the crest into the stream bed. A moment later, he cackles and fires again.
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