Friday, March 27, 2015

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 16
Afternoon Of The Second Day, Still Running Through the Woods.

“If Eva didn’t go home after my house, where the hell did she go?” I shoot twice and look at Nepotism in confusion.

Nepotism shoots. From cover two shots return, blasting dirt over us from the bank. “You know her, I don’t. How should I know where to look? I think we have more important considerations than rescuing your little girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

The shooter betrays his position to our left, about to cross the crick. It’s Kerouac. I didn’t leave much of the Kerouac I blew apart in Eva’s living room. It’s him though, messy black hair and plaid jacket, AK-47 slung across his chest. Nep opens up on him, driving Kerouac back into cover.

“We can’t count on her to keep  a secret,” Nepotism says, staring down his gun-sights. “We have to kill her before she does any damage.” He fires into a bush with no response. “Damn. Thought that’s where he was.”

“We’re not killing her,” I say.

“Not if she hasn’t read that notebook. Otherwise, BANG!” He emphasizes his point with a gunshot into a copse of saplings. “Damn.”

“We are not killing her.”

“You have gotta stop being all crushed-out over every spy sent to silence you.”

Kerouac shoots from behind a tree, blowing apart the dirt only inches from my face.

“We have got to get out of here,” I whisper. “He’s sure to have backup on the way.” He twists his lips, mulling it over and fires three times over the ridge, blowing apart wood and branches. Return fire sends one shot over my head. “What do you say?” I ask. “Shoot our way out, like in Metro City?”

He smirks. “Legally, I’m not allowed to engage in any kind of discussion involving anything that happened in Metro City under threat of copyright infringement.” He chambers a round. “As soon as I start shooting, run like hell. I’ll be right behind you.”

I grin and clap him on the shoulder. “That’s the old sprit!” I collect the full magazines from my pockets.

“Dude, this had better be one hell of a lay,” he says, staring down his gun-sights at a copse of trees by the crick.

“The best.” I jam the clip in.

“If she read that notebook, I’m still shooting her.” He looks back at the crick and fires blindly as fast as he can pull the trigger. I jump up and truck through. Trees whip past me in a blur as gunshots rock the forest. Nepotism’s unmistakable hand-cannon keeps Kerouac in check. The return fire lasts about a minute when the shooting stops altogether.

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