Busted Seventh: a novel experiment
-- first -- previous -- next --


Mitchell Connaught's first impulse was to reach for a non-existent gun.

Shit and Damnation. I forgot. No gun, he thought With the new airport regulations, I don't even have my Leatherman. Without a weapon, Mitch's quickly considered his options, and decided to run for it. He dove to escape any repeat shots, and then felt the arrow in his back as it slid and skipped along the brick wall he was just about to use as cover.

With pain as his guide, he finally found the object jutting from his back, and gave it a tentative pull. He could feel the shaft scrape his shoulder blade as he moved. The whole of it backed out just a bit before he felt it dig in. Barbed arrowhead. Who or what in the hell? he thought. Well, it explains why I didn't hear a gun shot. Each time he moved, or tried to move the arrow, he could feel pain pumping into him. The feeling of cold was slowly spreading, making it difficult now to move his right arm, as a numbness spread and flowed like ice water poured over his shoulder and down his whole right side.

Poison? It'd be smarter to leave it in, but I'm thinking this puppy is coming out, right quick. He stood just seconds with the left half of his back to the wall, debating whether to run to his car, try to make it back to McCrary's Bar, or maybe just pass out here from the pain of it, when a red convertible skidded to a halt on the street in front of him. Of all the freaking cliches, Mitch thought. Heck there was even a cute young woman at the wheel, and in just another minute she'd say

“Quick, hop in, I don't think you've got a minute to waste”

Mitch gave the brunette a blank look, and then flashed a smile. “To Hell with that, sister” He broke out in a run, not toward the bar, or his waiting Volvo, but cutting across the intersection diagonally, so that even if the convertible could turn around, it would have to cut across both streets to follow him. He ran past a branch bank and into the parking deck of a nearby office building. Now what? Mitch thought, before seeing the chain link fence at the back abutting the neighboring lot. Tight squeeze, but then again, what are my options? He ran toward the back of the deck, moving at a fair clip despite his size. When he reached the fence, he scrambled up and over and felt the arrow catch on the concrete joist as he tried negotiating the narrow opening at the top of the chain link. Not my first choice, but, Mitch thought to himself as he purposely threw his right shoulder up as tight as he could get to the concrete beam, and then let his weight take him over to the other side. He heard a sharp crack, which felt to him like it was taking a chip of of his shoulder blade. As he fell to the ground with a heavy thump, half dazed from the pain, he passed out.

“Ungh,” He half said, as he pulled himself to his feet. I was out, what, just a second? he thought, when the squeal of tires heard from across the deck brought him quickly back to his senses. His hand was on what felt like a thin branch, but a flash of white seen from a corner of his eye caused Mitch to instinctively grab the object. And just as quickly, he ran.

Mitch cut across a short line of bushes, across an empty lot, and back toward the street. He was back at McCrary's, but he didn't go in. Still at his top speed he ran through the parking lot, took the three-foot retaining wall at the back in a hurdle, and landed in an alley that ran between buildings. Trusting his sense of direction and some half-remembered experience of stumbling drunk down this same alley last Saint Patrick's Day, he squeezed past a dumpster at the end of the alley and saw his Volvo. With a flat tire; a white arrow was stuck at least three inches into the back left tire. Damn, damn, damn. What does it take to catch a break? Either a cute brunette or an archery enthusiast really has it in for me today. If the two aren't the same person. Nothing else for it.

His shoulder was both numb and burning at the same time. His right arm seemed to barely work, like he had fallen asleep on top of it and it had gone numb from lack of blood. The spreading coldness was now at his hip, threatening to take down his leg with the same pins-and-needles deadness that currently held his arm and half of his hand.

His run barely slowed as he hit Cherry Street, taking a sharp left and clomping along another block. Each footfall sent a stab into his shoulder. He couldn't keep it up much longer.

Mitch slowed. He turned. Still half jogging backwards, he did the only thing he could think of. He hailed a cab.

-- next --