A Man On The Lam

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic


A man flees from an unknown enemy.

Submitted: May 21, 2018

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Submitted: May 21, 2018

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The night is still.  The streets are empty.  For Peter Falkricht who races down the desolate avenues, he desperately wishes one of these streets would lead him to a busy intersection or a store still open for business.  Someplace where he could find salvation.  But the streets are empty.  Every store is closed.  Every building window stands washed in black.  He is truly alone.

He tries several doors.  None will open.  He attempts to force his way into the buildings, but has no luck.  He hurries along the quiet streets once more.  He calls out, desperate for anyone to respond.  He receives no answer.  Peter is losing hope of finding any help.  But he will not give up.  He turns up another avenue and continues to try the shop doors.  More black windows and more silence confronts him.  It is as if he’s caught in a nightmare, one he is powerless to escape.

Peter races along the concrete sidewalk, ducking into an alley.  He pauses to catch his breath before proceeding with caution into the claustrophobic passage.  Garbage cans litter the rough asphalt.  Bags of trash droop over the sides of dented bins, ready to peel open.  Stinking piles of black garbage bags lean precariously against the walls, filthy puddles pool beneath them.  Moldy, water-damaged boxes sit stacked against a wall, a brownish-yellow substance oozing out from under them.

Peter does his best to move silently through the alley.  He oversteps plastic cups and crinkled paper, avoiding the decomposing waste scattered on the ground.  His nerves flare with every squeak and rattle of the scurrying vermin who call the alleyway home.  But they are welcomed company to the vermin hunting him.  He listens for the clip of footsteps, the click of a gun cocking, the clatter of handcuffs or the chatter of zip-ties.  Those are the sounds he has no desire hearing.

Peter is on edge, in a panic.  He needs to find a safe haven where he can hide out for a few days, gather his thoughts and devise a plan.  He knows his safe houses will no longer be safe and family and friends are undoubtedly compromised, but he has to turn to someone for help.  He knows they would have questioned his contacts by now.  They’ve most likely seized all of his accounts, too, and are monitoring and bugging everyone he knows, including all his fail safes.  But he has to seek out someone.  He cannot flee the country without help.  He will need to put his trust in someone and he has an idea of whom he can turn to.

Peter’s heart races as he hurries through the alley.  He knows they can find him at any moment.  He’s formed many partnerships with all sorts of crooks around the world, many of whom could now be his enemy.  They have vast resources and can assuredly find him as easily as the Feds.  He cannot afford for anyone to find him, not the authorities nor his former associates.  He is not safe anywhere.  Even in protective custody, there are ways they can silence him.  His former associates’ resources are indeed vast.  He knows there is little chance he will live past the week.

Peter knows any number of people could be tracking him right now, playing him into their hands.  Anyone could be waiting for him around any corner, hiding in any dark cove.  The thought is enough to drive him insane.  His paranoia exacerbates the crazy thoughts already running through his brain.  He needs to get out of the country.  He needs to find some place safe to hide.  Will that ever be possible again?  Will he ever feel safe again?  Peter has a feeling that he will be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, however long that is.

Peter approaches the end of the alley.  His gut churns.  He knows another empty street with dark windows awaits him.  He draws close to the wall, hiding in the darkness as best he can.  He scans the building façade across the street.  No apparent threat.  He leans close to the edge of the alley and peers down the sidewalk.  He can see no one.  He inches his gaze around the corner, searching up the street.  All clear.

Peter steps forward.  A metal clatter and a hurried rustle erupt in the alley.  He gasps and spins about to see a heap of garbage spewing from a torn bag.  He sighs.  A bead of perspiration slithers down his brow.  Turning into the street, he faces the barrel of a gun.  Peter’s heart stops.  He knows who the person works for by the black leather glove holding the pistol and the beige trenchcoat and hat.  This is the end of the line.

Peter takes one final breath.  The sound of the gun echoes through the empty street.  Peter’s body hits the ground, pieces of his skull scatter across the pavement, fragments of brain spatter on the ground.  A wisp of smoke trails from the hole in his head.  In the still of the night, Peter Falkricht has been silenced.


© Copyright 2018 Jeff Bezaire. All rights reserved.

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