John Avery: Three Days To Die

– Willy paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then leaned his bike against Aaron's and worked his way through the junk maze to the back staircase.

He jumped as a bright beam of light swept across the balcony railing above him, but he assumed it was Aaron and started up the stairs.

– The three men were practically on top of Aaron.

"If you find the fucker, waste him," Souther said.

Willy heard the strange voice and stopped, then backed slowly down the steps and ducked behind a piece of machinery.

Aaron tried to crawl away, but the loose pipes were everywhere. Souther hit him with the flashlight beam and fired. The concussion nearly burst Aaron's left eardrum, and he cried out as the bullet splintered wood next to his ear.

Willy screamed, but he caught it with his hand and shoved it back into his mouth.

"Don't shoot!" Aaron cried, throwing his hands high in surrender. "I give up!" Tears streamed down his cheeks as he got to his knees. "I'm here! Please, God… don't shoot."

Willy was horrified, confused, and powerless to help his friend. He said a quick prayer, then closed his eyes tightly and listened, shivering in a state of shock.

Souther kicked a wooden crate to one side and stabbed his light into the eyes of the trembling boy kneeling before him.

"Stand up," he commanded.

Shaking in every limb, Aaron could barely keep his hands raised. He got to his feet and faced his captor. The man towered over him, eyes dark and cold. Deep lines ran down the sides of his face, and Aaron had a stomach lurching sense of the depth of the man's evil.

He didn't see the punch coming; it impacted his face with such force that he was sure it had caved in. His vision and balance left him and he fell sprawling to the floor.

Beeks was shocked. "What was that for?" he said.

Aaron opened his eyes and touched a hand to his face; his fingers came back with blood. He looked up just in time to see Johnny Souther take aim at him with his pistol. Instinctively he held up an arm and turned his head, preparing to die.

Needles grabbed Souther's wrist.

Souther jerked his arm free and turned the gun on him.

Needles stumbled back a step, swallowing his breath. A drop of sweat dripped off the end of his nose, one inch from the gun barrel. "The boy hasn't done anything," he said.

"He's seen our faces, you idiot," Souther said.

A bolt of pure instinct pierced Aaron's spine, triggering a desperate dash for the stairs. Souther fired. The bullet whizzed past Aaron's head, and with no hesitation he leaped over the second-floor railing and piled into a stack of cardboard boxes fifteen feet below. Souther ran to the railing and looked over, trying to track him with the flashlight.

Aaron quickly found his feet and sprinted across the cannery, passing mere feet from Willy. Souther fired two more shots that ricocheted off the loose siding panel just as Aaron dove through and disappeared into the night.

– "Find him," Souther said, fixing Needles with a look of utter contempt. "And don't come back till you do. I'll be damned if I'm going to let some punk roam the city crying about my line of work."

"He won't get far," Needles said, praying that was true.

– Willy was frozen in place, his thoughts and heart rate a dizzying blur. Dusty air moved quickly in and out of his lungs as he strained to hear what was happening above him. He watched terrified as Needles and Beeks descended the stairs. Then, as the thugs exited the cannery, he waited, until at last the third pair of leather soled shoes moved away down the balcony toward the office.

He sent a quick text message to Aaron:

Bloody hell! Are you okay? Where are you?

Souther stopped abruptly, then turned and walked back toward the stair landing. Willy tucked his phone away and held his breath.

Aaron's phone lay on the walkway directly above Willy's position. The text message glowed brightly on the small screen.

Souther reached down, picked the phone up off the floor, and read the message. Then he stepped to the railing and sprayed his flashlight beam down into the warehouse. Willy covered his mouth with his hand and made himself smaller as the hot patch of white light swept past his toes.

Souther paused, listening, then clicked off the flashlight and walked back to his office and closed the door.

Willy waited a few moments for his heart to slow, then crawled out from his hiding place, tip toed over to his beach cruiser, and slipped quietly out of the cannery.

Michael St. John sat hunched over his computer, notes, papers, and books stacked high around him. His writing studio (defined by large bookcases stuffed with research materials) occupied one small corner of an enormous, luxury loft apartment that consumed the entire 4,000 sq ft top floor of a converted four-story Brownstone. After writing his first short story at the age of six, he discovered that he not only loved writing, but according to his first-grade teacher he had a talent for it as well. Now, thirty years later, he was considered a very successful novelist.

It was an arduous task for Michael to reach the depths of concentration necessary to coax his muse out of her robe and slippers, and today was one of those days when it just wasn't going to happen. He scrolled through his manuscript one last time, trying to get flowing again, but his muse simply laughed at him and put another log on the fire.

Frustrated, he highlighted the entire page of manuscript and hit DELETE. Then he stood up from his desk, closed his computer, and walked out the door.

– Michael exited his building through the underground garage, walking the steep driveway up to the street. He braced himself against a strong wind and bitter cold and thought about going back for a heavier coat, but he was afraid he'd end up back at the computer, so instead he just pulled up his collar and toughed it out.

As he crossed the street to Creek Side Park (a quaint inner-city park with a year-round stream that was showing signs of icing over), Michael could see the owner of his favorite hot dog and pretzel cart struggling with the cart's umbrella — its red, yellow, and green stripes a muddy blur and the whole thing in danger of helicoptering away in the wind. Michael trotted over and helped him tie the umbrella down, and the grateful man bought him a pretzel.

Michael took a seat on a nearby stone bench, brushed some of the salt from his pretzel, squeezed on a packet of mustard, and took a generous bite.

– A rustle in the bushes startled him. He stood and turned toward the sound, swallowing his mouthful whole. Unnerved, he pushed some leaves aside and was surprised to see a boy kneeling in the dirt.

Aaron was still in shock; he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing there. He tried to crawl away, but a granite wall blocked his escape. Michael caught him by the arm, easily overpowering him.

"Easy there, cowboy," Michael said, lifting Aaron to his feet. "Aren't we a little old for hide-and-seek?"

Aaron was unable to find the humor in that. His mouth and chin were caked with blood, as were the strings of brown hair falling over his eyes. His sweatshirt and jeans were filthy and torn, revealing numerous cuts and bruises. He glanced around wildly, breathing rapidly through his nostrils. A thread of blood flowed from a purple gash across his left cheek bone, and he was very cold.

Michael eased his grip slightly. He could smell sweat, and fear. "What in God's name happened to you?" he said. "You're a mess

… your cheek, it's — "

Aaron turned away and winced in pain as he wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, leaving a dark red streak on the gray fabric.

Michael was genuinely concerned for the boy. "Here," he said, gesturing toward the bench. "Sit down for a minute… It's okay."