On the run

“Get up,” the blue-eyed man hisses. “Get up, and run,” he snarls, grabbing hold of the back of the other man’s hair and making him run. “GET UP!” he shouts, and he pulls his gun to put it to the back of the man’s head. “Fucking run, or they’ll kill you. Slow me down, and I will,” he snaps.

They run, the both of them, not partners, not friends, only escapees.

The first night, they find a place to bed down, to eat a little, and then all but fall unconscious.

The second night, he says, “I’m going to have to trust you, but only out of sheer desperation. Fuck me over, and even if they get me, I’ll make sure you go first.”

The third night, he has to move them again — he knows they’ve been spotted, and their hiding place is compromised.

The fourth night, the man he made run with him picks up his gun while he’s falling asleep and says, “And now that you’re not pointing this at me, I can lead them to you.”

Unwavering, he says, “If that gun had any bullets, I might have worried.” When the other man looks stunned, and lowers the weapon with trembling hands, the blue-eyed man grabs it from him, whips it around, and shoots him in the face. “And if you weren’t a fucking idiot, I might have worried more.”

Without bothering to clean up, he leaves.

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