On The Run . . .

Only 1/2 a block, not far…keep moving.

The street was deserted and in the distance he heard the rumble of an approaching freight train.

The blood warmed his upper leg, absorbed by denim and began trickling down his leg. Some 20 feet to go now.

No trail, he cannot leave any trail of blood.

At five feet to his left he saw the curtain open slightly and in two labored steps, the front door opened for him and shut.

Inside it was dark, very dark and no one breathed a sound. In the far corner a match flickered and an old man in a chair, silently lit his pipe.

His eyes never leaving yours.

A shadow passed the window right to left with pace and after a few seconds, all inside exhaled and lifted their pints of mead with nods and grins.