Marcus made his way around the western side of the farmhouse. He ran in a full sprint, having no intentions of giving the Sheriff a chance to catch up.
As he reached the edge of the house and was about to turn the corner into the front yard, he heard a noise that seemed out of place. His instincts cried out and told him to stop. Momentum carried him around the corner, but he was able to put the brakes on just in time to pull back.
As he did so, a gunshot cut the night air, the bullet slicing a path right where his head would have been. He peeked around the corner and caught a glimpse of the perpetrator just before another shot rang out. He saw Lewis Foster dressed all in black and crouching near the Sheriff’s cruiser.
He pounded the bottom of his fist on the side of the house. There were no new cars out front, so Foster must have already been there, waiting. The Sheriff had this planned, and he had fallen right into their trap.
He heard footfalls approaching the house from the direction of the shed. It had taken the Sheriff even less time than he had estimated to recover and engage in pursuit.
Great … caught between a rock and a hard-ass. He looked around for anything that he could use against them. A multitude of thoughts rushed through his mind, but not one of them did him any good.
He scanned the area, searching. Then, he spotted a potential weapon, probably the oldest weapon known to man. Ever since man had been given the capacity for love and compassion, the door had also been opened for hatred and envy. Such emotions led men and women to kill for what was not rightfully their own. And whenever man discovered the urge to kill, there always seemed to be a rock close at hand.
“Just surrender, son. You’ve got nowhere left to go,” the Sheriff said from around the corner of the house.
They were almost upon him. The trap was almost sprung. He could feel the noose tightening, and he didn’t have the first clue as to how he was going to escape.
Think, think, think. NO! Don’t think. React.
He knew that if he poked his head around the corner of the house, he would get it blown off. But what if I can distract Foster, even for a second? He found the answer coiled near him on the side of the house: a garden hose with a spray end.
He didn’t think. He reacted. If he would have taken the time to think it through, he probably wouldn’t have even tried it, but the time for thinking had long passed.
He grabbed the sprayer in his left hand and cranked the valve all the way open. He snatched up the rock with his right hand and headed toward the front of the house. As he started around the corner, he sprayed Foster in the face with the hose. The sudden spray of water caught the man by surprise and gave just enough of a distraction.
Foster squeezed off a shot, but missed.
Marcus hurled the rock at Foster like Nolan Ryan possessed by the spirit of an angry caveman. He had been a pitcher on his high-school baseball team. He hadn’t been the greatest, but he hadn’t been terrible either. Regardless, on this particular night, his aim was dead-on, and the rock struck Foster in the middle of his forehead.
Foster screamed in agony and squeezed off another blind shot, hitting nothing but the cold black of the night.
He covered the distance between them, and just as Foster regained his bearings, he struck the deputy again. Foster staggered back. He landed another hard blow to the dead center of Foster’s face, and the deputy went down.
Strike three, you’re out. Next batter.
He scooped up the deputy’s gun and headed for his truck, but another obstacle confronted him. Foster had slashed his tires.
A shot cut through the air. He dove behind the truck and fired a quick succession of bullets in the Sheriff’s direction, keeping him pinned on the side of the house. His hands were steady as he fired the weapon at his pursuer, but on the inside, he trembled with fear. He felt overwhelmed and wasn’t sure if he still retained the necessary fortitude to take another man’s life.
He had no reservations regarding the fight at the bar and any injuries that he had inflicted upon his attackers. After all, their wounds would heal. Taking a man’s life was an entirely different matter. He had been there. He had done that. Up close and personal, he had taken what only God could give.
Now, he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time once again, engaging in a life-or-death, kill-or-be-killed struggle. He knew that his opponent would have no reservations or hesitations at the prospect of taking his life, but he wasn’t sure if he could live with more blood on his hands.
He tried to make a move for the patrol car, but the Sheriff released his own barrage of pinning fire. Marcus fired two shots aimed at the side of the house, but the weapon’s slide-lock caught after the second shot. He was out of ammo. With no other options, he tossed the gun away and took the only door left open to him.
He ran as fast as he could into the darkness, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the men who wanted to kill him.
*
The Sheriff peered in the direction of his opponent’s position. Marcus was gone. He heard someone running off into the darkness and realized that he wasn’t going to catch the younger man on foot.
The Sheriff came around the corner just as Lewis Foster pulled himself up from the ground. Foster stood and wiped the blood from his face while he scanned the area for the man who had inflicted his injuries. The Sheriff could see that Lewis burned with a deep desire to tear Marcus’s head off.
“Where is he?” Foster said, his voice shaking.
“He ran off, probably heading for the highway,” the Sheriff replied in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.
“Well, are we going after him?” Foster said, as he stood hunched over with his hands on his knees.
“Not on foot. Don’t worry. I know where he’s going. He won’t make it far.”
*
While the hunt distracted the Sheriff and his deputy, the taker of life and eater of souls broke his way free of bondage.
When the man that the Sheriff had called “Marcus” kicked over the shelves, the one nearest to Ackerman had fallen on the table to which he was anchored and cracked the chair to which he was tied. This knocked him and the chair on their sides. Breaking free of the sturdy table and chair would have been almost impossible, but once the table had been smashed and the chair cracked, he exploited the chair’s weakened joints and freed himself.
I’ll have to remember to thank Marcus for his help …
He was now mobile but still chained at the wrists and ankles. His hands had been chained behind his back, but with a little maneuvering, he brought them under his feet and to the front of his body.
He scoured his surroundings for something that would help him break free of the chains. Alongside the shop’s far wall, he spotted his ticket to freedom. Fate truly smiled upon him.
He made his way over to the acetylene cutting torch that seemed as if it had been placed there just for such a momentous occasion.
He adjusted the mixture and lit the torch, using a striker left hanging on one of the tank’s valves. He fine-tuned the fire into a pure blue flame and began cutting himself free of his shackles. He realized that he would burn himself during the process, but he gave such facts little consideration. After all, he was no stranger to pain. And his flesh was already scarred.
He had decided to stick around the little town of Asherton for a while longer. He had faked unconsciousness and overheard most of what the Sheriff was planning. His interest had been piqued. He was starting to enjoy the Sheriff’s little game—but maybe it’s time to change the rules?
He enjoyed a good game. He just never played well with others.