Sunday, June 16, 2013

Another Writing Post

I wrote this little story excerpt back in March, but I thought you all might like to read it.

“This is why we’re not friends!” Timothy ducked behind a rusty oil drum and held his gun at the ready. A bullet whizzed by his head and thunked into a barrel nearby. Black liquid spewed from the hole, pooling on the floor. Another bullet followed the first.

“It’s not my fault!” Andrea’s voice sounded from nearby, echoing in the warehouse’s high ceiling. “I was told they weren’t active!”

He peered around his barrel.  “You were told wrong!”

The whirring noise of a swivel gun turning caught his attention. The large black machine turned in a 360 above his head. A red light glowed at its base, a laser seeking out its target.

Oil encircled his feet and started seeping into the fabric of his shoes. He hissed and looked over his shoulder. The rusted barrels stood stacked on top of each other almost to the ceiling. A light flickered overhead.

“Uh oh.” Andrea appeared from behind a barrel five feet away. Long black hairs dangled loose from her ponytail and sweat beaded on her forehead. She vaulted over a barrel and charged toward him.

The gun whirred again and a spray of bullets flew toward her.

“Watch out!” Timothy grabbed her arm and pulled her behind his barrel. Something pounded into his oil drum and pierced his shoulder. Pain flared in his arm and black liquid spewed onto his arm, soaking his sweat dampened shirt.

Andrea pushed away from him and crouched low. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Grunting, he clutched at his shoulder. “They’re not going to let us get out of here alive.” Blood flowed from his wound, mixing with the oil. He closed his eyes for a second and fought off the pain pulsing in his shoulder.

“Then I’ll distract them.” Andrea pulled a burlap-wrapped bundle out from under her shirt. “Just make sure they don’t get this.” She pushed it into his arms. “Otherwise, I’m going to die for nothing.”  She stood. Another bullet flew. She flinched to the side, and it grazed by harmlessly.

He took her hand, forcing her into a crouch. “Don’t be stupid. We’ll get out of this!”

“They’re in here!” A voice shouted. “The gun’s active.”

“Yeah, it is.” Andrea muttered. “They found us. I wondered how long it would take.” She drew her hand from his. “You’re hurt. I’m not. I’m the distraction.” Lowering her voice, she continued. “They’ll turn off the gun as soon as they come in. That’s our chance.”

Timothy leaned away from the spewing oil. It soaked his shirt and part of his pants now. His clothes clung to him, and he held the package away from himself. “Right.”

“Ready?” She peered over the top of the drum.

The swivel gun’s whirr sounded again, and she tensed. The noise stopped.

A door creaked open. “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands in the air!” An amplified voice echoed through the room.

Andrea raised her eyebrows. “Are they serious?”

Pain lanced through Timothy’s arm. “Of course they’re serious.” He stuffed the package down his shirt despite the oil. He would need both arms free.

She shrugged. “Ready?”

He saluted her.  “See you at the rendezvous.”

“If you do not surrender your arms, we will fire upon you.” The voice sounded again.

“If I get out of this alive.” She shook her head.

“You mean if they do.” He crawled forward a few feet, holding his injured arm to his chest. “And thanks.”

“It’s what friends do.” She smirked and pulled a small gun from her belt.

A shot fired, striking another barrel.

“Hey, over here!” Andrea shouted.

Bullets sprayed across the room.

Timothy ducked his head. Hot pain lanced his back. He collapsed and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Over here, you idiots!” Andrea’s words sounded desperate now.

Foggy haze swirled in Timothy’s mind, but he forced himself back onto his hands and knees—forced himself to go forward. The door. That’s where he needed to go.

More shots whizzed by his head. He flinched and scuttled forward.

“There one goes!” A gunshot sounded. Someone shouted in pain.

Another shot. Andrea screamed.

Timothy reached for the exit’s doorknob and froze.

“Get out of here, Timothy!” Andrea’s words sounded harsh—forced.

His hands, slick with grease fumbled with the knob. It turned, and he slipped outside.


  1. Ooh, I like it. =) It's not related to the previous writing assignment, is it?

    1. Nope, not related, though I suppose it could be . . . All the CleanPlace writing assignments must be independent from one another - that's one of the challenges - coming up with a new story every time.

    2. Neat! That would be a challenge.
      So CleanPlace is your writing group? Just out of curiosity, is that an exclusive type of group?

  2. You need to stop posting excerpts! Because every time you post one I want to read the whole story!