Another Ten Words

It’s Friday, and that can only mean more zaniness from Chuck Wendig. Only 503 words this time:
I peered around the willow I crouched behind. I saw the man with the shaved head and gold chains dangling from his neck. He was wearing a v-neck tee-shirt, exposing a tattoo across his chest. The tattoo, written in a slanted calligraphic, read a single word: Deceit. I didn’t know if deceit was a warning or a brand. His left hand was disfigured, missing three and a half fingers. The other hand turned white, the plastic mesh of the grip of his weapon etching lines into his hand – he was gripping it with all his strength.
He ran the mangled hand over his stubbly head and shouted out, “Come on out Clay! This will only end badly for you.”
I coughed and retorted, “I suppose it’s all fire and brimstone and damnation, huh?”
“You and I both know all about damnation. It’s living we have problems with.”
I coughed again, and when I looked at the hand I covered my mouth with, I saw copious amounts of blood. It was candy red in color, akin to the hue of an atomic fireball. The color wasn’t the only comparison. The sting and heat from that simple candy also radiated from my stomach. The front of my jeans were slick with the blood from my wound. They could no longer be called ‘blue’ jeans, instead they were a deep purple, almost black. I was captivated by the color, smell, and pain.
My reverie was interrupted by another shout from my nemesis, “Come on, Clay, I haven’t all day to play with you.”

I felt the corners of my mouth form a scowl, “If I bleed out, my body becomes useless to anyone. When the balloon goes up, all our sins will be laid bare.”
“It’s your funeral, pal.” He emphasized the word, pal by rolling back the slide on his weapon.
I tried running away from him, but I might as well have attempted to leap over the Grand Canyon. I knew I wouldn’t get away, but I had to try. I only got three or four steps before looking over my shoulder to see my nemesis drop to one knee and take the shot. I doubt I would’ve made it much further as I had lost a lot of blood. I fell onto my back, staring towards the dome that keeps us all alive and protects us from the radiation.
My vision was fading, but my hearing remained in perfect working order, mocking my ¬†existence. I heard the footsteps on the gravel and the face of my nemesis peered down at me. I couldn’t feel hatred toward that face – it was my own. Everything turned black and I heard him open his communications device.
“Yeah, it’s Clay. The clone is no longer viable. Yeah. What about the hand? I understand. All right, please prepare another clone. Thank you for your time, good bye.”
My hearing faded as I felt him lift my body. I almost escaped. I almost exposed their treachery. I almost…
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About Mark Gardner

Mark Gardner lives in northern Arizona with his wife, three children and a pair of spoiled dogs. Mark holds a degrees in Computer Systems and Applications and Applied Human Behavior. View all posts by Mark Gardner

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