Post 105 starts the novel..

The boom of the lightning bolt shook the building so hard that the Musician sat straight up, no longer asleep.  Damm, he thought, another night shot to hell.  As he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes he noticed that the clock radio next to the hotel bed was dark. The through the wall air conditioner so prevalent in these 1970 era roadside hotels was silent as well.  I guess the power went out with that last lighting bolt, he thought. Light or dark, the Musician did not care.  He had stayed in worse, slept in worse and woken up in worse. At least (so far) he was not sleeping in a jail cell tonight.

He pushed the button on the side of his watch to illuminate the face. 2:45 am.  Then the light went out. If anyone had been in the room with him they would have noticed his kind eyes and the slightly crooked twist to his nose.  All battle scars, water under the bridge, he would tell you. As he got up to walk to the bathroom he sensed something was out-of-place in the room. He squinted and slowly looked around. There was no light, not event he street lights were working.  He slowed his breathing down, and crouched down to make himself a smaller target.  And he waited, listening. When he was satisfied that it was only his nerves playing tricks on him he finished getting up and went to use the bathroom. At least the hotel still had water pressure. They must have city water. A power outage would have shut off a well.

As he left the bathroom he stubbed his left foot on something that was not where he left it. Back on alert, he crouched into his tiger stance. Scanning left to right and back again. Still nothing. He reached down and found his bag had fallen off the desk during the night. Wow, he thought, that must have been some lighting strike.  He put the bag back on the table and walked over to the door. He stared at the door, almost willing it to tell him what was on the other side. He listened and did not hear any movement nor did he hear any rain. That was good since walking in the rain was one of his least favorite things. And it was not good for his instruments.

He turned around and quickly got dressed, not wasting motions. Jeans, shirt, socks and boots, all where he had left them just a few hours before. He grabbed his guitar case and his traveling bag and reached for the door. Stopping, again listening. All quiet. He opened the door and quickly slipped out, slightly crouched to mask his height. Down the corridor, down the stairs. Never take an elevator if you can avoid it.  Outside. Yes, freedom from that building felt good. He turned to his right to start walking towards the interstate when he caught a flash of light or a reflection of some sort. He dropped to his knees just as a shotgun discharged from about ten feet away. The belch of fire illuminating the dark night. He felt the wind as the buckshot flew just inches from his face.

Then all was quiet. No talking, no running, no cars, no voices, nothing. The shooter was waiting to see if the Musician was alive, dead or somewhere in between.  Far from in between, perfectly fine. Many might have said his actions in the room and earlier that evening were the tell-tale signs of someone suffering from delusional paranoia. But he was not paranoid, people, person, something was definitely after him tonight.  Comes with the job I guess, he thought to himself. Enough quiet time on the ground, now it was time to turn back his attacker and get moving on to his next gig.

Leaving the guitar case and the traveling bag on the ground where he dropped them, the Musician moved slowly, crouching to his left. Most people move to their right so he was going the opposite direction. Slowly, slowly now he was off the black top and into the scrub grass next to the parking lot. A few more steps and he kicked something heavy and soft on the ground. Keeping his head up, he reached down and felt a man’s right leg. The leg was still warm, but there was a sticky substance on the pant leg. He brough his hand up to his nose for a smell. Smelled like blood, he knew that smell anywhere.  He reached back down and followed the leg to the torso. He felt for a femoral pulse thought the pants, nothing.  This night was getting crazier by the minute.

Screech..  Tires spinning to his left. He dropped flat on his back as a black Crown Victoria Police Special squealed out of the parking lot. The car had been sitting in the dark not twenty feet from the body and thirty feet from where he had dropped his guitar case and travel bag. Weird, had the person in the Crown Vic shot the shooter? As he felt around the body in the dark, he found the shotgun, the barrel was still warm.  He picked up the shotgun and still crouching, walked over and picked up his guitar case and travel bag and started walking once again toward the highway. Sunrise was four hours away.

4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Christina
    Oct 11, 2011 @ 22:21:02

    I want MORE!!!!


  2. john davitt
    Oct 12, 2011 @ 12:23:54

    The butler did it!


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