The Bite

Lying across the front seat, his head aching as it pressed against the arm rest, Devon Clark figured it was probably safe to sit up. Gripping the steering wheel he pulled himself upright. The nose of the car was buried deep in the brush. His only field of vision was out the back window, where he could see the distant highway. He sat still, peering out the back window.  Several minutes passed before he started the car. He placed the gearshift into reverse, and gunned the engine. The heavy sedan jerked backward for several feet, before it thunk ed to a halt. Devon accelerated, but the car didn't move.

Devon slammed the car door against the brush, one, two, three times, before he could squeeze out. The left rear tire was off the ground. Sinking to the ground Devon looked under the car. The car had rolled up on a tree stump and high centered. He slammed his fist against his thigh. Damn!  Trying to avoid being scratched, he worked himself back to the car door. From the passenger side of the car he retrieved that bulging deposit bag and the .38 Police Special revolver.

A silent alarm had been activated by the clerk at the 7-11 store he'd robbed, and it was just his skill behind the wheel that helped him outrun the police. Now, at eleven thirty at night he was afoot. He sloshed back toward the highway, his shoes filled with rain water as he walked. There was only the occasional street lamp to guide him. The highway was deserted, and whenever a lone car did approach he ducked into the trees. He had to find a place to get in out of the weather until morning. He walked for two miles before he found a driveway. "Gotta be something up here," he thought, turning up the drive. He stuffed the pistol into his belt. The deposit bag was too fat to do anything but carry it in his hand. He trudged on into the night.

The End

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