About Henry Fellows (Chapter Three Continues)

Post 77:

Episode Eight:

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Chapter 3 (BMW) Continued

            I hit the gas hard as the right front tire goes off the road and then slam the brakes, turning the wheel left. Fishtailing the back end, the car goes over, then the hard part. The car rolls two or three times before coming to violent stop, upside down at the bottom of the embankment. There’s glass everywhere, and I can smell fuel leaking. I wiggle everything. It all hurts but nothing is broken as far as I can tell.

            My head is ringing and probably concussed, but thankfully the driver’s side window is broken. Lucky break. Crawling out I pick up a few new cuts from the glass but hardly notice because I hear the BMW stop at the place where the car went over. Just like I wanted. They can’t see me behind the car. I peek out from behind the inverted left rear tire and see two guys coming down the slope. There’s a thicket of woods behind me, pretty dense. Figure they’re thinking I’m either dead or unconscious in the car or fleeing through the trees.

            Truthfully, it’s anybody’s guess what they’re thinking. Probably trying to understand why I lost control so suddenly. Hopefully it looked real, but it’s not something to bet on. What I don’t have to guess or doubt over is that they are both armed. They look like guys from somewhere else. One older, one younger, both dressed wrong. It’s Texas—everybody wears jeans. These mopes are sporting black cargo pants and form-fitting jackets. Combat boots.

          Then I hear it; the sound of a cocked pistol is unmistakable.

          Don’t like what I’m about to do, but when you hear that snap you better do something. Still crouched behind the rear wheel, I reach out a foot and crunch down some glass still in the car. Thankfully the older one takes the bait. As he bends down to see my broken body there’s nothing. He’s a fish in a barrel, half in and half out of the car. Bad for him. I lean down and fire one round right above his eyes, returning to my wheel knowing it did the trick.

            I can hear the younger one slam himself up against the opposite side of the overturned vehicle. He doesn’t know if his partner was shot by someone inside or out—at least I hope not. Sweat is seeping through my shirt. I too have a jacket on, not because I want to—because I needed a lot of pockets for all the crap I carry when careening off of roads. “Hey,” I call out.

            Nothing but labored breathing.

            “Hey. Your buddy’s dead. Didn’t want that. Don’t want to kill you either. Give it up. Any chance you tell me who you are?”

            More breathing.

           “Come on. It’d be a big help.”