Page 3 of Festive Fugitive
This stranger shot through the links of my chain with two bullets.
He doesn’t deserve a shot in the forehead. He deserves my gratitude and protection, because otherwise, he’s not getting out of here alive.
When, painful seconds later, he finally flees, I lower my gun and run to follow.
Chapter 2
Eli
I’venevershotanyonebefore. The gun in my hand and the odor of burnt gunpowder feel so out of place. I’m having a full-on out-of-body experience and I see myself in this horrifying, yet ridiculous scene.
I’m at a Christmas gala, dressed as Santa, to match the other waiters. In front of me stands Arthur Sullivan, the man who ruined my life, a scumbag mobster who just got elected as mayor. I must have lost my mind at the injustice of it. I brought my gun to threaten him in some secluded corner, say my piece to him, and… I don’t even know what.
But then I got close, saw the opportunity, and made the split-second decision.
Now, here we are.
My bullets skewer into his chest, and for a second, I’m frozen like the expensive ice sculptures on the tables.
All it takes is the screams erupting for me to turn around despite my brain being as empty as a bauble.
What a fuck up.
What have I done?
Sullivan deserved it, but did I ruin what’s left of my sorry life? I’m only twenty-five.
Is… everything over for me?
I suppose it’s not like I have anywhere to go to enjoy Christmas this year. Might as well spend the festive season in jail.Har-har.
Guests flee. Others duck under the large tables, but it’s all a blur. The only sharp point ahead is a corridor I can use as my quickest way out of here, as if my lizard brain activated to increase the chance of survival.
Fat fucking chance.
A security officer darts my way like a quarterback speeding for the touchdown. I might be tall, but months of undereating means I’m skinny as fuck. If that bulldozer gets his hands on me, I’m done. But just as he’s about to clash with me, I hear a gunshot, and he falls on his face with a sickening crack.
Who made that shot?
Tumbling past me, the officer slaps my shin with his arm, and that jerks me out of my stupor.
The speakers still blast ‘Jingle Bells’ when I set off past a row of Christmas trees with decorations referencing various countries of the world. A table crowded with soft drinks is in my way, but it can’t hold me back. Plastic bottles, cups, and jugs collapse like bowling pins, but just as I reach the other end, damp but whole, a gang of elves descends on me out of nowhere.
I swear that in the corner of my eye I see another Santa being tackled, so at least my disguise is of some use, even if the red stands out like Rudolph’s nose.
I make an instant turn when the men in green costumes close in on me. It would have been a hilarious scene if I hadn’t shot Arthur Sullivan point-blank.
A tower of gift boxes, as tall as a Christmas tree, becomes my target. When I slam into it, some of them fall on me, but most topple behind me. The elves fall over like characters in some gruesome sequel toHome Alone. In my case, it would be calledHomeless Alone.
The elves are yelling something, one even manages to jump over the mound of presents, but I turn my gun at him while running, and he falls to the ground. I don’t intend to shoot anyone else, but I’ll do what I can to get to my car.
I have no illusions about what’s to happen next.
I’ve fucked up big time.
I’ve fucked up so bad, I might as well consider my life over.
But even though it might be for the best if I give myself up now, something inside prompts me to try the impossible and run.
