Page 18 of Catching Camila

Sweat sprang up on John’s forehead. He lifted a hand to wipe it out of his eyes.

“Don’t move!” The cop's arms trembled, his shaggy gray eyebrows arching high. He thumbed off the safety.

“I didn’t kill him.” He'd be arrested and locked up. He never should've come in here.

John looked toward the backdoor. He could make it in four steps. The cop bristled and tightened his face. “I said don’t move, asshole!”

John blinked once, calculating. Then he turned and bolted toward the back door.

The gunshot cracked the air like a bomb. Something punched into John’s side. Then another shot. The glass case behind John exploded. Glass shards pelted his legs and back. A can of pop sprayed a hiss of foam into the air.

He fell, the tile rising up to meet his face. He hit the ground, brain jarring, vision dimming. Then he was lying on the floor, the coolness of the tile a relief on his flushed cheek. His eyes focused on a bag of Doritos. The pain in his side burned as if a hot poker was boring deep into this stomach. It was hard to draw breath.

The world became a throbbing pulse somewhere far.

It dimmed, blackened. Gone.

* * *

Wednesday 12:31 a.m.

He came to with a start.

John sat up, instantly regretting it. A piercing pain lanced his abdomen. His mind was sluggish. Why was he on the floor?

The gas station. The cop.

Where was the man that shot him? From his vantage point on the tile, the cop was nowhere to be seen. His eyes trailed past the shattered glass that littered the floor. An exploded pop can lay on its side, its contents a messy red puddle. John reached a hand down to his side. He was bleeding.

Scooting to the edge of the shelf, he peered around the racks of Doritos. Outside, the cop sat in his black cruiser, a CB to his mouth, the red and blue flashers throwing crazy splotches on the walls.

He thinks I’m dead,John thought. He had minutes, maybe seconds before the cop learned that wasn't true.

Crouching, John ran to the back door. His bloody hands had trouble with the knob, but he managed after a few tries. He slid out onto a small concrete parking lot, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. A beat-up truck sat on a giant oil stain. The dumpster reeked of rotten meat and old beer, but anything was better than what he'd been inhaling inside.

He ran, hunched over, past the truck, and the gravel lot. He fled into the woods without looking back.

Shivering, he pushed himself deep, deep into the forest. When the tree cover was so dense he could barely make his way through, he stopped. A cold sweat covered his body. His legs shook and his stomach churned. He leaned his back against a tree and swallowed. He'd have to look at his wound eventually.

Man up!he told himself. He took a couple deep breaths and looked down.

The T-shirt was red except for a few spots on the collar and arms. Just below his rib cage, the bullet had ripped a jagged hole through the fabric. He bit his lip and peeled the T-shirt up. So much blood. He wiped away the blood, revealing the skin of his stomach. John probed it with his fingers.

There was no wound.

The skin felt tender, liked he’d taken a proper punch, but not at all like a gunshot wound. It was like…like he had healed.

John fell back against the rough tree bark and tried to keep breathing. He pressed his palms to his knees. The shovel was one thing, but a gunshot? How?

“Just keep calm,” he said out loud, suddenly afraid of the thoughts banging around his head. He ran his hands over his stomach, his back, his arms. Nothing. He wiggled a finger through the bullet hole in his shirt. Then he slid down the tree and put his head in his hands.

Good God, what was he?

---