Fiction Short Story

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Michael Barrett

Riviera Dreams

The gun lay on the floor between us, smoke still rising from the end of the barrel. Jamie looked at me, her eyes wild. "Oh, shit!" she said.

I was as stunned as she, but knew I had to try and keep myself together in case she fell completely apart.

"It's okay," I reassured her, "You had to do it."

Across the motel room, slumped against the wall, was The Man. He wore jeans, a dark shirt, black knitted cap, and an expensive pair of Nikes. There was a ragged hole in the center of his chest and blood seeped around it. The Man's eyes were still open and I thought I heard a rasping breath. A bit of red froth was slowly sliding down his chin, leaving a trail that led back to the corner of his mouth.

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

"I don't know. I think so."

"Doug," she said, "What'll we do, Doug?"

"Do? We'll pack our gear and get the hell out of here before some of his friends show up." I looked at her and noticed she was still shaking. "You had to do it, Jamie. No choice. No choice!"

"I know. But still..." Her words trailed off.

"He was gonna kill me and then you. It's a good thing you were awake."

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I am. Now, Jamie, hon. Start packing. We gotta get out of here." We held each other for a moment and I could feel her shaking in my embrace. I kissed the tip of her nose and broke away.

I walked across the cheap motel room, stopping along the way to retrieve the silenced Beretta. The Man hadn't moved and there hadn't been any more sounds coming from him. I leveled the gun, aiming at his head, and nudged him with my shoeless toe. He slumped to one side and then rolled partially onto his stomach on the tattered brown carpet. I turned and saw Jamie still standing in the same spot. She looked pale. I couldn't really blame her. This was her first killing.

"Jamie," I spoke calmly and with conviction, "get your things together. I am going to bring the car around."

"What about him?"

"He won't bother you. I'll be right back. Throw all of our stuff into the bags and when I flash the lights, come out."

She nodded and I opened the door a crack and peeked out. There was no one that around so I tucked the pistol under my shirt and walked out. The sidewalk was broken and littered with pebbles that stung my bare feet. Why didn't I put my shoes on? I must be as rattled as Jamie.

The car, a beat up, blue '89 Toyota Corolla, was parked behind the motel in the alley. Somehow I managed to reach it without stepping on any broken glass or stubbing my toe. The car wheezed to life, sputtered a few times and smoothed out. I pulled around front, flashed the lights and Jamie dashed out of the room. She opened the passenger door and flung the bags into the back. She tossed a clean pair of socks and my Reeboks to me.

"Thought you could use these."

"Thanks. Guess I wasn't thinking clearly when I walked out."

I backed out of the parking spot and ground the transmission into first gear. The battered import shuddered and leapt forward as the engine found a clean spark plug to fire on. One out of four isn't too bad, I thought. I eased into the sparse evening traffic, checking my rearview mirror as I did. Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet.

I patted Jamie on the knee and glanced her way.

"You did good tonight, baby."

"Well, I don't feel good. About killing him."

"I know, honey. I know. Once we get to Houston Marina and catch that boat, all this will be behind us. Six million waiting just for us in the Caymans."

"Where will we go after that?" she asked.

"Where do you want to go?"

"France. The Riviera, specifically. I hate cold weather."

"France, it is."

Headlights suddenly flashed in the rearview and I made a quick right turn and looked for another intersection. Behind us, a black sedan careened around the corner and its headlights bobbed from rapid acceleration. I floored the old Toyota, trying to coax out every ounce of horsepower it had. Jamie let out a little shriek and then I heard gunshots. The rear window shattered and Jamie shrieked louder this time.

I made a hard left, the car skidding and fishtailing. I managed to regain control and saw the entrance to Interstate 10 just ahead. A quick check of the rearview and I saw our pursuers gaining slightly. I risked at a glance at Jamie. She was sitting with her head pressed against the passenger window, her hands clasped on her seat belt. Her eyes were closed and her face was screwed up in fear.

I hit the freeway and the Toyota topped out at 85 miles per hour. That was all it had. The black sedan was rapidly gaining ground now. The next exit was the one that would take us to the river and freedom. The twin engine Chris Craft was fueled and provisioned and would easily get us to the Caymans.

I took the exit, not letting up on the accelerator. Tires squealed at the peak of traction and then broke loose. I steered carefully and regained control. A traffic light ahead flashed to red. I ignored it and barreled through the intersection. The sedan skidded to a stop to avoid hitting the cross traffic that I had barely missed. I slowed and made a series of turns that brought us to the marina.

The cabin boat gleamed invitingly in the moonlight. I stopped at the head of the pier and breathed a sigh of relief. We were only a few seconds from freedom. "Okay, hon, let's go south!"

Jamie didn't move; her hands still gripped the seatbelt. I touched her shoulder. Her head fell forward pulling her torso with it. She hung away from the seat, suspended by the seat belt, silent. "Jamie? Jamie?" A queasy feeling started in the pit of my stomach. "Jamie!"

I jumped out of the car and ran around to her side. I ripped the door open and stopped abruptly. Her head hung forward, blood oozing down the side of her neck. A neat hole was clearly visible in the back of her skull. I reached tentatively for her wrist and checked for a pulse.

Nothing. I released her hand and it dropped to the seat, limp. Her head lolled to one side. "No! No! Goddammit!"

Blue lights flashed behind me. The black sedan had caught up. Two armed men emerged from the vehicle.

"Douglas Hardeman. Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air."

I staggered back away from the car and looked at them. Time froze. I felt the Berretta slide up and away from my belt. I watched the barrel rise and felt myself squeeze the trigger.

Something stung me in the shoulder, turning me away from the car. The Berretta bucked in my hand and I heard one of the men shout. I saw him slowly sink to the ground, a bright red circle forming on his chest. Another sting, this time in my stomach and I found myself sitting down hard on rough pavement. My gun bucked again. A windshield shattered.

I was kicked in the chest and fell over backwards. I lay there, dazed, looking at the stars. I was getting sleepy and I was aware of a man standing over me. His lips moved but I heard no words. The man's face got blurry and it was almost impossible to keep my eyes open. I felt someone take the Berretta from me, but somehow it didn't matter.

"I'm cold," I said, "but it won't be cold in France, will it, Jamie?"

© Copyright 2003 Michael S. Barrett

About the Author:

Michael S. Barrett has been writing since high school and is primarily interested in screenwriting. He has sold one screenplay and is working on two others. He is producing and writing the screenplay for a children's animated short feature due out early next year. Michael is also writing a series of children's short stories under the pen name of Michelle Sanders. Michael is a Viet Nam and Gulf War veteran and currently resides in Columbus, Ohio.