Something a little different...

Recently, I was clearing out some old files on my computer, and I stumbled upon some writing I did when I was younger. I used to be really into creative writing, especially in terms of putting together short stories. I am presently working on a series of session reports, reflecting the events occurring in my ongoing solo game. I expect that it will be quite some time before these session reports are ready for publication, so in the meantime, I’d like to share some of the short stories I’ve written in the past.

This exhibition of narrative fiction will be a bit different from my recent posts, which have mainly consisted of actual play reports, or general commentary on the subject of old-school D&D.
I hope that you enjoy this as much as you have my previous writing, and as always, I invite you to comment and contribute on what you read below.

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“Maldito ladrona!”

“Get your hands off me!

The sharp retort was answered by the sound of a hard blow and a shout of pain, clearly audible through the thin walls of the apartment complex. On the concrete landing outside, Dalton and Wright looked at each other impassively, as the sound of a more serious struggle began from within the apartment.

“He’s distracted. Should we hit ‘im now?”

“Just a second, Dalton.”

From inside, they heard something fragile shatter. A plate, or more likely a bottle. There were two enraged voices, talking over one another, both rising in intensity. With the male voice, Dalton could make out some words and phrases in Spanish, none of them flattering. The woman’s voice was more indistinct, rising suddenly to a frightened, wordless shriek as the sound of heavy, angry footsteps rapidly crossing the floor reached the men on the landing.

“Wright?”

“Now.”

The flimsy apartment door splintered inward, the impact of Dalton’s heavy boot forcing the locking bolt clear through the soft wood of the door jamb. As the door flew open, Wright shouldered past Dalton, surging into the room like an enraged grizzly. In a glance, he took in the scene. The rooms occupants had been caught off guard, and were still frozen in a moment of shock and uncertainty.

A bald, heavyset Hispanic man, naked except for an unbuttoned blue work shirt, white boxer shorts, and a gold chain around his bull neck, was clutching the slender forearm of a naked young woman kneeling on the stained carpet. The man’s other hand was cocked back behind his shoulder, clenched into a tight fist. With her one free hand, the kneeling woman clutched the left side of her face. In her other hand, the one restrained by the Mexican, a battered leather wallet flopped open, loose change spilling onto the floor. Even from where he stood, Wright could make out the dark train tracks on the woman’s pale, upturned wrist.

Behind the pair, an 18-inch portable TV sat precariously at the end of a chipped, knee-high coffee table. On screen, two sweating middleweight boxers exchanged furious punches, driving their red-gloved fists into each other. The rest of the cheap table was occupied by empty bottles and drug paraphernalia, with more of the same strewn haphazardly across the floor nearby.

Wright was the first to move, taking two quick strides towards the man. Before he could close the distance fully, the man gave the woman a forceful shove, sending her stumbling towards Wright. Sidestepping her, Wright made a grab for the back of the man’s shirt collar as he fled into the kitchen area, brushing the worn fabric with his fingertips but failing to secure a proper grip.

The man crashed through the hanging curtain of brightly coloured beads that partitioned the apartment, tearing a few loose in his haste. Having entered the apartment just after Wright, Dalton followed close behind him, the technicolour plastic beads swept roughly aside as he pursued the Mexican into the kitchen. Dalton arrived just in time to see the man snatch up a cheap Hi-Point pistol that had been sitting on the kitchen benchtop. Before he could turn and bring it to bear, Wright cannoned into him at full tilt, driving him face-first into the thin wall of the apartment. In the crush, Wright drove his fist into the man’s kidney, eliciting a grunt of pain. He was about to follow up with a vicious rabbit punch to his pinned opponent, but before he could strike, the man thrust himself off the wall with a roar of effort, lashing out blindly with a wild elbow as he did. The desperate elbow strike caught Wright high in the chest, just left of the sternum. It wasn’t a decisive blow, but it gave the man enough of an opening to brace himself against the wall and shove Wright away with his forearm.

As Wright staggered back a pace, Dalton slipped past him, weaving deftly through the narrow confines of the kitchen. Dalton had been one step behind Wright as he had entered the kitchen, pausing only to seize a heavy cast-iron skillet from a wire wall hook. He smashed this skillet down hard onto the head of the Mexican, just as he began to raise his pistol. The Hi-Point clattered to the tile floor as the Mexican went limp, slumping senseless against the base of kitchen wall in a crumpled heap. Blood oozed from a wide laceration in his scalp.

“Fuck’s sake Dalton, we weren’t meant to kill him, just teach him a lesson.”

“He ain’t dead, he’s still breathing, look.”

Dalton gestured with the skillet. The Mexican was breathing shallowly, his barrel chest rising and falling.

“Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

“Get ‘im up, bring ‘im through to the other room.”

Together, grunting and sweating and cursing, the two men dragged the Mexican’s unconscious form back through into the living room, laying him down on the threadbare couch.

“Where’s the girl?”

“She bolted.”

“Fuck. Do you think she’ll go to the cops?”

“Nah.”

“What about this fat fuck?”

“Just gimme a minute, will ya? I’m tryna think.”

“Hurry the fuck up. This guy is starting to come around.”

“Hold on, I’ll look for something to tie him up or something. Get the gun from the kitchen.”

Turning, Wright crossed the room, entering into the darkened attached bedroom. As soon as he pushed open the thin door that separated it from the living room, he was met by the smell of sex, cheap perfume, cigarette smoke and skunk weed. The only light came in narrow white slits through the closed aluminium blinds on the far wall. Wright groped along the wall for the plastic lightswitch and flicked it on. The solitary, dust-coated lightbulb flickered on, illuminating the room in a sickly incandescent glow.

Most of the dingy bedroom’s space was taken up by a stained, bare mattress on a cheap wire bedframe, and a freestanding plywood wardrobe. Wright moved to the wardrobe and opened it, hoping to find a belt to use as a restraint. Sweeping aside a rack of white undershirts and button-front flannels, Wright spotted a black canvas belt sitting coiled on a shelf. As he reached for it, he noticed a loop of black fabric snaking across the floor, visible from underneath a pile of dirty laundry. Wright kicked the laundry aside, revealing a black nylon gym bag, stuffed into the back corner of the wardrobe.

Kneeling, he hurriedly unzipped the gym bag, revealing it to be stuffed full of crisp green banknotes, neatly arranged in half-inch stacks. Each stack was bound with a red paper currency strap, indicating the amount of money each stack contained. Wright turned away, drawing in breath to call Dalton, when the crack of a single gunshot rang across the apartment.

“He tried to grab the gun!”

Dalton stood over the Mexican’s lifeless body. Blood flowed freely from a ragged exit wound in the man’s skull, pulsing out in rhythmic spurts, soaking into the carpet almost immediately.

“Fuck Dalton, I told you we weren’t supposed to kill him.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot ‘im, he woke up and attacked me.”

“Couldn’t you have just hit him again?”

“I told you, he tried to grab the gun. It just went off.”

“Everyone would have heard that shot. The cops are probably on their way.”

“We have to get out of here. I’ll need to wipe down the room for prints an-”

“Wait a second, I need to grab something.”

As Wright doubled back into the bedroom, Dalton grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen and began wiping down anything the pair had touched. Dalton tossed the cloth to Wright as emerged from the bedroom, lugging the black gym bag.

“The fuck is that?”

“I found it in the wardrobe. There’s at least... I don’t know, there’s a lot of money in here.”

“Let me see.”

“Not now, we have to leave! Take this to the car, I’ll be down in a second.”

Dalton slung the bag over his shoulder and disappeared through the door, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing against the cold, grey concrete of the apartment stairwell. Wright was running the cloth over the pistol when he was interrupted by the sound of a vibrating mobile phone. He scanned the area, eventually spotting it wedged, half-concealed, between one of the seat cushions and the back of the couch. The brief text message was from a contact named “C” and simply read “be there in 5 bro.”

“Shit!”

As Dalton slammed the car door closed, two brightly-coloured lowriders pulled up outside the apartment block. Both cars were packed with laughing, gesturing Hispanic men. Their cars had barely come to a full stop before they were out, sauntering towards the main entrance of the apartment. As the last of the men disappeared into the building, Dalton pulled his phone from his pocket. Quickly, his thumbs danced over the screen, sending a warning text through to Wright.

Wright felt his phone vibrate as he tossed the cloth into the sink. He had thoroughly wiped down anything the pair had touched, destroying any traces of fingerprints that might lead back to them. He didn’t pause to check his phone, instead turning and hurrying towards the apartment door, hoping to escape before…He froze as he heard the sound of footsteps moving down the hallway that led to the apartment, accompanied by the voices of multiple men, speaking rapidly in Spanish. Cut off from the main exit, he turned away from the door and darted back into the kitchen, rushing over to the large window that led out onto the exterior fire escape. With a grunt, he slid it up and open, clambering clumsily through just as he heard the apartment door swing open behind him, followed by a shout of surprise. Using the iron railing for support as he scrambled clear of the window, Wright fled down the fire escape at a crashing run, trading stealth for speed as he put distance between him and the new arrivals.

As Wright neared street level, pursuit was announced by the sound of heavy footfalls on the fire escape above. Wright bounded down the last flight of stairs, his momentum carrying him into a wild sprint as he fled down the alleyway. Behind him came the sharp crack of a gunshot, the bullet gouging the brickwork to his left as it skipped off the alley wall. Ducking his head, Wright zig-zagged madly as he rushed towards the end of the alley, a second bullet whipping past and glancing off a rusting dumpster with a metallic clang. Clearing the alley, Wright surged into the parking lot, heart hammering as he made a beeline towards Dalton’s car.

The car was in motion when he came within reach, already nosing towards one of the carpark exits. Tearing open the rear door, Wright threw himself across the backseat in a clumsy tangle of limbs. His pursuer, a whippet-thin youth, had just appeared in the mouth of the alley, and was now rushing towards the car, brandishing a chrome-plated pistol.

More shots rang out, some striking the metal bodywork like hailstones. Wright reached between the seats, clawing at the handle of the glove compartment. It popped open, revealing a snub-nosed revolver. He snatched it up and brought it to bear, aiming back through the open car door. The youth was within strides of the car now, attempting to rush in and dispatch the pair from point blank range.

Wright fired first, his snub-nose driving a .38 round into the youth’s chest. It wasn’t an immediately fatal wound, not by a long sight, but it was enough to throw off the youth’s aim, enough so that his shot went wide, shattering the glass of the driver-side window and lodging in the grey plastic of the dashboard, rather than in Dalton’s skull.

At that moment, the car lurched forward, the engine roaring as Dalton accelerated towards the car park’s exit. A moment’s glance in the side-view mirror showed the youth sitting on the rough asphalt, both legs stretched out straight in front of him. One arm was straight, hand palm-down on the concrete, supporting him in sitting upright, while the other hand clutched the site of his wound, where a spreading patch of dark blood was soaking into his baggy shirt front. And in the next heartbeat he was gone from view, as the car swung out of the car park, and sped away down the street with a screech of tyres.