Monday, October 14, 2013

100 Words a Day 407

The man drew a gun from his tattered fatigue jacket.

He pointed it at me.

His demands fell on deaf ears.

I was too busy trying to decide if his gun was loaded. Bullets had become rare since The Day, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he would have a few.

“Well?” the man asked.

I narrowed my eyes and said nothing.

He pulled the hammer back; it made a loud click as it locked into place.

I slowly reached down and grasped the hilt of my fighting knife. I drew the rusty, jagged blade and smiled.

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