The Silence it Carries

Chapter - 6: Keep running

Robin peeked out from the log cabin, wincing from the pain in his shoulder. He moved cautiously through the forest, hoping to find an opening that would lead to a city or town. His clothes were a mess—torn and bloodstained. He knew he needed to change and find a disguise as quickly as possible. As he navigated the dense underbrush, he finally saw a break in the trees. Hurrying out of the forest, he emerged onto an empty street. Patrol cars cruised nearby, making his heart race. He ducked into an alley, avoiding their gaze.

The pain in his shoulder was becoming unbearable. In the alley, he spotted a dumpster. Desperation pushed him to rummage through it, and luck was on his side. He found a few pieces of clothing, an old pair of scissors that were thankfully not rusted, and a rugged hoodie. His luck continued when he discovered a discarded whiskey bottle with some liquid still inside.

Robin quickly put his makeshift medical supplies together. He used the whiskey to disinfect the scissors and the pieces of cloth. He then poured some over his shoulder wound, biting down on a handkerchief to stifle his screams. The sting was excruciating as he used the scissors to dig out the bullet lodged in his flesh. He cleaned the wound with more whiskey and bandaged it with the cloth he had sterilized.

Discarding his bloodstained school shirt and keeping on his jeans, which wouldn't raise much suspicion, he donned the hoodie and covered his face with the handkerchief. He carefully exited the alley, moving past the patrol cars without drawing attention. The hoodie concealed his face, and no one took a second glance at the seemingly harmless figure blending into the shadows.

Robin checked his pockets and found his wallet still inside. Opening it, he saw his school ID, which he immediately broke into pieces and discarded in a nearby trashcan. He counted his cash—one hundred dollars and fifteen cents. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now.

Thinking quickly, he made his way to a thrift store. Inside, he purchased a razor blade for shaving, a plain hoodie, and a pair of fresh jeans. He also found a simple mask, which he used to cover his mouth—nothing fancy, just enough to avoid suspicion.

With his new items, Robin ducked into a public restroom. He shaved off his patchy beard and cleaned himself up as best he could. Changing into the new jeans and hoodie, he felt a small sense of relief .The mask went on last, concealing his face.

He still had some cash left, which he tucked securely into his pocket. Now, he needed to find a place to hide and figure out his next move. Robin slipped out of the restroom, blending into the sparse crowd, and began searching for a more permanent hiding spot. The night was young, but he knew his time was running out.

Robin walked along the sidewalk when a news headline on a TV store caught his eye: "Serial Killer Robin Miller on the Loose. Please check your surroundings and report any suspicious-looking person." His face was plastered on the screen. Robin quickly ducked away and sat beside a homeless man with a paper cup he found in a trash bin. His initial plan was to blend in with them, but he figured he could make some extra money just in case. By nightfall, he had made twenty dollars and twenty-five cents. Combined with the money he had left, it was enough for now. He kept moving through the night, knowing he needed to leave the city as fast as possible. There was no place called home left for him.

As he walked down an alley, he noticed a shady guy standing there, possibly a drug dealer. Robin walked by, trying to ignore him.

"Aye, young man, didn't see you around until yesterday. You new here?" the man called out.

Robin kept moving, ignoring him.

"HEY! I'm talking to you!" the man shouted again.

Robin ignored him yet again.

"You deaf or what, you little shit?" The man charged towards Robin, but Robin was ready. With a single kick, he broke the man's nose, pinned him against the wall, and held the razor to his neck.

"Don't fuck with me. I don't know you, and you don't know me. I will mess you up so bad you'll have trouble speaking. You getting me?" Robin was fuming.

The man realized the seriousness of the situation. "Okay, look, I'm sorry. I'm looking for no trouble, man. I won't bug you, I promise."

"I don't really trust people. Make me believe that you will do nothing, and I might just change my mind."

"Okay, whatever you want, I will give you anything. Drugs? Guns? Money? Fake ID? I got everything."

Robin finally spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Fake ID? Guns? Well, considering your honesty and given my situation, I do need those."

"Great then," the man said, his voice shaking. "I have 75 dollars. Make it happen, and if you dare ask for more, I will slit your throat right here. You understand?"

"Okay, man, follow me," the man replied.

They entered a building complex filled with people similar to the man, half of them junkies and drug addicts. "Hey, you better not bait me," Robin warned, "I think you have no idea who I am, do you?"

The man scoffed, "Who are you, the president?"

"Robin Miller," Robin said in a breath.

The man stopped in his tracks and looked back at Robin. "Ro- Rob, Robin Miller? The infamous murderer? But you're so young, why would you—"

"You talk too much," Robin interrupted, his voice cold and threatening. "Maybe I should do something about that tongue of yours."

The man felt a chill down his spine and hurried to a room without another word. "I'll make your ID. What kind of ID do you want?"

"Ex-military. Also, make sure my age is more than twenty-five. Do it fast without screwing up."

The man handed him a pair of spectacles. "Wear these; they'll make your fake ID more believable. Also, if you want, I can throw in some tattoos for free."

"Do that now," Robin ordered.

The man hurriedly tattooed Robin's arm and made a small cut mark on his cheek to change his appearance. He then clicked Robin's picture and created a real plastic ID, almost identical to an original one, complete with a government stamp. Robin's new name was now John Wilson.

"Here you go," the man said, handing over the ID. "This should pass any basic check."

Robin examined the ID, then looked at the man. "Good. And remember, if you ever mention this to anyone, I'll be back."

"Well then, show me what guns you got. I want a pistol or a revolver. The Beretta is great, but a Smith and Wesson will do fine too," Robin commanded.

The man, with a nervous glance, pulled out a few guns and placed them in front of Robin. "Well then, I will take this," Robin said, picking up a Beretta M9, which suited his forged background. He then pointed the gun at the man.

"Hey man, I already gave you all the help I could. What else do you need?"

"Money. All you have," Robin demanded.

"That's not fair, man," the man protested.

"Do you perhaps choose your money over your life? Because if you don't do what I say, I will kill you and take the money either way. Empty your stash, come on," Robin threatened.

The man, terrified, did as he was told, and soon Robin had $5,000 in cash. "Good boy," Robin said, leaving the room with the gun still pointed at the man. He exited the apartment complex, the early morning light casting long shadows on the empty streets.

It was already four o'clock in the morning. Robin kept moving through the streets, blending into the pre-dawn stillness. His heart pounded with adrenaline as he considered his next steps, every moment taking him further from the person he once was and deeper into the life of a fugitive.

Robin was well off for now, but how long would that last?