The Writing Block

Chapter Zero

ZERO

     A muzzle flared in the distance. The bullet struck his shoulder with the impact of a sucker-punch and knocked him off balance. Thick red blood immediately started to seep out of the wound, his stark white shirt vandalized by an ever-growing scarlet circle. He cried out in agony, dropping his weapon. His wrist-mount blared various vitality alarms, alerting him of the gravity of his current physical state. He needed to find a Healing Centre before he passed out from blood loss. He ducked behind a cement pillar and tried to slow his rapid breathing.

     Another shot tore through the silence of the night and struck the opposite side of the pillar. He needed to escape, if not for his own sake, then for his son's. His wife had died during childbirth and he was left alone with the baby. His son was his only reason to keep fighting. The Block, in his eyes, was a lost cause. But maybe, just maybe, the Block would pull through, and build a better future for his little boy. He continued to fight and was determined to win.

     He picked up his sidearm and counted to three. On three he sprung up from his hiding place and fired off three blind shots in the direction of his assailant. He dropped the gun and began to sprint through the parking yard. He heard a shot go off and felt the bullet whizz by his ear. He kept running and saw an exit no more than thirty feet away. He was going to make it.

     Suddenly, another alarm went off on his wrist-mount. The sudden noise made him lose his footing and stumble. He heard a second shot, and felt the bullet find it's mark in his left calf. He collapsed onto his knees, his Achilles tendon having been completely severed. He wailed in agony. A third shot echoed in the night. The bullet penetrated the back of his neck and tore through his jugular. He fell face-first into the pavement. As he started to drown in his own blood, the man spoke only one word.

"Toni."