The Bounty and the Briefcase (Cattlepunk) [WIP]

2 - The Bounty Hunter

Martin didn't cope well with dead bodies.

Death was always something he feared, something he knew was inevitable and unavoidable. People around him rarely died. He had only seen a dead body once, when he was fifteen. And it was traumatizing, to say the least.

He could see another now, flat on the sandy earth, disappearing behind the train with the tracks. The man looked unconscious. But that reminded him of something far worse,

Martin shook his head and bit his lip. Someone had shot the thug. But why? Who would be watching, know who to shoot, have aim that precise? What did they want with him?

A bullet whizzing right past his head scattered his thoughts. That couldn't have been an accident.

Another one, this time nearly skimming his ear.

Martin may have been confused, and startled by the death. But he still knew what the best thing to do was.

Run.

He lunged for the silver briefcase, then began to run across the train car roofs, which glistened red in the sun. All he could hope was that if he died, his blood would match.

The only trap door was on the last car. Martin knew this because the thug chased him out of it, and down the cars until Martin had decided to stand his ground.

Martin continued to run, and the gunshots seemed to have subsided. He thought he was going to make it. But then the train's perpetual rumbling became echoing.

Martin turned his head.

Shit.

Had that tunnel been there the whole time?

He whipped his head back and pumped his legs even faster. But he knew he wouldn't make it. Still too far.

Then a third gunshot rang out. A bullet hit the steel beside Martin's foot. He stumbled.

And fell.

His left foot hit the ground first. Pain like electricity shot through it all too quickly.  Something between a grunt and a cry tore from his throat, but it was quickly muffled as the rest of Martin's body hit the earth and rolled over the sand and pebbles.

When Martin came to a stop, he didn't want to get up. Of course, he had to, if he wanted to live. But he wasn't sure if he wanted to anymore. Recently, his life had gone to hell. Death might take him to the real place.

He dragged himself towards a beige rock, gritting his teeth. There was no doubt that he had sprained his ankle. He ducked behind it as a bullet struck sand, sending up a cloud of dust.

His back pressed against the stone, he wondered what would happen if he died. Nobody would really miss him. His dad certainly wouldn't give a damn. And the only other person he loved was God-knows-where.

Martin shook his head. He couldn't be thinking about this now. He had to finish the job. For now, he had to survive.

He dared to peek around the rock. The train was long gone, and beyond the tracks was a slight hill with a few dry bushes. The sniper was nowhere to be seen.

Martin ducked back. Think. What could he do? 

Everything that he had brought with him was in his pockets. He shoved his hand into his pants pocket and withdrew his father's folding knife, the handle black and deep green and the blade glinting in sun.