This serial entry is shorter than usual today. Honestly I’ve been a bit tentative about this serial, even though I have big plans to continue to pursue it. Someone ripped off part one (found here) without crediting me, and they don’t seem interested in hearing from me.
My blog isn’t monetized, I use a free plan, which means wordpress might show you ads (for now), but generally I wish to practice my writing and entertain people. I’m happy to have reblogs, if you ask and simply link back to me.
As far as my copy-theft goes, good-planes looks like an automated plagiarism site copying content in order to generate ad revenue. They’re self hosted and using a registrar based in France that is also disinterested. I suspect they copied my post due to my use of the tag “drone”, so we’ll see if that happens again with part 2, probably not even caring that it was from an adventure fiction serial. Has this ever happened to you?
At any rate, here’s part 2, which is mostly action and less drones.
Chris had seen enough, and he knew his only chance was to run, so he turned his head away from the two men with assault rifles and willed his legs to move. There was a ‘click’ at his back as one of the men pulled the trigger. Chris’ felt renewed courage as he increased the distance and scrambled back over ground they’d only covered within the last hour.
He couldn’t even look back as he heard a Russian yell “Tvoyu Maht!” They were having a problem actually using the rifles, like he hoped, and he surprised them by running so they were standing there dumbly fiddling with their guns. Suddenly a groan from one of them was followed by the loud a report of a shot. It felt to him like they were still so close behind him. His legs churned and he weaved and bobbed.
He increased the distance from them with every stride, and more trees and brush were filling the space between them every second. “Da! Da!” came the voice from behind and then several shots started to snap by him, ripping into leaves next to his head. He felt the thorns from a vine he’d passed on the way in rip at his leg.
He didn’t stop, and the cracks of the guns fell into the distance. His lungs started to burn with a ragged breathing but his fear drove him on with a wildness. He sucked air.
Approaching the truck, he scrambled around to the driver side and finally allowed a look back finally to see if either of them were behind him. It was a big white chevy, and he found the driver’s side door was unlocked. Just inside the open door his fingers immediately found a tab on the panel and he pulled it open – and was rewarded with wires and fuses. His fingers clawed at each fuse, pulling it free and occasionally throwing them off into the bushes behind him. Finally he shoved a handful of fuses into the large pocket above his right knee. His heart was pounding and he saw his leg was bleeding freely from being torn at by thorns.
He replaced the cover, hitting it with his fist it snapped smartly back into place. For good measure he pulled the release for the hood. That was it, all he needed to do before running back to the road. They wouldn’t be able to use the truck, and they shouldn’t figure out why without a lot of work. He didn’t have the keys, so disabling the car was his best idea. With the hood open, they would assume he’d sabotaged it somehow there, and they would waste some time looking for something amiss there – they might forget the fuse box entirely.
He stopped and tried to hold his breath for a moment, straining to listen. Nothing.
He breathed quietly and slowly moved off along the gravel further away from the truck. The trees blocked the direct light of the sun, which would be setting in a few hours. He jogged lightly now trying to keep his breathing in check until he finally saw the opening, and he felt the gravelly dirt beneath his feet change into smooth black tarmac.
But which way to go? To the left, the way they’d come, to the right, the prison. Hesitating with the decision for a moment, he finally decided it didn’t matter, and went to the right, jogging along the side of the road, looking back over his shoulder and ahead again to see if any cars were coming. He began to simply walk, feeling exhausted from running. Suddenly a grey box truck appeared heading towards him. He rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, and the truck quickly pulled to a stop alongside him. The door opened, and a man in an orange jumpsuit pointed an AK-47 at him. Smiling, the man said in a distinctly Russian accent, “Need a ride?”