Blood and Soda

… ran together and spread over a good portion of the tile. Frank’s hands were killing him. His joints were on fire, and the ground was so hard on his chest it was hard to breathe. So he began to move, slowly pushing himself up until he was sitting cross legged against the front of Bobby’s counter. Having come to the conclusion everyone in this gas station was a complete moron he sat back and watched the three awkward beings slosh around, screaming at each other in front of the Kwik Trip door.

The Beretta lay just inches from Morris’s hand. Bobby had stopped reaching for a few seconds in order to catch his breath. Apparently his daily reaches, up to the cartons of cigarettes and down to the hidden stash of pornography, weren’t nearly enough to keep him in shape.

Linda had fallen back, propped up by the teetering shelf of gum and candy. She had stopped screaming, but a small drop of blood lingered at the corner of her mouth, indicating that she was only biting the inside of her lip in pain. Her eyes were shut tight, GET OFF OF ME, PLEASE GOD GET THEM OFF OF ME! running through her brain in constant loop.

Beth lay on the floor, not having moved a muscle since she dropped. A muffled snivel and sob escaped from under her dark hair, reminding Frank that she was still there. He looked down at her and frowned. He just needed to get out of there. Might as well take the girl with him. His hands were still throbbing, though, and his chest still ached. I’ll just rest a bit longer, he told himself. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Everything slowly began to fade out of focus as the loud screams and sobs were reduced to muffled hums and sighs. He made no attempt to stay awake, but if he had any such endeavor would have most certainly failed. As a result of years of practice, thanks to several naps in the middle of obnoxiously rowdy young relatives during unwanted family reunions, not even the sudden cry “WHO THE HELL IS THAT!?” could awaken Frank now.