For the A to Z Challenge I generated a list of random words, and I will be writing a short story incorporating those words. Each day a little more of the story will be unveiled. You can read the full story, to date, here. For those of you who have been following along, Old Mark is now Mr. Cross. Sorry for switching names in the middle of a story, but I'm making this up as I go along. Here we go:
Ashton turned away from the video store and stopped to look at the DVD case in his hand. Mark ran across the street and raced up the sidewalk towards him. The sound of the police siren rose, but the way the sound carried on the street, it was difficult to determine where it was coming from. Ashton looked up, looked both ways on the street, just as a bright red Dodge pickup truck turned the corner. Mark shouted, no words, just a sound to grab his attention.
The other man didn’t appear to hear him. He was watching the truck tearing down the street. A couple of girls caught in the middle of the street, darted back towards the curb, and the truck swerved to miss them. The driver over corrected, and careened into oncoming traffic, somehow slipping between the space between two cars. Mark saw the vehicle flying towards Ashton, towards him, a shiny red battering ram intent on splattering them both against the wall of the video store. Mark caught a glimpse of the driver, an older man, balding, his face drawn up in a mask of terror, his arms rising to protect his own face.
Mark collided with Ashton. The impact was accompanied by the sound of metal on brick, and tinkling glass, mingling with the wailing siren. Mark struggled to push himself to his feet, and felt a sharp pain in his hand. He drew his hand back with a hiss to see a thin shard of glass embedded in the palm. Inside the video store, someone was screaming. There were two police officers tromping around in the mess of glass and rubble, shouting. One of them was holding what might have been a Taser; the other was definitely aiming a pistol at the rear of the truck. There was more shouting. The screaming from inside the store quickly subsided to sobs.
Mark pulled his arm to his chest, and looked to Ashton. The other man was rising to his feet. He still clutched the DVD in his hand, and he was violently shaking. He began to walk away, Mark didn’t blame him; he certainly didn’t want to be sitting on the ground when the shooting began, but he suddenly found his legs weren’t working.
Ashton took a few halting steps, then stopped. He turned back and reached a hand to Mark.
“Dude,” he said. “You gotta get up.”
Mark took Ashton’s hand with his uninjured one and managed to get his feet under himself. Another cop car appeared, just as the driver of the truck stumbled out of the video store with his hands raised. His gait was wobbly, and he tilted as if he was walking on a boat on rough seas, but whether it was because he was intoxicated, or due to the gash on his head, Mark couldn’t guess.