Tweet of the Day: The Perils of a Passive Protagonist
Marquette Mountain, Marquette, MI, July 27th, 10:49 a.m.
“You sure we are on the right track,” I said to Ricardo, who lead the procession up the hiking trail.
“Yeah, this is the way. This is no time to doubt my work, boss,” he said with a shrug.
“Fine,” I said between ragged breaths. All the situps and sparing sessions with Sam could not make up for my lack of stamina and ankle breaking terrain of the hiking trail. The sooner we found Marcus’ girlfriend the faster we would get out of dodge.
The trail ended in a small meadow. We walked toward a cabin, ankle deep in flowers, like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen’s tale.
Ricardo pointed at the cabin, “Here we are-” a strong blast of air picked him up and slammed him on the ground ten feet away.
“ELI! It’s me, Marcus!” bellowed my brother.
A petite short hair brunette opened the door, double barrel shot gun in hand. She walked cautiously toward Marcus and pounded her fist on his shoulder, “What took you so long!”
“He was a prisoner,” I said.
“You must be his brother?” she said.
“Goody, the family resemblance shines through,” I said.
“Nice to meet you too,” said Ricardo spiting up flowers as he got up.
“Sorry, but I’ve been hiding out here for over a month. I didn’t expect anyone to come for me,” she said with a stern look at Marcus.
“Well, we are here and we need to go, now,” I said to the happy couple.
Eli and Marcus looked up, “Look out! Drone!” he yelled. He hit the ground with an open hand. A wall of dirt rose between us and the cabin. A second later it exploded, the shock wave sent us flying. The cabin erupted in flames.
I choked on dust and shook the din in my ears away. “Ricardo….take it… out!”
His reply sounded distant and shrill, “But it’s my last imp!”
“Goddammit, do it, before it comes around for another pass,” I said.
We didn’t wait around to wait to see if the imp had done it’s job. We ran down the trail to where the car was parked. Piled in, I hit the accelerator and turned right into Marquette Mountain Road. Ahead the police and Army were setting up a roadblock. I slammed down on the gas. Bullets struck the windshield.
A concrete spike erupted from the ground and upended one of the the APCs. Sparks flew as the the car slid against a police cruiser. The Charger’s supercharged V8 roared. A bullet took out the passenger side wing mirror.
“Objects are closer than they appear!” said Ricardo from the back seat.
“Oh shut up!” I said. I turned west toward the Wisconsin border hoping that we could cross state lines before the Feds coordinated with local authorities and from there slip into Canada.
Not great plan, but what options did we have?