Nightfall near Nacogdoches

     The courier’s name isn’t important.  We’ll call him John for the sake of the story. 

John straddles a dust-covered Kawasaki which most would say is on its last legs, but clearly it’s still kicking.  Its worn tire treads scramble for some purchase as John speeds down a winding country road, intuitively swaying to the left and right where the dilapidated asphalt is in need of repair that it will never see.  He knows this stretch of highway well enough to avoid hitting a bump and going topside.

     The sunset passes the baton to twilight.  The pavement is shrouded in a dim purple that is dampened further by the thick forest on either side of the road.  Most in John’s position would consider where to set up camp or otherwise seek shelter given the dangers of the night, but he determined long ago to get back to his village before midnight, rumors of bandits and wendigos be damned.

     The gas gauge on the bike is on E.  He should’ve turned off to refuel back in Kilgore, but there are too many Federation data traps in that shit hole.  It probably would have been fine, but why take the chance.

     John’s only regret is that he hasn’t restored his bike’s headlamp, whose murky, faded beam provides little comfort as night closes in.  Just another chore to look into when he stops at Mel’s to pick up some fuel.

     Another half-hour of ass-numbing riding and he sees the blue-white light of Mel’s Depot on the side of the road.  Not a moment too soon, either.  Another hundred yards would’ve been enough to drain the machine of the rest of its juices by John’s estimation.

     Mel’s Depot was a gas station and bait shop in the days of debit transactions and fiber optic networks.  The pumps no longer provide any juice, but Mel regularly restocks his barrels at the back of the building with the good stuff for those who know him.

     John leans the machine off the road, comes to a stop near the glass double doors, and flicks the kickstand into place.  He dismounts and hangs his helmet on the handlebars and unties a gas can from the back of the bike.

     After knocking on the glass double doors, the travel-worn courier looks over his shoulders into the furtive night.  Nothing to be seen, no cause for concern.  Still, his right hand always finds itself resting near the holster of his tranquilizer.  You never know what lurks in the shadows of those woods.  Often seeing nothing suspicious is more frightening than finding cause for alarm.

     A glass door opens.

     “Sure is a late night for one of yer ilk to be runnin’ the roads,” Mel says, half a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his lips.  He waves his hand and John enters the ramshackle establishment.

     “Nothin’ better than makin’ it back home safe,” John tells him.  “I like to get there quick as I can, even if means drivin’ in the dark for a while,”

     “Whatever you say,” Mel grunts.  His tired eyes sink and spot the gas can in John’s hand. He places his cold cigarette in an ashtray. “Guessin’ you’ll be needed a refill.  I’ll get the gas can ready, you leave the payment behind the counter.”

     “Much obliged,” John says as he hands off the gas can. 

     Mel hobbles into a room at the back of the building.  John walks behind the counter and leaves a package of necessary provisions on the floor—a six pack unexpired Budweiser, some bush weed that’ll burn the lungs and ease the mind, and a few cans of Vienna sausages.  Mel will be the king of his castle and the talk of the town with a haul like this.

     John waits under the flickering fluorescent lights and lets his eyes wander across the empty shelves and the forgotten soda fountain.  A couple of old lures and nets still adorn one of the walls.  The tanks near them are empty.  Minnows wouldn’t have much more luck than Mel eking out a living in this place.

     A door squeaks open and Mel returns the now-sloshing gas can to John. 

     “Thanks, Mel.  I owe you one.”

     “Not if yer payin’ me you don’t.  You got any news for me?  Can’t imagine you’d make the trip alla way to Waxahachie ‘less there were somthin’ important to be learnt.”

     “Yeah, well you know how it is these days.  Federation and New Fredonia stay at each other’s throats tryin’ to control the gas, food, and water.  Let’s just say I’ve got some data I need to get to the elder if we don’t want some of those power-mad sons of bitches to turn our supply chain into a warzone.”

     “Guess that’s all the details I’m gettin’ from ya this time.”

     “That’s all I can spare, my friend.”
     Mel’s always been a trustworthy sort, but there’s no such thing as playing your cards close to your vest these days.  Erring on the side of caution and heeding your paranoia are necessary survival skills.

     “Alright then. Be safe if you can stand it,” Mel admonishes as he opens the glass door and shows John out. 

     John unscrews the gas cap.  

     Night has fallen.  The forest is alive with nocturnal revelry.  John rubs the sleep from his eyes before lifting the gas can to refill.  As he does so, he’s given a start as a bat swoops down, casting a thick shadow as it flits closely by the street lamp near the defunct pumps.

     His heart rate quickens and palms sweat, but he realizes this is unnecessary.  Bats are common in the Great Thicket.  They’re good to give you a fright but mean no harm.

     John tilts the gas can and begins splashing some of the yellow-brown fuel into the tank when a bat swoops down again, this time much closer.

     Instead of flying into the night, it darts in his direction, emitting an ear-piercing shriek as it does so.  The shock from the sound is enough to cause John to start so violently that he drops the gas can and ducks instinctively.

     No sooner than he ducks does he hear a cataclysmic boom resounding from across the road, then a chunk of the white brick of Mel’s Depot is blasted from its wall. Sharp shrapnel flicks John’s arms as he raises them in front of his face as if to shield himself from the assault.

     His hands tremble and his heart thunders in his chest as he understands.  The boom was the report from a rifle.  The distant clicks he hears are from the rifle’s chamber being loaded with another lethal bolt.  Someone knew he’d be passing through here with precious data and won’t have it reach his village. 

     He’s vaguely aware of the bats which flit about in the white-blue light of the abandoned gas station.  He’s in a dead sprint and rounding the corner of Mel’s Depot when he hears another screech, which is immediately followed by another thunderous boom.

     He rounds the corner before the slug catches him.

     His heart pushes hot blood through his veins with all its might as he rounds another corner, seeking refuge behind the building.  Whoever is out there doesn’t have a line of sight back here.

     But my bike, he thinks.  If I can’t get to the bike, I’ll never get back home.  If I don’t get back home, the Federation and Fredonians will bring their war to our village.  If they…

     The thoughts spiral further, but John forces himself to focus on the task at hand.  He crouches with his back against the wall of the Depot, his tranq gun gripped in his sweaty palm. 

     Like bringing a knife to gunfight, he scolds himself.

     He hears the flitting of the bats’ wings. 

     He hears a shriek.

     He hears a metallic can as it clangs against the gravel, then hears a hiss coming from that direction.  The hiss continues until he feels his eyes stinging and lungs burning.

     It’s hard to tell in the all-encompassing darkness, but in his retching and gagging John is convinced that he’s being smoked out with tear gas.  With little other choice, he stumbles around to another side of the building.  He’s safe from the gas and from the marksman.

     Just as he considers making a break for it, he hears the report of the rifle once more.

     He ducks and winces, but nothing strikes near him.  Instead, he hears the sound of glass shattering.  The blue-white light outside of Mel’s Depot is gone after John blinks his eyes and notes that he’s still alive.

     That’s bad, he considers.  No way this guy is that bad a shot.

     He’s unsure of why the marksman shot the light out, but he’s sure that his mission hasn’t changed yet.  If he stays here for longer, he’ll be smoked out again.  If he runs to the forest, he’ll be stranded without his bike and won’t get his data back to the elder.  Not to mention the tribals and the rogue nagas who would delight in such a blunder.

     He has to make it back to his bike.

     He must find a way to refuel.

     He needs to escape with his skin still on his back.

     John takes a few pensive, wobbly steps back toward the front of the building.  Before he even rounds the corner, he hears the wings flitting in the dark.  He hears a loud shriek and the thunderclap of the rifle.  He dives into the gravel.  He can practically feel the bullet shaving the hairs from his head as it just barely misses.

     It doesn’t add up.  It’s pitch black out here.  The marksman must have some high-tech thermal scope, but even that wouldn’t let him watch John from around the corner.

     John lies prostrate and vulnerable in the gravel.  He visualizes the marksman calmly loading his next round.  In sheer desperation, he makes a break for it.

     He kicks desperately at the gravel with gritted teeth until he’s back at his bike, tripping and sliding in the dark all the while.  His hands fumble around on the ground until they find the gas can.  His nose informs him that most of his recent purchase has been spilled onto the gravel, though the sloshing of the can tells him he should have enough juice to get back home.

     Of course, gas only works if it’s inside the vehicle, he recalls grimly. 

     Crouching behind his bike for cover, John tilts the gas can so that it sputters the remaining fuel into the bike’s tank.  He reaches to screw on the gas cap.

     A shriek.

     A rifle’s report.

     A hole in his hand and a couple of fingers splatting onto the gravel.

     John has a shriek of his own.  He bellows into the night, the searing pain in his hand urging him to get to his feet and speed out of there.  He’s sure it’ll hurt a lot more once the dust settles—assuming he lives long enough to see the day.

     He rises to his feet and pulls on the glass door. 

Locked.

“Mel!  Mel, open the fucking door, please!”

But Mel isn’t showing his face.  Though this could mean the end of John, he doesn’t hold it against him.  Everyone needs to look out for his skin at times like this.

He hears the bats flitting behind him as he pounds on the door.  They each shriek menacingly and the thunderclap resounds predictably.  Either the marksman is losing his touch or John’s erratic movements are working in his favor.  Either way, the bullet misses its mark and punches a hole in the glass door.

Seeing his opening, John puts his elbow through the hole to widen the crack, then fumbles around the inside of the door till he finds the latch.  Just as he hears the shrieks again, he opens the door and seeks refuge between the empty shelves.  He takes the time to take a syringe out from his jacket, impaling his wounded hand with a cocktail of amphetamines that Federation mercs use to survive onslaughts like this. 

I’ve gotta think of something and get out of here before he bombs me with tear gas again.

As he hides and trembles, it dawns on him.  He knows his assailant.  He’s heard of a marksman who’s on retainer with the Fredonians.  John thought that it was a tall tale when he heard of a blind sniper who used a neural implant to read the sonic imprints provided by the screeching of bats.  He wishes he’d taken the story more seriously. 

He's almost flattered that such a menace would find the time to corner a lowly courier. 

Maybe it’s the meth, maybe it’s providence.  Either way, inspiration strikes.  John fumbles through the dark until he finds a net.  He wields it in his left hand while holding his tranq gun in his right.  He crouches in wait, careful not to allow his scalp to be seen at one of the windows.  He waits patiently with the net just above the hole in the glass door.

The moment he hears the flitting of a bat’s wings pushing past the glass, he swipes the net down to the cement floor, trapping the winged rodent and the hissing can of tear gas which it brought. 

He winces as he stomps on the flailing varmint, twisting his heel to ensure that it won’t be taking to the night sky any time soon.  He then staggers out of the building before the gases can take hold again. Predictably, that dreaded flitting homes in on him. 

Though the night is pitch black, he’s left with little options but to rely on his own auditory instincts.  He lowers his tranq to where the bat might be and unloads successive rounds of darts. 

Maybe it’s the meth, maybe it’s providence.  Either way, the bat falls to the gravel instead of screeching. 

John grabs the bike’s handlebars and releases the kickstand.  As he wheels the bike behind Mel’s Depot, he hears another shriek. 

How many pets does this guy have? he wonders helplessly.  He braces himself behind his machine and is pushed by the impact of the round as it strikes the bike’s body.  He can only hope the bullet didn’t strike anything vital.

With enough time between rounds to wheel the machine behind the building, he cranks the engine.  The sound is like the first gasping breath of a man overboard who was certain that he’d drown.

He straddles the Kawasaki and lets the engine roar.  With all his eggs in one basket, he spits up gravel as he hits the road, keeping his head low and swaying in pathetic attempts to maneuver.  He understands that riding a loud machine at a time like this is simply asking for a bullet in his head.  He also understands that all his alternatives are just as lethal.

With the dark road behind him and before him, he hears a shriek.

He hears a rifle’s report.

He hopes the round doesn’t find his brain or a tire.