some puddle water. There was no sense panicking. No sense at all in panicking or overreacting or overthinking things. And there was definitely, definitely, definitely no sense in looking back to see if he was being followed.
Haatim looked back.
The man was well into the alleyway pursuing him, only about forty meters behind and closing the gap. He walked with long, even strides. Methodical.
Some might even say murderous.
Haatim gulped and pressed on, quickening his pace. He turned forward just in time to see another man step into the alley in front of him, blocking that way, too.
He heard a whimpering sound, realized it was coming from him, and then the weight of what was happening sank in. This wasn’t coincidental. These two weren’t here on a pleasant early morning stroll. They were here for him.
A foot scuffed on the pavement behind Haatim. Muscles tensed in his body he didn’t even know he had.
He hadn’t imagined this. Never thought that something like this could happen. Not to him. He’d just come out here hoping to snap a photograph of an intriguing woman…who was apparently also a murderer.
He decided at that moment that if he survived, he would sign up for the first class he saw where they taught people how best to kick a guy in the testicles and put him down, or how to get in close and poke eyes.
If he survived.
Run .
The thought was sudden and powerful. Maybe he could surprise his pursuer and escape to the road. Heaven willing, a police car might drive past.
Haatim ran. The steps behind him grew louder as his pursuer picked up the pace as well. The man in front spread out his arms in an awkward linebacker stance, like an overweight uncle looking for a hug. Haatim ran to about four steps away from the man and then sidestepped. Years of cricket made him fairly agile.
The man lurched after him, missing his arm but catching the shoulder strap on his camera. Haatim stumbled, caught in the strap with his hand still clutching the precious device.
He didn’t let go, not at first (it was a $1,000 camera!) but after a split second rationality set in. He slipped the strap off his shoulder and released his grip. He could get a new camera, and if that was the only thing he lost in this misadventure he would count himself lucky.
He turned, free of the strap, and took another step. Something caught his leg, and he staggered to the ground. He wriggled forward, glancing back.
The man who’d originally been chasing him was about twenty meters behind at a full sprint. The closer man had fallen to a knee, one hand on Haatim’s pants leg. The camera banged painfully against the ground, and Haatim couldn’t help but wince. He looked at the man’s face.
And then time stopped.
The man was dead.
He was dead.
Or, at least, he should have been. One of his eyes was missing. Not missing like “argh matey,” but missing, missing. Dried blood caked the left side of his face, and Haatim could see . . . tendrils or something hanging limp in the socket. Whatever it was that attached the eyeball to the brain. Those looked to have been severed.
But the gash in his throat was the worst of it. It was deep, caked in blood, and wide. The throat was torn open, and he could see bone protruding from the wound. The smell coming off him was fetid and rotten.
And the man was grinning. A wide, toothy grin with yellow-stained crooked teeth.
Haatim vomited. There was no warning, just suddenly he was vomiting. It got on his shirt and his pants, and he could care less.
With panicked, nimble fingers he undid the clasp on his jeans and wriggled free. His left shoe caught on the pants and he kicked that off, too. Free of his constraint he slid a step farther back and rolled to his feet. Off balance, he stumbled out of the alley and fled.
He kept going. He sprinted back to his car, running faster than he ever had before. Someone was screaming. It took him a second to realize that it was him. He forced himself
Haatim looked back.
The man was well into the alleyway pursuing him, only about forty meters behind and closing the gap. He walked with long, even strides. Methodical.
Some might even say murderous.
Haatim gulped and pressed on, quickening his pace. He turned forward just in time to see another man step into the alley in front of him, blocking that way, too.
He heard a whimpering sound, realized it was coming from him, and then the weight of what was happening sank in. This wasn’t coincidental. These two weren’t here on a pleasant early morning stroll. They were here for him.
A foot scuffed on the pavement behind Haatim. Muscles tensed in his body he didn’t even know he had.
He hadn’t imagined this. Never thought that something like this could happen. Not to him. He’d just come out here hoping to snap a photograph of an intriguing woman…who was apparently also a murderer.
He decided at that moment that if he survived, he would sign up for the first class he saw where they taught people how best to kick a guy in the testicles and put him down, or how to get in close and poke eyes.
If he survived.
Run .
The thought was sudden and powerful. Maybe he could surprise his pursuer and escape to the road. Heaven willing, a police car might drive past.
Haatim ran. The steps behind him grew louder as his pursuer picked up the pace as well. The man in front spread out his arms in an awkward linebacker stance, like an overweight uncle looking for a hug. Haatim ran to about four steps away from the man and then sidestepped. Years of cricket made him fairly agile.
The man lurched after him, missing his arm but catching the shoulder strap on his camera. Haatim stumbled, caught in the strap with his hand still clutching the precious device.
He didn’t let go, not at first (it was a $1,000 camera!) but after a split second rationality set in. He slipped the strap off his shoulder and released his grip. He could get a new camera, and if that was the only thing he lost in this misadventure he would count himself lucky.
He turned, free of the strap, and took another step. Something caught his leg, and he staggered to the ground. He wriggled forward, glancing back.
The man who’d originally been chasing him was about twenty meters behind at a full sprint. The closer man had fallen to a knee, one hand on Haatim’s pants leg. The camera banged painfully against the ground, and Haatim couldn’t help but wince. He looked at the man’s face.
And then time stopped.
The man was dead.
He was dead.
Or, at least, he should have been. One of his eyes was missing. Not missing like “argh matey,” but missing, missing. Dried blood caked the left side of his face, and Haatim could see . . . tendrils or something hanging limp in the socket. Whatever it was that attached the eyeball to the brain. Those looked to have been severed.
But the gash in his throat was the worst of it. It was deep, caked in blood, and wide. The throat was torn open, and he could see bone protruding from the wound. The smell coming off him was fetid and rotten.
And the man was grinning. A wide, toothy grin with yellow-stained crooked teeth.
Haatim vomited. There was no warning, just suddenly he was vomiting. It got on his shirt and his pants, and he could care less.
With panicked, nimble fingers he undid the clasp on his jeans and wriggled free. His left shoe caught on the pants and he kicked that off, too. Free of his constraint he slid a step farther back and rolled to his feet. Off balance, he stumbled out of the alley and fled.
He kept going. He sprinted back to his car, running faster than he ever had before. Someone was screaming. It took him a second to realize that it was him. He forced himself
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