The voices urged him onwards. The sun had set hours ago and now he was inside the wood; dark tree trunks, shadows, overhanging limbs brushing into his face. The sedate river and the steakhouse were just metres away but he might have been in another world.
Leaves crackled under his feet; twigs snapped. First, he slid on damp soil then tripped on a bumpy root before landing on his backside. The stench of rotting leaves made him gag.
The path was narrow, non-existent in places, but he knew where it would take him. He was exhausted, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Sometimes he went without food for days.
Patchy clouds intermittently covered the moon and light struggled through a lattice of leaves. He might have brought a torch but he feared detection. He cursed angrily when his head struck an overhanging branch.
Ahead was a clearing of sorts. He knew they would be there. UnGodly.
He paused; the spectral voices drowned out the natural sound of the wind and the bird call he could not identify.
Then ahead; two men whispering, sheathed in shadows. Barely visible, but he watched them furtively sneak together into the undergrowth.
The blade was like an extension of his hand. The sweat on his lips contrasted the dryness in his throat. His temples pulsated. “Do it, do it now,” the voices urged him. Without knowing it, he wiped the blade on the leg of his soiled trousers, gripped it tightly and advanced into the undergrowth.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 