The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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of thought; a bright flash, followed by an ear-splitting POP. Scott dropped the knife and
fell back against his seat, his ears ringing and vision blurred.
Squirming as if seizing and clutching his ears, Scott glanced down at his body,
expecting hell, and saw…
Not a thing.
No gunshot, no blood, no pain. Scott saw and felt nothing, besides the glass shards
in his hair from the window Gideon just shot out. He trembled, in shock.
Gideon hunched in an awkward position with a painful grimace, the knife on the
floor between the seats. His pale eyes gazed down at the red rivers that coursed his shirt.
“Gotta hand it to you, kid,” he wheezed, “I did not see that coming.”
He weakly pulled the tiny pistol from his pocket, not much bigger than a switch knife,
and still smoking. “What do you say we call it a night?” He aimed square at Scott’s head.
“This is just getting silly.”
The ringing in Scott’s ears couldn’t drown out the thundering of his beating heart.
He knew it was all over. I probably won’t feel it, he comforted himself, as his last conscious
thought. He winced as Gideon pulled the trigger.
Silence followed.
Scott opened his eyes to see an annoyed Gideon wincing as he squeezed and squeezed
with his finger. Jammed.
Adrenaline grabbed Scott as he ripped the seatbelt from its buckle and dove head
first through the shot-out window in one balletic move. He slammed onto the pavement
like a corpse but sprung up like a gymnast, the adrenaline strong enough to numb the
sting from the glass in his cheek. He gathered his balance and took off sprinting down
the empty road, the adrenaline apparently strong enough to also make Scott run faster
than he ever had despite those thirty-five-year old ankles.
He didn’t get too far before another gunshot POPPED, sparking the ground mere
feet ahead of Scott.
He dove to his right, nearly tripped over a bed of branches, and crashed through the
forest foliage as another POP zipping over his head. He fell to his knees behind a bank
of thick trees and laid flat, his nose burrowing into the wet dirt. His mind raced so hard
it refused to stop and think.
Time turned glacial as Scott lay there. From the drone of Gideon’s truck Scott could
tell he was still there, but noticed the lack of gunshots. He forced himself to lift his
head, and peered through the branches. He could see Gideon standing in front of his
idled truck a few yards down the road, his gun still puffing as he stood sentry. After a
few more seconds, Gideon began limping in the direction of Scott’s hiding place, pistol
drawn.
“C’mon out, kid!” he screamed. “You wanna be bear chow!? There are worse things
in these woods than dogs!” He cackled.
Knocking off what he through was a branch from his hair, Scott realized that he