A Big Problem

A Big Problem

He ran out of the penthouse apartment on the 27th floor as fast as his middle-aged legs could carry him. He didn't stop at the elevator. He would be dead if he did. Three gunshots rang out behind him as he slammed into the handle bar on the stairwell door. Racing down the stairs he listened for the sounds of anyone following. After three or four floors he stopped. He listened again but his heart was pounding so rapidly and his breathing was so uncontrollably heavy, he wasn't sure if there was sound or not. "Maybe they took the elevator?" He comforted himself. A gunshot caused concrete dust and chunks to slam against the left side of his face. Down he ran again, no time to look back. Down! Down! "But what will I find at the bottom?" He worried.

Bursting through the door at ground level he ran over someone. All he could remember was blue. Running, dodging; he heard someone yell, "Hey! Stop!" Across the small lobby and out the heavy front door, across the city sidewalk and into the street. That was the last thing he remembered. Was it a dream? He found himself tightly tucked in a bed as he opened his crusted eyes. He wanted to wipe them but his arms were stuck. His brain gave the commands but there was no response. He couldn't even turn his head. Feeling dizzy and so very tired he fell back asleep.

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