Ishmael Toffee: A Novella by Roger Smith

Author:Roger Smith
Language: deu
Format: mobi
Tags: Thrillers, Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 9783608106060
Publisher: Tin Town
Published: 2012-02-21T11:00:00+00:00

20

Footsteps coming up toward the front door. Young men laughing, and a girl too, giggling all high pitched. Ishmael wonders if she knows she’s gonna get dipped and ripped. Maybe she wants it.

The only way out is through the window with the broken glass in it. Glass enough to cut a man bad.

Not even thinking now, Ishmael pulls his T-shirt out his jeans and holds the child against his body, covering her best he can with the shirt. She fights and wiggles like a cat and cries like one, too.

Ishmael grips her to his chest and runs at the window hitting it with his shoulder and feeling the broken glass give way, some of it slicing him on the face and the head. But they’re through, landing hard on the dry sand.

The wind is knocked out of Ishmael and he rolls, protecting the girly with his body, expecting a bullet anytime.

Ishmael jumps to his feet like his legs are springs and, holding the kid who still struggles to get free, he runs toward the dump rising away like a hillside in the wash of streetlight.

Voices shouting after him: “Stop! Stop fucker!”

As he hits the slope he hears a whine and a pop and something sings past his head. Gets his short legs pumping even faster, powering his way on up into the darkness.

Ishmael slows as the slope gets steeper and the junk under his feet gets softer, him sinking to his knees, having to lift each foot high like he seen them do in the snow on TV. He can hear men behind him, getting closer. The kid weighs a bloody ton now and that’s the God’s-honest truth.

Ishmael pushes on with the last bit of strength in his muscles, heart ready to be puked out his mouth, and they’re over the top and onto the flatland of garbage stretching away forever toward the light towers of Tin Town. Ishmael sucks air, wants to stop. Can’t. The child is dragging on the ground, kicking and fighting at him from inside his shirt. He braces his legs, leans back and lifts her higher, locking his arms around her body and staggers on like he’s carrying a barrel of beer.

He looks over his shoulder and sees one of the Americans coming up over the edge, the light towers throwing his shadow long enough to fall on Ishmael like a tree.

“We fucked, missy,” he gasps, his legs cramping to a standstill under him.

Then he hears a mad roar and a clatter as a helicopter, blades sending the garbage into the air in a twister of shit, rises like a big mosquito over the edge of the dump, a disc white as a dinner plate rushing over the landfill, hunting them down.

Ishmael spots a mound of trash piled up around a car wreck and he dives at it head first, saying “sorry, missy,” as they land and roll and he feels the soft, rotting garbage welcome them, letting them sink away under the car just as that beam slides on by.

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