You voted in the writing prompt ” the entrance to the tunnel is his only way out.” Link in with us and write your own story. Use #kdsuspense , share it ,or post it below however you want and we will find you.
Didi and I responded to your vote. Remember we never discuss who writes what, or how the tale should go. Author A starts writing and stops randomly, and then hands her work to Author B to finish, we put our work together, giggle and press publish… tada! It’s week #3 people! A super short story this week. Our main man Juan is on the run….. in Mexico what has he done?
The entrance to the tunnel is his only way out….
Scene One Author A
The entrance to the tunnel is his only way out, Juan is stuck between a rock and a hard place as they say. He has no choice but to run through the dark tunnel. He ditched his ride and now he’s a foot soldier, something he hates.
He’s a wanted man. He successfully crossed the border into Mexico on the run from Santos, and his men. For three whole years he stayed faithful to the Atlanta Thugs, a family he was happy to be part of. He kept his oath of respect, honesty, loyalty and brotherhood. He trusted Santos and followed his rules as a devoted gang member. He always remembered the Atlanta Thug’s code of conduct when it came to money…In God we trust, everyone else pays cash. It made him laugh the first time he made his oath and repeated the words after Santos.
This time Santos crossed the line one too many times. He was fed up of being the runner, the fall- back guy, the one standing on the street corner, pushing merchandise to crack heads that would do anything for a hit.
A rush of adrenaline runs through his veins, as he runs through the dark tunnel, with a hundred grand of unmarked bank notes in his duffle bag , a joint, and a gun he’s not afraid to use.
He’s seen it all, gangs, drugs, prostitution there’s not much that fazes him. At thirty five years old, by now Juan hoped he’d have his shit together. The life of a thug pulled him away from academic achievement. His mother begged him every day to give up this life and make something of himself. Her voice echoes through his mind as he runs along. I never brought you here from the ghettos of Brazil Juan, for you to get caught up in the very thing I’ve tried to protect you and your brother from.
He whispers as he approaches the end of the tunnel.
Once outside he leans against the brick wall at the foot of the tunnel. Looking around he checks there’s no one within sight. He crouches down and lights up his joint. Taking a long well- deserved pull, he figures out his next move. Santos and his men could be anywhere by now, once they realised they’re a hundred grand lighter, and he is nowhere to be seen the manhunt would kick off. All Santos had to do was give him a bigger slice of the pie, promote him up the ranks rather than see him as just a runner. He brought it on himself.
Juan has plans, big plans with his new found wealth. He’d hide out in Mexico for a while, maybe a few days before he puts stage one of his plan into action.Fully buzzed from the strong joint he walks toward the road he can see up head. He navigates a few bushes in the dark as he makes his way over a fence.
“Where the fuck am I?”
Juan’s eyes dart around keeping a close eye out for Mexican gang members, wanting to know exactly who the fuck he is? And why the fuck he is on their tuff? If need be he’d drop his southern accent and pretend he’s a Mexican, sure he could put on a Mexican accent. He lost his Brazilian Portuguese twang years ago, when he immigrated to the USA with his mother aged sixteen. At six foot two, tanned skin, with low cut jet black hair he could pass for a Mexican– he hopes. Juan is a lady’s man in every way, “Pretty Boy” the Atlanta Thugs named him. The ladies swooned over his good looks.
Satisfied there isn’t a Mexican in sight that would question who he is, he raises his hood and walks along. The road is quiet not a soul in sight. He eyes the many cars he walks past deciding which one he should claim. Right now, Juan needs two things a cheap hotel and a ride.
Scene Two Author B
Juan adjusts the heavy duffle bag on his shoulder trying to ease the burden of its weight as he makes his way down to the street. The place is dirty with holed pavement, no sidewalk, and a rancid smell of dead animal permeating the air. Slyly, Juan checks the doors of each car he passes, hoping to come across anything that isn’t locked. A black four door BMW with slightly tinted windows opens, allowing Juan to slide himself into the comfortable gray leather seat on its driver’s side.
It’s much nicer than the piece of shit he’d been stuck driving for the last few years. Just another reminder of how badly Santos had been pissing around with his time and dedication. Making a mockery of him. The fucker deserves this surprise. Juan only wishes he could see the look on Santo’s face when he finds out the entire east side lock box has been drained. Being stuck on the run in a car with no AC had made it a long miserable trip, especially without any sleep. Now that the night has settled in, Juan can feel his tired body starting to shut down.
The BMW’s push button starter fires the vehicle to life, telling Juan that they keys must be inside somewhere. There is no sense searching for them now, he has to get out of this neighborhood before the owner notices it’s gone. Border towns are dicey enough as it is, the last thing he needs is to get busted stealing a car. Especially a car this nice out of such a shit hole part of a small and clearly poverty stricken town.
Juan only briefly wonders what kind of ranking or status the owner of this ride must have in the community. Not only to have the balls to drive such a luxury, but to also leave it unlocked, there must be some sort of intimidation in order. It could easily be a cartel member, especially so close to the border. The thoughts are quickly pushed aside. It can’t be any worse than the shit storm he’s already caught up in. At least this car will move fast if need be. He’ll ditch it in a town farther south for something else.
With tightly balled fists Juan makes an effort to quickly rub the sleep from his glassed over pinched together eyes. God, he needs some energy. He reaches into his duffle bag, pulls out a half empty bottle of whiskey, and gulps down a few bubbles before throwing the car in drive and speeding away. There’s a distinct blur of headlights streaming together in the distance. Juan can only assume it’s a main road of some sort, hopefully a highway.
He’s able to get out of town undetected, and in luxury car. The headlights he had seen were in fact from a highway, and it now wound and twisted through a long sagebrush filled flat. The cars he passed were few and far between. As far as Juan could tell no one has been following him. He’s in the clear and not a soul in the world knows his location. He relit the half burned joint stashed behind his ear, and enjoys the taste of it, while he cruises farther and farther down some back highway of Mexico.
After a couple of hours drive the pull of his eyelids heavied to a nearly unbearable measure. Juan has no idea how close he is to any kind of a city to be able to find a cheap room. He also knows that if he doesn’t sleep soon then his body will completely shut down. He has to find a place to pull over. The comforting cradle of his leather seat is calling to him.
Juan watches closely for a place to pull off and rest. It didn’t take long to come upon a narrow winding dirt road. He takes the turn with caution. There are no headlights in sight – no one to see where he’s driving. As long as there are enough hills and trees to conceal the car then he could sleep for as long as he needs before moving on. Hell, he could even wait until the darkness of night consumed the sky again, before he has to go anywhere. It’s the best idea he’s had since he decided to take Santo’s money in the first place.
A sharp bend in the dull sandy road leads the car to an abrupt stop. It’s concealed by tall untouched desert shrubbery. Juan leans his seat back as far as it will go and lets the sleepiness of his eyes consume is entire body. He drifts off into a deep, much needed rest, with one hand reached over to keep a secure hold on the money filled bag on the passenger seat.
A sweet scented smoke fills Juan’s nostrils waking him. There’s a sharp pain in his arm just below the shoulder, and he’s unable to pull his eyes open fully. They squint and blur as he struggles to regain consciousness. Juan’s vision waves and swirls with streaks of smoke altering the clear blue sky above him. He opens his mouth to let out a painful moan. It’s caught in the back of his mouth and nothing comes out. Not a sound. A dry throat is closed up tight allowing nothing but air to pass through. Why can’t he talk, and what is the pain and smoke?
Juan tries to move his limbs and speak but an overbearing weight as heavy as bricks pulls his eyes back shut, and darkness again takes control of his mind. Juan’s body relaxes and he drifts into a strange place, it’s somewhere between wake and unconscious. Perhaps his body is in a state of shock from the loss of blood, or perhaps it’s from the potently brewed Navaho Hopi Tea that was forced down his throat. Most likely it’s a mixture of both that has Juan at the complete mercy of a stout elderly indigenous woman, that happens to be feeding a fire with stacks of cash.
The woman looks up suddenly, her burning violet eyes pierce into Juan’s. Wrinkly leathered skin covers a square face with beady eyes and large high prominent cheekbones. Her chubby and very wrinkled right hand holds out a plate. On that plate sits a few giant slabs of freshly cut bloody meat. The woman lets out a roll of laughter. The sound of her scratchy voice cackles loudly, breaking through the quiet of the day like the strike of lightning.
Juan again tries to sit up, only to realise that his body is tightly strapped down to a long flat board. Thick leather straps have him bound around the neck, waist, thighs, and an arm. But, only one arm. There is no need for his left arm to be tied. Juan wriggles around in his restraints. Panicked, he quickly comprehends that his arm is completely missing. In it’s place is a hefty dirt colored rag that’s caked with blood and alcohol. Juan tries to scream out in pain, but is unable to. A thick strip of tape holds his mouth shut, with a small gaging cloth shoved inside.
The sizzling sound of dripping fat falls onto the fire, from a makeshift grill sitting over it. Then again with the cackling laugh. The woman stares at her prey, ready to feast.