Needles
He took a final swig of dirty water from a beaten up old plastic bottle. The sand blew against his matted beard. He tossed the bottle into the wind and lowered his neck to spit at his shoes. The horizon could be seen between two slightly different shades of dirt. He squinted through his goggles, keenly looking for any movement. Gripping his rifle with his good arm, he remained single-minded.
The storm had been battering the shack for two days now. The little wooden porch that framed this broken man had almost given way. He had grown used to the fatigue. He refused to betray any sign of weakness. He was alert, ready. He raised a glove to his face as a yawn welled up inside his throat. He tensed the muscles of his neck to suppress the latest occurrence of this biological function.
It wasn’t really a yawn, but he had to rationalise his deteriorating state in order to carry on living. Surviving.
A muscle spasmed. He gripped his face, winced. His neck locked. His jaw was clamped. The pain spread through his face like the poison of a viper. It persisted. It spread. It persisted. He lowered his hand and loosely gripped the side of the porch. Needles shot up his arm. The pain emanating from his damaged hand offered a welcome distraction. He dug deep.
They would be coming soon. He was sure of that. He was alert, ready.
This was his final stand.
A flash fiction short designed for hair tousling, tedium negating, mental edification. Please hit the heart to help others stumble across it.
