chapter 4
571 Words
Chapter 4
The highway was nearly empty, swallowed by night.
A line of ten heavy trucks rolled through the darkness, their headlights carving pale tunnels through the dust-filled air. Each one carried a full load of harvested crops, tarpaulins pulled tight over the yield.
In the first truck, an old, broad-shouldered man tapped his fingers lazily against the steering wheel while country music hummed softly from the radio. His eyes were heavy but content. It was just another long haul.
Then he frowned.
Two black SUVs were ahead.
In his lane.
Driving straight toward him.
His relaxed expression shattered into panic. He slammed his foot onto the brake pedal, but the distance was too short, the speed too high. Instinct took over. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the side.
The truck swerved violently.
Metal screamed.
The massive vehicle tipped, then crashed onto its side with a deafening boom, sliding across the asphalt in a storm of sparks. Behind him, the other trucks screeched to a halt, horns blaring into the night.
The doors of the two SUVs flew open.
Men in black masks stepped out, dressed in dark tactical gear, rifles already raised. Without hesitation, they opened fire.
Gunshots tore through the stillness.
Windows shattered. Tires burst. Drivers who had jumped out in confusion dropped one by one under the hail of bullets. The old man in the first truck lay motionless inside his overturned cabin, blood pooling beneath him.
At the very back of the line, James stared in horror.
He was young — too young for something like this. His hands trembled on the steering wheel as flashes of gunfire lit up the road ahead. His heart slammed against his ribs.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
But the screams were.
James reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handgun, his fingers slick with sweat. He shoved open his truck door and jumped down onto the gravel shoulder, legs nearly buckling beneath him.
He ran.
Bullets whistled past him.
One of the masked men broke away from the others and gave chase, boots pounding against the road. More shots rang out, dirt kicking up around James’s feet.
He dove behind a cluster of thin roadside trees, gasping for breath. His hands shook as he raised the gun, barely remembering how to aim.
The masked man rounded the trees.
James fired.
The bullet struck the attacker in the arm. The man cried out and collapsed to his knees, dropping his rifle. Before James could react, one of the SUVs sped toward them, skidding to a stop beside the fallen man. Two others jumped out, dragging their wounded partner inside before the vehicle roared off again.
As it turned, its rear lights flared red.
James saw the license plate.
And froze.
Shock drained the air from his lungs. His eyes widened, recognition hitting him like another bullet. For a split second, he stood there, exposed, trembling.
Then survival took over.
He turned and ran into the darkness beyond the trees, swallowed by the night.
Back on the highway, the shooting stopped.
Moments later, more trucks arrived — larger ones. More men climbed down, moving with calm efficiency. They began transferring the crops from the fallen and abandoned trucks into their own vehicles, working quickly under the glow of portable lights.
Within minutes, the highway looked less like a m******e and more like a theft in progress.
- Writer
