They Ran - A Flash Fiction Short

They didn’t talk to each other. They moved quickly and quietly, winding through the suburban neighborhood just as the dark grey of dawn lightened into morning. One had a bloodied bandage wrapped around his forehead, where a richochet had cut deep when that guy in the suit had started shooting at everyone on I-5. They were lucky, a lot of people hadn’t gotten off the interstate yesterday but they had. All of the obvious ways out of the city were now jammed packed with cars and bodies, all trying to escape what was happening. And, today, those ways out were now death traps.


Yesterday had been a normal, boring day. Get up, kiss the family goodbye, head into the city for work. Both men were techies, using their computer skills in the city so they could raise their families a little bit out in the country. It made for rough commutes, but they kept each other entertained talking about movies and gaming and shooting the shit about politics and religion. They had been sitting at the bus stop talking about the latest Stephen King film adaption when they heard the squeal of tires and the screaming. It happened so fast, bodies pouring out of the lobby of one of the nearby hotels and out into the streets. They were heedless of the cars, which slammed into a number of people before the road became impassably snarled. The people didn’t notice or care, they just rushed out of the doors of the building and straight into whomever they saw. Pedestrians, drivers, didn’t matter. Within seconds the carnage was underway and the dying was starting. The two men saw this and did the only smart thing in such a situation, they ran. They ran hard. Weaving through stopped cars and confused motorists, they ran for all they were worth. Other ran with them, a flood of panicked commuters and office workers desperately fleeing the madness that was consuming everyone behind them.
They ran when the guy in the Maybach stepped out and started screaming and shooting at anyone who came near him. They ran as bullets zinged past them, as other runners fell screaming from suddenly bloody starbursts erupting from their bodies. They ran even as one of them stumbled, a sudden gash across his forehead sending blood cascading down his face. They didn’t stop running till they collapsed, dangerously breathless and muscles near failure, behind a dumpster at a boarded up Black Angus. They had tended their wounds, shared out what little food they had (left over lunch stuff from the day before, a couple snack bars, a bottle of Gatorade), and made plans for taking turns keeping watch as the other slept.
They pointedly did not talk about what they saw, neither were ready to try. Both tried their cell phones again, both consoled the other when they couldn’t reach their families. When sleep came, it had come fitfully and both woke looking haunted. In the morning light, the suburban neighborhood looked normal. You had to really look close to see that things were amiss, but once the details emerged you couldn’t unsee them. The bloody handprint on the otherwise pristine white paint of a front door. The expensive stroller left abandoned in a yard. The driver side door of a car idling in a driveway with a cold cup of coffee still sitting on the roof. The men looked at each other and quietly continued north. North was were their families were, and nothing was going to stop them getting to them. They didn’t talk to each other. They moved quickly and quietly into day two of whatever hell had engulfed the Puget sound.