The Hunted Man (Drama)

Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2008

The Hunted Man

I’d taken refuge from the storm under an overhanging canvas tarp. The sign painted on the window of the now dark shop read, Valini’s. I silently wished that the store were open so I could buy an umbrella, and cursed my own umbrella which hung on a hook by the front door of my apartment. My hair and clothes were soaked and dripped heavily onto the rain soaked sidewalk beneath me; evidence of the tempest that raged mere feet away. 

The storm didn’t appear to be letting up in the slightest. If anything the sounds of raindrops thrashing the night around me seemed to be getting louder. A coin operated newspaper vending machine stood near the door of the shop and it struck me that I could use a newspaper to keep the rain out of my eyes. I reached into my pocket and found several coins, one of them larger than the others, a quarter. As I drew the money out of my pants pocket I felt the unmistakable sense that I was being watched. I reluctantly turned to see a massive figure standing motionless under the street lamp on the corner opposite my own. His wide rimmed hat cast deep shadows over his face, making him unrecognizable. The storm overhead unleashed torrents of rain down upon the stranger. Large drops of water danced on his trench coat, creating a halo effect immediately around his person. My blood ran cold as I stared at the forbidding man.

In my anxiety, I felt my fingers slacken and the quarter fell from my hand, and I heard the crisp ring of metal on concrete above the tumult of the storm. To my horror I saw the man take a deliberate step toward me, his foot sinking ankle deep in a curbside puddle without taking notice of it. His full attention on me alone. I recoiled into the newspaper stand, and he was half way across the street before I gained sense enough to move my leaden feet. I staggered backward into the rain soaked streets, every step sent up a spray, soaking my pant legs. Seeing through the sheets of rain was impossible, and I shielded my hand over my eyes and ran. Looking backward over my shoulder I inadvertently stepped off the sidewalk and fell headlong into the gutter with a splash. Sputtering and choking, I blinked water out of my eyes in time to see that the hulking man was less than 10 feet away and closing the distance. I sprang to my feet and sprinted to the end of the block. Upon reaching the corner I turned to see that the man, who had without running, stayed close behind me, and in my hesitation had again closed the gap.

I rounded the corner and ran another block before I stopped to look back and saw that he was again within 15 feet of me, his large hands clenched into fists like small boulders. His silhouetted figure drove through the downpour like a freight train through fog. What the man wanted with me, I did not know. For what reason he relentlessly pursued me, I couldn’t fathom. And so, in preservation of my life, I ran. All the while my mind raced with thoughts of what earthly thing I might have done to cause this man to hunt me with such tenacity. The cold in me ran fathoms deep, into the very marrow of my bones. My breath came in ragged gasps, my muscles began to weaken, and still my pursuer with unrelenting energy bore down on me.

By some miracle, I saw through the driving rain, that I was within 100 yards of my apartment, my salvation. And so with the last vestiges of strength and with shoes weighed down with grief and fatigue, I trudged on. As I reached the top step I thrust a shriveled and near-frozen hand into my sodden clothing and produced a key and drove it into the lock. Then my muscles seized with terror as I heard a splash on the steps directly behind me. A large hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. The voice that rumbled from the shadow of the hat said, “I’ve been waiting to give you this.”

I saw a flash of silver, and with a lighting thrust he handed me the quarter I’d dropped.

A little history:

I enjoy a good joke, and this isn't one of them. This is what I lovingly refer to as a "groaner". When you get to the end it only takes a moment for you to 'get it', and let out a groan. My hope in writing this story was to build to the height of anxiety, and then drop the bomb. I love that! It makes me laugh when people groan and roll their eyes. Maybe one day, I'll throw everyone who knows me a curve ball and write a serious story, with a dramatic ending, but for now, the groaner. Enjoy!