Sorry I saw your underbelly, tough guy…
The schklikt of a shotgun racking echoed just inside the flimsy manufactured home.
She cast around at the nearest, thickest bushes for coverage. But the thud-stomp of heavy boots on the porch changed her mind; a splintered hole in the latticed risers gaping by her hip was the only sane option. She launched herself through and into the dimness under the trailer, wincing as her shirt caught and jutting wood drew blood.
“They’s dagnab roosters up’n ‘ere nah?” A brown phlegm globber slapped the dust in sparkling Southern sun glory. April swallowed her rising bile. “Tarnation…dang farm…” Hinges whined and a screen door clapped, footsteps tramping back towards the center of the dwelling perched over April’s head.
She watched the ceiling and listened for activity behind the house. In the yard, a masculine baritone shifted to soprano baby talk, “What’s wrong, Titan? You want a juicy bone? Who wants a juicy bone?”
“Jeez Louise,” April muttered. “Some guard dog.”
A hollow tinkling sounded overhead, followed by a moan, then a toilet flushing. Urine swished through pipes all around her. Sweat dripped into the cut on her shoulder blade. She looked back, swatted a fly away from the swelling sore.
I gotta get out of here—
“Look. What in hell is this?”
April’s head snapped toward the voice. Two blue-jeaned calves ended in cowboy boots. Shit-kicker toe nudged the Boy Scout bag she’d abandoned.
The two legs were joined by four more.
“Somebody left it.”
Crickets whirred in waves of heat.
“Then ‘somebody’ is still close.”
This flash fiction is a part of the Blogging From A to Z (April 2015) Challenge. A new installment arrives every day in April, following the alphabet; check the calendar below to see which letters post on which days. Read more about this blogfest HERE.