PREVIEW: Guilty
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Daniel I Weaver's short story "Guilty" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Daniel I Weaver. |
Wood splintered off the piano beside me. Strings twanged. I lunged at the door, hit
the handle, and rolled into cool autumn darkness as three bullets plunked into the
wall. Springing to my feet, I ran.
I reached for my car door and froze. I couldn’t take the car. Yeah, I’d just bought it a
month ago, but if Clayton had found me already, he probably knew about it. I bolted
for the woods.
A stolen glance over my shoulder showed Clayton hobbling out the rear door. How
had that preacher suckered me into a church service? Maybe I’d just been alone so
long that I wanted to belong somewhere. Or maybe something about his words had
softened my edge. Whatever the explanation, it had almost earned me a bullet.
As I wove through wooded blackness, my heart thumped, my body tingled, and my
mind raced with jittery possibilities. Clayton hadn’t gotten that close in almost a
year. Three months I’d been in town without so much as a hint he’d found my trail. I
thought I’d finally lost him there in the Pennsylvania mountains.
“You can’t hide from me, Francis!” Clayton’s voice echoed into the forest.
I plowed through stooped branches and fumbled around trees to distance myself. His
bum knee gave me the advantage in a footrace, but would it matter? Even if I hid
until the police arrived, he would pop up again after his release. Worse, he might
employ his bounty hunter façade and recreate last year’s Colorado debacle—
convincing the authorities I was a desperate criminal on the run. If I’d learned
anything from Clayton, I’d learned that a man bent on vengeance knows no bounds.
A root snagged my foot and threw me forward. Pine needles tore into my hands and a
rock smacked my knee. The impact sent fire through my body and the breath from my
lungs.
“Francis! Murderer! You killed my, baby, Francis! You killed my Gabby. You can’t run
forever!”
The rustling forest reduced Clayton’s voice to an auditory tremor. Motionless, I
listened. Where were the sirens? Surely, someone had called the police by now. And
where were Clayton’s footfalls pursuing me through the crunchy undergrowth? My
heaving breath rattled in my ears. A half-dozen gunshots tore through the night,
zipping through the trees, thunking off trunks and pelting rocks. I sucked in a breath,
pushed off the ground, and launched forward.
Clayton shouted again. “Not this time, Francis! It ends tonight!”
Another gunshot. Then something new: barking—frantic and enraged. Dogs? He’d
brought dogs? I don’t know if I moved any faster, but the branches smacked me
harder, I stumbled more often, and my legs quickly rubberized. I couldn’t outrun
dogs. Not even with a head start. I needed a place to hide.
Moonlight splayed through thinner overhead foliage. Traces of a building rose from
the darkness ahead. The barking echoed ever closer. Another root snagged at my
shoes, but I slammed into a sticky pine trunk to keep afoot. Pain stabbed through my
hand as I pushed away and darted toward the growing silhouette. The wetness on my
hand could have been sap, blood, or a mixture of both, but it didn’t matter. I had to
find shelter.
Fire spread up from my rubbery legs into my lungs until my breath came in gasps and
wheezes, but nearing the forest’s edge, I pushed harder. Moonlight slid down the
silhouette’s exterior—a dilapidated three-story house of hanging boards, missing
shingles, and sagging rooflines buried beneath an ivy mountain. Decrepit or not, if it
had a door, it could keep the dogs at bay and buy me time to catch my breath and
think. I staggered to the top of a gentle knoll, then stopped.
Brazier House.
I’d been in Crest Peak less than two months and heard from at least three dozen
people, Stay away from Brazier House. Bad things happen there. Weird things.
the handle, and rolled into cool autumn darkness as three bullets plunked into the
wall. Springing to my feet, I ran.
I reached for my car door and froze. I couldn’t take the car. Yeah, I’d just bought it a
month ago, but if Clayton had found me already, he probably knew about it. I bolted
for the woods.
A stolen glance over my shoulder showed Clayton hobbling out the rear door. How
had that preacher suckered me into a church service? Maybe I’d just been alone so
long that I wanted to belong somewhere. Or maybe something about his words had
softened my edge. Whatever the explanation, it had almost earned me a bullet.
As I wove through wooded blackness, my heart thumped, my body tingled, and my
mind raced with jittery possibilities. Clayton hadn’t gotten that close in almost a
year. Three months I’d been in town without so much as a hint he’d found my trail. I
thought I’d finally lost him there in the Pennsylvania mountains.
“You can’t hide from me, Francis!” Clayton’s voice echoed into the forest.
I plowed through stooped branches and fumbled around trees to distance myself. His
bum knee gave me the advantage in a footrace, but would it matter? Even if I hid
until the police arrived, he would pop up again after his release. Worse, he might
employ his bounty hunter façade and recreate last year’s Colorado debacle—
convincing the authorities I was a desperate criminal on the run. If I’d learned
anything from Clayton, I’d learned that a man bent on vengeance knows no bounds.
A root snagged my foot and threw me forward. Pine needles tore into my hands and a
rock smacked my knee. The impact sent fire through my body and the breath from my
lungs.
“Francis! Murderer! You killed my, baby, Francis! You killed my Gabby. You can’t run
forever!”
The rustling forest reduced Clayton’s voice to an auditory tremor. Motionless, I
listened. Where were the sirens? Surely, someone had called the police by now. And
where were Clayton’s footfalls pursuing me through the crunchy undergrowth? My
heaving breath rattled in my ears. A half-dozen gunshots tore through the night,
zipping through the trees, thunking off trunks and pelting rocks. I sucked in a breath,
pushed off the ground, and launched forward.
Clayton shouted again. “Not this time, Francis! It ends tonight!”
Another gunshot. Then something new: barking—frantic and enraged. Dogs? He’d
brought dogs? I don’t know if I moved any faster, but the branches smacked me
harder, I stumbled more often, and my legs quickly rubberized. I couldn’t outrun
dogs. Not even with a head start. I needed a place to hide.
Moonlight splayed through thinner overhead foliage. Traces of a building rose from
the darkness ahead. The barking echoed ever closer. Another root snagged at my
shoes, but I slammed into a sticky pine trunk to keep afoot. Pain stabbed through my
hand as I pushed away and darted toward the growing silhouette. The wetness on my
hand could have been sap, blood, or a mixture of both, but it didn’t matter. I had to
find shelter.
Fire spread up from my rubbery legs into my lungs until my breath came in gasps and
wheezes, but nearing the forest’s edge, I pushed harder. Moonlight slid down the
silhouette’s exterior—a dilapidated three-story house of hanging boards, missing
shingles, and sagging rooflines buried beneath an ivy mountain. Decrepit or not, if it
had a door, it could keep the dogs at bay and buy me time to catch my breath and
think. I staggered to the top of a gentle knoll, then stopped.
Brazier House.
I’d been in Crest Peak less than two months and heard from at least three dozen
people, Stay away from Brazier House. Bad things happen there. Weird things.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
GUNFIRE INTERRUPTED A HYMN at the Crest Peak Missionary
Alliance Church and I dove to my knees. Clayton Philips’ voice
shouting “Where are you, Francis?” thundered up from the back
of the church. I’d been so careful this time, double-checked
everything. How had he found me hiding in a church of all
places?
I scrambled toward the emergency exit beside the piano. The
pianist slid off her bench and met my gaze with wide eyes. With
the church’s dozen other attendees screaming and ducking for
cover, I had precious few moments to reach that door.
Alliance Church and I dove to my knees. Clayton Philips’ voice
shouting “Where are you, Francis?” thundered up from the back
of the church. I’d been so careful this time, double-checked
everything. How had he found me hiding in a church of all
places?
I scrambled toward the emergency exit beside the piano. The
pianist slid off her bench and met my gaze with wide eyes. With
the church’s dozen other attendees screaming and ducking for
cover, I had precious few moments to reach that door.
