Putting the
concrete tower to the back of your mind you just keep running, but to
where? The idea that ol’ Joe is going to
do anything for you has more or less faded from your mind. Could you leave the country? Doubtful, especially on foot. There are some friends that would take you
in, right? Some of those guys were
always rebels; they wouldn’t mind harboring a fugitive for a while. What about that guy with all the guns and the
Confederate flags? He’d probably be fine
with it. Where does that guy live now,
anyway?
Forming your plans,
you fail to notice the police car coming around the bend of the country road
you are about to cross. By the time you
see the car you’ve nearly run into it, but it’s stopped and there’s a cop
standing next to it holding some kind of small black gun. You recognize the cop; he’s the one who saw
you before you ran into the woods. Craaaaaap.
“Don’t move,” he
says.
