Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-35711173-20190427100713

This is a Draft 0 story. I've worked on it and revised it for a while, but I am not happy with it. I'm hoping that the reviews here will help take it to the next level so I can proudly post it to the Wiki.

I was driving back from the Easter Sunday gold mine. That's somewhere between Bisbee and Douglas, a few miles North of the Mexican border. I'm retired, but I still consult as a geological and mining engineer on the side. With the price of gold so high, a group of investors was considering buying the claim and re-opening the mine. They wanted me to see what shape it was in.

It had taken longer than I expected at the mine. Even Juan's muscles were tired after hauling the gear up the hill to the mine entrance. The shaft down was clear, but the adit was nearly caved in. Rachel had to squeeze between the rocks to get the samples, but that's why I had hired these kids. They were both mining engineering students from Arizona State University, and I always tried to give the next generation of engineers practical experience.

I should have just gone up Arizona route 80 to I 10 and driven back to Phoenix, but the sunset was beautiful as I drove along AZ 80, so I stupidly turned West onto a dirt road somewhere near Tombstone. I was looking for a nice place to stop and take a picture. Maybe five miles from the AZ 80, I saw a small plane land on the connecting North/South road. I saw them turn the plane around and when it took off, a big, white King Cab pick up truck with dark windows started heading in my direction.

Everyone here knows what comes off those airplanes that land in the middle of nowhere. Black tar heroin, cocaine, speed or even just marijuana, they all spell trouble. I turned the truck around and started back to the highway, but that road was one long washboard. I could only go so fast and keep control of my old truck. That fancy King Cab was kissing my bumper, and the driver was furiously pounding on the horn.

I looked at the rear-view mirror. Two angry men looked back. The passenger pointed to me and ran his finger across his throat. About halfway back to the main road, a herd of Javelina crossed right in front of me. Those piggies are built like bricks. You don't just damage your front end. You roll your truck when you hit one. Without even thinking about the truck behind me, I hit the brakes.

As I skidded to a stop, I felt their truck smash into my bumper. My airbag slammed into my face. I was stunned. Everything smelled like gunshots, and the truck cab was filled with talcum powder. Before I could even get my insurance information from the visor, my door was flung open. They ripped me out of my truck and threw me into the dirt. The two macho men loomed over me. One shouted: "You stopped too damn fast."

"I'm sorry," I said meekly. "I have insurance and towing."

"You are going to pay, little man."

"Everything will be paid. No deductible.  I promise."

"Oh, you will pay," the other said, kicking me and then ripping my cell phone from its holster and flung it off into the brush. "You will pay with your life."

While the second one watched, the first one went back to their truck and pulled out two samurai swords. He kept one and tossed a second to his partner. "Run, old man. Run to the hills.  When we catch you, we cut you to pieces."

I ran for my life, and as they herded me further and further away from everything that I thought might be able to save me. They herded me away from the road and up the hill, whooping and laughing behind me.

I had one chance, and it required me to run them to death. Those brawny mustachios saw me as just a skinny old man they could slice up for fun, but I am a vegan and run five miles a day.

The course got harder as I ran up the hill, but I knew gravity and exhaustion worked even more on their nacho and beer guts than skinny me. I also had a secret advantage, hiking shoes instead of their slick soled cowboy boots.

The further they slipped behind me, the more confident I felt. But then I got careless. I heard the hiss of a scared rattlesnake. When I looked down, I saw my foot going down on the back of a Mojave Green rattler. The poor snake replied the way snakes do. With the speed of lightning, he clamped his fangs deep into my leg. His mouth felt like a bear trap. Then he let go and slithered away.

That snake didn't wake up in the morning and decide to bite me. From his perspective, I was Godzilla destroying his Tokyo. Because he used up all his venom on my leg, he was probably going hungry tonight.

For the first time since I started running, I was terrified. Everyone knows Mojave Greens are the most venomous snakes in North America. I had nobody but myself to blame for letting my grandkids talk me into those fancy Gore-Tex boots instead of heavy buffalo hide armor, but that didn't make the pain any less or the venom any less deadly.

I knew that running was about the worst thing I could do on a snake bite and I was pushing that toxin all around my body. My calf was scalded, and I could feel my leg swelling in my boot. Giving up would be so easy, but I had a wife, children, and grandchildren. Pain or not, I had to keep running.

They were getting closer. I could hear their curses behind me. So close, I could see my truck, but it was getting harder and harder to breathe. We call drug runners mules and human smugglers coyotes, but I never saw a mule or even a coyote that was truly evil.

Closer, closer, and then finally I dove in, put the key in the ignition, turned it, and absolutely nothing happened. The truck wouldn't turn over. I knew the fuel pump shut off because of the accident, but I didn't have time to start poking around for the reset switch.

Out of time, I grabbed the old Arcus 94 pistol I kept under my seat. Made in Bulgaria and Bubba had spray painted it baby poop green, but I bought it dirt cheap, and it always went bang. The first Narco-Bandit to the truck was the one that had tossed me out earlier. He opened up that door again. You never saw such a look of surprise in your life when I swung that gun up and canceled his ticket.

The second stood outside the passenger side of the truck, shock in his eyes. I crawled out and leveled the heavy gun at him. I understood the look on his face, and I'm sure he saw the same look on mine. "Do I kill him or not?" With my last drop of Christian kindness, I said: "Drop it."

Instead of accepting my generous offer, he raised the sword, yelled and tried to hack me in two. That was a bad idea on his part. I emptied the gun into him, and he landed near my feet, gurgled and shook a couple of times and bled out. "Never bring a knife to a gun fight," I managed to say.

The drug runners had thrown away my phone. Half a dozen Buffalo Bore +P+ hollow points in each of them messed them up bad, but I rummaged on their bodies anyway until I found one. Fortunately, it was in a good Otter Box case because it was a bloody, sticky mess. The phone was set to only unlock with his thumbprint, but that thumb was conveniently available. I called 911. My pain was indescribable, and I was struggling to breathe. I passed out.

I came to in Copper Queen Community Hospital in Bisbee. The doctor told me I was lucky. There were two types of Mojave Greens, the deadly A type and a rare but milder B type. God is generous to fools like me. Thanks to that blessing, I even got to keep my leg.

Eventually, two cops came to the hospital and took my statement. They had found two million dollars in heroin in the drug runner's truck, almost enough to pay for my hospital bill. Unfortunately, I didn't get a dime of it. I can't even get my gun back until the police "complete the investigation," and they said that will take years. Shoot! 