Yesterday's Gone: Season One by Sean Platt, David Wright Page A

coming from a mouthful of food. Fucker was probably chowing down on raw steaks.
    Charlie inched toward the soda display at the end of the aisle, his heart in his throat as he rounded the corner. His shaky hand clutched the hammer, as he considered the ways he might use it when needed. Swinging it would require getting in close, and if the other person — or persons — had a better weapon, he was screwed. He could throw it, but if he missed, he’d be empty-handed. And he’d be facing an angry attacker.
    He sat frozen and crouched at the end of the aisle, weighing his decision, and glancing toward the other end of the store to see if Bob was in sight. He wasn’t.
    Charlie heard the footsteps, now in full sprint toward him.
    He ducked down, and got ready to swing the hammer. As trouble ran toward him, he cried out, “Bob!”
    He stumbled back just as the figure in blue jeans and a black hoodie shot past him and darted toward the front doors.  
    Bob came running, crowbar in hand, and glanced down at Charlie who had fallen to the ground. The person had hopped into Bob’s truck.
    Bob raced from the store, yelling, “Hey, fucker!”
    Charlie followed, gripping his hammer. As Charlie pushed through the front door, Bob yanked the hoodie-wearing punk from the cab and threw him to the ground. He brought the crowbar up and swung. The guy rolled out of the way at the last second and knocked Bob’s legs out from under him. Bob fell to the ground.  
    The guy hopped up and raced across the parking lot. Charlie followed, driven by adrenaline, and a desire to do something good in Bob’s eyes by catching the bastard who tried to steal his truck.
    “Stop!” Charlie yelled, as he got closer, emboldened by both the hammer in his fist, and knowing Bob would surely be beside him in a moment and help him deal with the punk.
    Though Charlie couldn’t see anything beneath the hoodie, he could tell the guy was shorter and skinnier than him. So long as he didn’t have a gun — and Charlie didn’t see one — he figured he might have a chance to win a fight for once in his life.  
    Charlie was almost close enough to grab the guy. He considered throwing the hammer at the back of the guy’s head, but didn’t want to slow down as he was almost ... catching ... up.
    Just inches away, Charlie dropped the hammer, reached out with both hands and grabbed the hoodie, then yanked the guy back. They collided in a rough roll to the ground which lacerated Charlie’s arms and bruised his ribs and back, but he didn’t release his grip, and the two rolled until they’d come to a stop with the guy on top of Charlie. Only it wasn’t a guy, but rather, a young black girl, close to his age, with short curly hair and piercing , azure eyes.
    He let go immediately. She stood and their eyes locked in a tango of fear and survival. I’m not a threat, are you?
    Just then, Charlie heard Bob’s thundering footsteps, then looked up to see him running up behind the girl, screaming with the crowbar raised.
    “No!” Charlie screamed. The girl spun around just as the crowbar came down. It narrowly missed her head, but hit her hard in her right shoulder, sending her sprawling to the ground as she cried out.
    Bob immediately brought the crowbar up again and was about to take another, surely lethal swing, when Charlie leaped at Bob, pushing him back, and sending the crowbar back where it bounced off the ground with a hollow metal thud.
    “She’s just a kid!” Charlie yelled as Bob stumbled back, but didn’t fall.
    Bob’s bloodshot eyes were crazy, his nostrils flaring. He was out of breath.
    “She’s a kid, man. Relax,” Charlie gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.
    Bob’s eyes relaxed a bit and Charlie turned to the fallen girl, lying unconscious on the ground.
    “Did I kill her?” Bob asked.
    “I don’t think so,” Charlie said, leaning down to feel for a pulse.
    Charlie wasn’t sure whether or not Bob was disappointed.

    **

MARY