The Distant Legend
The rain hit the windshield in sheets. Thick. Cold. Marcus drove. His hands were locked at ten and two. Knuckles white. The wipers screamed. *Whap. Whap.* Like a heartbeat. Or a dying lung. He was sixty. He felt eighty. The car was a government sedan. Black. Unmarked. It smelled of wet wool and old coffee. The radio crackled. Static. Then a voice. Flat. Bored. *Unit 4, status.* "En route,"...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen