Beginnings - Stiff Winds

The night was black and tasted of rain. The wind whipped, in fierce whining gusts, along the muddy banks of the Torras river, tossing the rushing currents of water into a frenzy of swirling white-caps which crashed against the treeline, washing away the wet earth, undercutting roots, eroding the bank’s fragile barriers.

The bare light bulbs hanging from frayed and twisted single strand wire, strung loosely across the aging cinderblock bridge flickered on and off in a peculiar arrhythmic frequency, as if an unattended child were playing with the switch. Dimming suddenly, they paused, emitting a sickly yellow glow, before disappearing entirely, throwing the bridge into complete darkness.

The willow and birch trees lining the river’s edge fought valiantly against the squall, swinging their branches wildly, bending and weaving like punch drunk heavy weights. They cut and slashed at the torrent’s oppressive hands, battling to maintain the ranks.

A tall slumping figure huddled, with his back against the wind, in amongst the trees, approximately fifteen feet from the water’s edge. He was dressed for wet weather, wearing calf high gray rubber wadding boots and black plastic slicker pants with matching hooded jacket, which shrouded his head and the two weeks growth on his face.

Nervous fingers fumbled with the yellow BIC lighter and the package of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. Securing a single cigarette from the foil container, the dark form pressed the package back into a pants pocket, steadied himself against rogue gusts of wind and then bent forward slightly. Cupping his hands up into the hood, he protected the solitary flame as it began to lick at the white paper wrapper.

Taking a slow drag on the Camel, he straightened and adjusted his stance to ease the strain of stiffness in his legs. It wouldn’t be long now. The darkness and the ever increasing growl from the storm would provide affective cover. He pushed the jacket sleeve up and off his wrist, checking the time.

The trees began to glow as the headlights from a late model sedan pierced and illuminated the darkness, slowly guiding the car around a sloping bend along the gravel road which dropped gradually toward the dilapidated bridge and the dark figure’s position.

He flipped the cigarette towards the river, slowly dropped to a crouch and slid a hand into the jacket. The touch of the cold steel of the pistol sent a shutter down his spine. They had insisted that he use a gun, this gun.