Grey Territory -(1)-

He emerged from a side street onto the main road.  The street was charred black; the exhaust from passing cars was simply the ashes of past experiences being stirred up.  He walked down the sidewalk, a much lighter shade of gray than the death-black of the street.  The sky was dark and foreboding.  It was as if the deep blue sheet of night had been thrown over the dim, burning out light bulb which was the otherwise-bright sun.  The only substantial light was the periodic respite of the fluorescent lampposts, they cast their radii of light down on the pavement every so often.  In the solemn gloom, they cast an otherworldly, spooky glow.1

He turned into a still alley.  The dirty, pot marked brick buildings rose imposingly up over his head.  In front of him was the skeleton of what was once a bicycle.  It was probably originally a vibrant orange, yet it had rusted nearly all the way through and most of the paint had flaked off.  He kicked it to the side with a grunt and continued onwards.  He came into an open space, a parking lot for the restaurant up towards his left.  The neon blue of the restaurant sign, in bad repair, was flickering on and off.  He slowly walked towards the restaurant where he knew his long evening could finally come to a close.2

Somewhere in the distance, the rev of an engine.  He quickened his pace, but kept heading towards the restaurant.  Swinging around the corner, into view, was a car, all black, windows tinted, no license plate.  “No way!” he muttered.  Yet as the two figures, dressed in suits, stepped out of their car, he dashed into another alley, parallel to the one he had emerged from not too long ago.  This alley was lighter, for the buildings were much lower than before, he might still have a chance.  To his right, up ahead, there was a decrepit but still sturdy fire escape, its long ladder extended down to the ground.  He grabbed hold of the fire escape ladder and deftly climbed his way up.  Pulling up the ladder, he started up the rusted, old stairs.  As he turned onto the second stair, the two figures came hurtling around the corner and into the alley.3

“Where’d he go?” one of the men asked of the other.  His heart began to pound in his chest, yet he stayed still and silent, concealed in the shadow of the building.  “I guess we lost him,” said the other, raspy baritone voice, “let’s go.”  As they left the alley, he breathed a sigh of relief.4

“Wait a minute,” said one of the men, “I think I heard something.”  As his last hope of escape started to fade away, he made a mad dash up the fire escape’s remaining sets of steps.  “There he is!” came the voice, followed by the crack of a gun and the ricochet of a bullet, about an inch and a half from his head.  He climbed up over onto the roof just as a bullet meant for his chest skimmed his right leg.5

As the men, to no avail, tried to get up onto the roof, he slowly started limping across the roof of the building.  He knew that nearby was his one way out, the same way he got where he now was.  He would make it to the car, it wasn’t too far away.  As he crossed the roof of the building, the rain started to fall, gently at first and then into a steady, yet light rain.  He looked out across the town, at the cars driving by in the fresh rain, street lamps diffracted by the rain, casting eerie patterns out into the black of night.  And as the singular, relieved thought of peace crossed his mind, the blood from his leg was already swirling into the puddle of water at his feet.6