Blueberry Garden

Baltimore, Maryland, 2011

The man bolted out of the parking lot across one street and onto another street. He looked over his shoulder to see if his pursuer was closing in on him. The night set in. The evening rush hour had subsided, and the pedestrian traffic had slowed. He ran for his life, hearing gunshots in close proximity to his body being discharged by his pursuer. The pursuer, close behind the runner, aimed his semiautomatic handgun in the air and fired several more times, missing his target on every round. The runner ran one block off of the street into a small open bay of vehicles. He twisted his ankle on a curb and ran to the far east corner of the garage, scurrying behind cars to seek cover behind a cement wall. His fear rejected the pain.

The pursuer entered the area and lost sight of the runner around the parked cars. Cars filled the garage, and it appeared to be empty. Fearful that someone would enter, the pursuer put his gun in his rear waistband and covered it with his shirt. The runner pinned his back against the wall. He breathed slowly and didn’t move, trying not to give away his location.

The pursuer turned around to survey the all the vehicles to see if the runner would jump out and flee again. The runner saw the pursuer with his back turned, and without hesitation, he knelt down to take cover behind a Toyota Camry, making a slight noise when his shoulder hit the rear bumper. The pursuer spun around in an instant, slowly removed the gun from his rear waistband, aimed it at forty-five-degree angle toward the ground, and walked tactically in the direction of the sound.

The runner felt the pursuer’s presence approaching by the second. He thought about making a break for it, but where would he go? He balled his fists and closed his eyes in a moment of desperation and then reopened them. He envisioned two funeral home laymen lowering his casket into the ground, his loved ones looking on with sadness. From his chin, a drop of sweat splattered the pavement.

Tears dripped down his cheeks, face frantic. There was nothing he could do. The pursuer was less than ten seconds away. I accept my fate, the runner thought. He looked up, and in a flash he saw the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol two inches away from his forehead. The pursuer, with a look of humble satisfaction, began to squeeze the trigger.

Without warning, one shot rang out, striking the pursuer in the neck. Like a heavy military duffel bag, he dropped dead. The gun flung from his hand, hitting the ground. Surprised to see he was still alive, the runner’s heart thumped harder than a bass drum. Will I survive? Or will this be an agonizing death? He felt his body to ensure he hadn’t been struck. He eased his head around the right bumper to see two hands clutching the pistol grip of a handgun. He dipped his head back around the bumper for cover. The petrified soul saw the glimpse of another violent episode about to commence. Again, he felt the footsteps of death advancing in his direction.