Whew! She wrinkled her nose; fresh was relative that far into the twisted back roads. If you could call them roads. She eased her sneakers onto the pitted dirt, appreciative of encroaching kudzu camouflage. She didn’t need to see the collection of rotting log cabins, tin shacks, and parked RV’s to know where she was. Yeast crowded oxygen, making room only for the sharp tang of methane burning—it was enough to tell her she’d arrived at moonshine central. She had always wondered about the notorious Finley (a name synonymous with “just look the other way” in Shirley County) encampment. Her interest was piqued, but not as high as her fear.
That fat man had a gun and didn’t even bother to hide it. She shook her head at the irony. How did her sniveling dork of a brother even know those people? Whatever, let’s do this.
She crept to the front of the nearest building, unable to resist investigating the backyard several hundred feet beyond. Huge copper carafes sat over blue flame, with dented, soldered tubes running to steel-banded barrels. A pimpled tweenage boy patrolled, rifle slung over his back.
April eased her burden off her shoulders and set it in the dirt. She thumbed through screens, a bead of sweat dripping onto her brother’s phone, before she finally found the alarm clock app. She set it to “Rooster Wake-up,” then slid it into the front pocket. Every tendon coiled, she stood and turned to make her escape in an elaborate robot breakdance.
Her chuckle caught in her throat.
The Rottweiler’s mouth seeped fluid, but his eyes were trained on her.
This flash fiction is a part of the Blogging From A to Z (April 2015) Challenge. A new installment arrives every day in April, following the alphabet; check the calendar below to see which letters post on which days. Read more about this blogfest HERE.