working on stories not involved in any of my classes when i have stories due that I'mnot writing
The first shot hit the rear left tire of the Land Rover. The sound of the tire exploding covered up the sound of the gunfire. The tire flattened and dropped the rover on its rim, everyone in the vehicle looked behind them, as one jumped out to assess the damage. The tracker, walking out in front of them, turned and stopped to watch as well. Another poacher got off the rover to help lift a jack normally used to lift basements and mine shafts, and in their case, dead elephants. The tracker, about fifty yards away on foot, stood facing the rover. His back was to Steve, and as the next bullet ripped through his neck from back to front, it had been timed just right so it only made the sound of the two hundred bound metal jack hitting the ground so many yards away. His comrades didn’t even see him drop. But the driver soon noticed their tracker was no where to be seen. Perhaps he had apparently not seen them stop and kept walking. So he told the Somali riding shotgun to run ahead and catch up with him. As he ran ahead, and as his friends watched or helped raise their vehicle and change the tire, they had no reason to watch the man running ahead. They had no idea. The tracker lay twisted, head barely attatched and lacking anything resembleing a neck, as his friend approached him. Steve waited as the man bent down in confusion, kneeling below the tall grass. A third bullet caught this poacher in the fore head, and alerted the two poachers not occupied with changing the tire. The driver and remaining non-occupied passenger armed themselves and ran down the path.
In the vast expanses of the African plains, with little topography or features to bounce off of, sounds appear to come from everywhere. These two ran ahead anticipating another cash kill, but unsure as to why they only heard a single shot. As they approached the two dead bodies, they noticed that after another gunshot that the sound of the jack straining to lift the rover, and their comrades voices had stopped. They turned to look and couldn’t see their friend who was operating the jack. He’d been shot in the back. He fell on the pile of heart, lungs and ribs that blew out his chest and collapsed below the tall grass where his friends couldn’t see him above the chest high foliage.
While standing there, confused and scratching their heads and pointing in opposite directions in argument, a bullet entered the driver’s chest and spread the contents of his respiratory system explosively out of his back onto the last remaining poacher’s face and clothes. At this point the sole survivor got a sudden feeling that something was wrong, and dropped to the ground instinctively. Battle crawling away so as to try and hide below the grass, and hopefully out of sight, he wormed back towards the rover. Some bullet fragments imbedded in the mans thy, he stopped crawling for a second to wipe his friends blood and flesh from his eye sockets. From his rocky elevated perch Steve had such an angle that the Somali might as well have stood back up and at least have been able to run at full speed. Crawling, slowly, Steve shot him in the knee. The blow out almost ripped his lower leg off. Steve got back into his jeep, and he and Joseph, his driver, drove to the wriggling poacher’s side. Joseph got out, tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to the vultures circling from miles above. Vultures can smell carrion from twenty miles away. If the hunted hunter was lucky he’d die from a hyena, big cat or wild dog actually killing him, or blood loss. If not, the vultures were perfectly capable of making him wade and splash in a river of pain and torture…before drowning in it.
In the vast expanses of the African plains, with little topography or features to bounce off of, sounds appear to come from everywhere. These two ran ahead anticipating another cash kill, but unsure as to why they only heard a single shot. As they approached the two dead bodies, they noticed that after another gunshot that the sound of the jack straining to lift the rover, and their comrades voices had stopped. They turned to look and couldn’t see their friend who was operating the jack. He’d been shot in the back. He fell on the pile of heart, lungs and ribs that blew out his chest and collapsed below the tall grass where his friends couldn’t see him above the chest high foliage.
While standing there, confused and scratching their heads and pointing in opposite directions in argument, a bullet entered the driver’s chest and spread the contents of his respiratory system explosively out of his back onto the last remaining poacher’s face and clothes. At this point the sole survivor got a sudden feeling that something was wrong, and dropped to the ground instinctively. Battle crawling away so as to try and hide below the grass, and hopefully out of sight, he wormed back towards the rover. Some bullet fragments imbedded in the mans thy, he stopped crawling for a second to wipe his friends blood and flesh from his eye sockets. From his rocky elevated perch Steve had such an angle that the Somali might as well have stood back up and at least have been able to run at full speed. Crawling, slowly, Steve shot him in the knee. The blow out almost ripped his lower leg off. Steve got back into his jeep, and he and Joseph, his driver, drove to the wriggling poacher’s side. Joseph got out, tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to the vultures circling from miles above. Vultures can smell carrion from twenty miles away. If the hunted hunter was lucky he’d die from a hyena, big cat or wild dog actually killing him, or blood loss. If not, the vultures were perfectly capable of making him wade and splash in a river of pain and torture…before drowning in it.