Micro Noir

The air is cold and thick with fog, weighing with an assumed heaviness upon the lungs. Stifling. All around, the dull glow of the sodium arc lamps, their baleful orange light reflected off of the low, scudding clouds. Empty streets and side streets. Abandoned. Every sane inhabitant shunning the night--and bitter cold--in this city on the plains.

Behind me, the sound of well-soled bootheels upon the cobblestone path. I quicken my pace. But they draw ever nearer.

Now, in a dead run into a blind alley, my hand already inside my coat. The butt of the .38 therein sliding easily into my palm, almost eagerly. Back against the wall, legs spread. Hands clasped around the weapon, shaking and cold. My pursuer charges into the alley, a scant second behind.

A firm squeeze on the trigger followed by a sharp report, then another. Wait. Two shots?

My mind reels in confusion as I slump to the ground. Eyes fixed on my would be assailant's crumpled form, before glancing down to notice my now ruined shoulder. Damn... They got the other one last week.