Hunted – Creative Writing

It was a cold, wet, December night and Macauley Taylor was casually strolling down the long, dark, winding lane, on this way back from a tiring football practice. He could feel his legs aching as he walked, having been crudely taken out towards the end. He just wanted to get home. Suddenly, three men appeared out of nowhere, at the end of the road. Macauley recognised these three men. â€Å"This is bad,† he thought to himself as he tentatively stepped nearer to them. Relief. He had successfully waded his way past the little huddle the men had made, with all his bones intact. All of a sudden, there was a shout of, â€Å"Get him!† and Macauley had three huge figures gunning him down. He could smell their foul putrid breath behind him. He could taste the hate in the words billowing from their mouths. He was running as fast as his tender feet would carry him. A warehouse gradually came into view through the dank darkness. He ran towards it, making quick, unexpected changes in the direction he was going, hoping to shake one of his pursuers off. He did this successfully and, before long, had found an empty storage compartment and hid in there, hoping none of them had seen him. He heard the three of them walking around, shouting his name, telling him that if he came out now, it wouldn't be half as bad for him as it would be if they had to find him. He was praying they wouldn't find him, as he quite liked his legs how they were. With all the bones NOT BROKEN. He could tell they were moving further away from him, as their voices were getting more and more distant. He was wondering about maybe making an escape sooner, and risk getting caught, or later. He knew his mother would be getting extremely worried about him as he normally got home around an hour ago. He made his mind up. Get home. He moved soundlessly to the door of the compartment and moved his head around the door. Luckily, no one was close and he was able to slide out and find his way back onto the country road. He'd made it. Safety. Thanking his lucky stars, Macauley made his way up the road. *BANG* A gunshot hit the night sky like the crack of a whip. Macauley sank down his knees, not in pain, in pure shock. He could feel blood pouring down his back as if someone had poured a glass of water down the back of his top. His whole life flashed before his eyes like one of those old drive-in movies. He thought of the things he regretted; things that were said, things that weren't†¦ He wished his mum were there, just so he could tell her how much he loved her. Just once. He never showed her how much he meant to her. Swiftly, a bright, tunnel of light emerged in front of him. Standing at the entrance of the tunnel, was his Dad. The Dad: who had died a year before. The Dad: who Macauley had spent every night of the following six months crying for, begging him to come back, to not leave him. The Dad: who was Macauley's hero in every walk of life was now here. Standing right in front of him. He said to him, â€Å"Don't be scared, son, it's all all right now†. He cautiously tiptoed towards him, then ran, then sprinted in the direction of his idol. He reached the end of the tunnel, and with it, came the end of his life on Earth.