Winding Up

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Two people had gone down in the attack by that white dog-like thing which had driven the five of us deeper into the caves.

The wild barking had ceased and we used the reprieve to catch our breath. Slinging my backpack around and I reached in to get a bottle of water, pausing at the smell of something old and damp that I didn't recognize. Shoving stuff around, I came across a fist-sized bundle wrapped in leaves that clung to it like wet newspaper.

“What is that?” Debbie asked from over my shoulder.

“I don't know. I've never seen it before.” I plucked at the tip of a leaf and peeled it back. It dangled from my fingers like a used condom. I shook it off and it hit the ground with a wet splat.

Yuck.

“Check yours too.” I said, not wanting to be alone in this weirdness.

Debbie rummaged through her bag but found nothing out of the ordinary. "Nope. You know if anyone else sees that, they'll blame you for the attack."

Our guide called over to us, "Come here, we're redistributing the weight in our packs."

Crap.


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Author's prompt text:

Write a thriller using a tour guide and planted evidence

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