Bumpire (a-x)

Gordon leaned against the pitted trunk of an old pine tree as he caught his breath.  He wasn’t at a loss of air from running; he’d spent enough long years doing that to know how to breathe properly during a jog.  The wheezing came from the tension in his chest, the rapid heartbeat that picked up in tempo every hour closer he got to closing this case.  He’d been on some wild goose chases in his time, but apparently not enough, and none recent enough for him to have gotten used to how grating they were on his nerves.

         He pulled a pair of night-vision binoculars from a pouch on his belt, looking out into the night.  His target was an old farmhouse forty yards away, on the corner of two country roads whose asphalt had seen better days.  Questioning of the locals told him that the elderly couple who’d lived there had moved to a nursing home about four months ago, and nature wasted no time into making it look like it’d been abandoned for years.

“It” was in there; his gut was sure of it.  Neighbors had mentioned hearing or even seeing uncertain activity nearby, and one of the victims had been found just a half-mile up the road.  He had other methods as well, of course, and they only confirmed what mundane detective work already had.  He holstered his binoculars and unholstered his revolver in the same motion; he’d grown accustomed to hunting in the dark by necessary, and had heard too many stories of other investigators failures at the hands of over-reliance on technology.

In his business, it was better to be acquainted with the old ways.


{Going back to this and writing it chronologically now.}

{For integer values of x where 1 < x < a}


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