Unfinished

She knew they were close. She could hear them all around her whenever she stopped to catch her breath. They would rush through the corn stalks, making soft rustling noises, the stalks whispering to her where they were. She was so close, just had to get to the other side of the field, then up the embankment to the freeway. Certainly they wouldn’t kill her right at the edge. No, she was sure of this, there would be too many witnesses. They would take her in the field, where only the ears of corn could listen and only the crows could watch. They would track her down, and shoot her, leaving her disarranged body in the thousands of neat, countless rows to rot away, only to be discovered come harvest time.
         It was time to run again. She could hear them catching up, dimly over the pounding of her own heart, jack hammering against her ribcage, it as eager to escape her chest as she was to escape this maze of corn, the long tall stalks beginning to look like bars. She thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye, a shadow, and she darted through the rows to her right, the corn leaves whipping her arms and face, cutting and scratching, her sweat dripping down her face, stinging in her wounds. Her foot caught in a rut or perhaps a hole and she fell, twisting her ankle. She stifled a cry; not wanting o let her pursuers know where she was. Painfully, she got back up and started to limp as fast as she could. She heard the sounds of rushing traffic faintly and she pushed herself harder, tears of frustration running down her face only to mingle with her sweat. Just a bit further and she would be safe. She would tell the whole world about the horrors of the compound, about it lurking in the jungles of South America, luring in its prey. The sound of traffic was getting louder. So close. She heard a cough like sound and her right hip exploded in pain, sending her flying to the ground. She touched it with her hand and pulled it away, her eyes growing large as she saw blood, her blood, staining her hand. She looked behind her as she heard the rustle of stalks and saw a man emerge from the rows, a long barreled pistol in his hand. He was joined by one, and then another man, all of them dressed in tan, almost golden brown, clothes, perfect camouflage for a corn field in the fall, had the high cornstalks themselves not already provided ample cover. She looked at the three men, all of their faces hard, cold eyes staring back, assessing, calculating. She looked down at her hip and saw most of it was spread out along the row behind her. She looked back up at the three men and found that the man who had come last was pointing a very large pistol at her. She knew what would happen next. She raised her hand in front of her, a feeble attempt to stop her inevitable fate. Blood dripped from her shaking hand, staining the soil.
         She looked the man in the eyes
         “Wai-!”
         A flock of crows took to the air and wielded above the field long after the echoes of the shot had died away and been lost in the rush of traffic a mere hundred yards away. The crows finally settled down for the fresh meal.