As Isaac Shepherd and Dionne Robinson must track down a murderer trapped with them in a building isolated by a raging storm, the final story of the The Norfolk Murders is being crafted. Please take a moment and enjoy this exclusive preview of the upcoming final adventure, The Norfolk Murderer!
Under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1971, this is a fully copyrighted and protected work by law. Copyright is owned by and all rights are reserved to Nathanael Miller. No part may be reproduced in whole or part without my written permission. Facebook and Twitter links to this story may be shared; but the work itself and all characters are my intellectual property and may not be shared or reproduced except with written permission. All characters and events are fictitious.
The Norfolk Murder
(A Short Navy Murder Mystery)
by Nathanael Miller
He was dying.
The blood was spurting from the wound in his neck with every beat of his fading heart. The damage done by the bullet had torn his throat apart; breathing was a choking mass of sundered tissue flapping back and forth as he gagged for air. But…but it was the blood being eject from his prostrate body that was deciding his fate.
He was dying.
There was nothing for it. He was going to be dead in a very few minutes, and he could…not…stop…it.
It was not supposed to end this way. Not at all.
He had plans. He had goals and dreams. He had a good jog lined up…actually, several good jobs lined up. He was finally going to have the freedom to stop scrimping and save money, travel, live like he had wanted to for years. So many years of work were about to pay off.
Yet it was all being taken away from him with every unstoppable beat of his soon-to-be-stopped heart.
He was too weak to even feel anger or horror now. His brain was already getting foggy as its oxygen levels dropped with his blood volume. Even the sadness as fading away slowly as he felt an increasingly acute sense of cold envelope him; an icy feeling of chill creeping inwards from his wounded extremities. Made sense, he supposed. Bleeding out like this mean his body had no mechanism to transfer heat within itself anymore.
His face was wet and sticky; he could feel his own blood creeping through his hair where the side of his face lay on the floor. A wave of nausea hit him as the blood loss made him dizzy. He stirred a bit, but he didn’t have the strength to wretch.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to be the one dying. He wasn’t supposed to be the one defeated. The story was supposed to end with him bringing justice down on the villain who had stalked his nightmares for months now.
Instead he was dying. He had lost, and lost big.
He managed to turn his head and glare up at his adversary.
His vision was blurring and darkening. The form of his enemy stood quietly, watching. He tried to talk, tried to at least curse the man hovering, ghoulishly enjoying his death. He tried, but the bullet had done its work too well; his throat was a mass of quiveringly jellied flesh fully incapable of performing its proper functions ever again. All he could do was gurgle out a spittle-filled cough.
Flecks of blood landed around the enemy’s shoes. Maddeningly, no blood landed on the shoes. He was to be denied even that petty bit of satisfaction.
“Funny thing,” The enemy said from three feet and two hundred miles away. “You never even knew it, you never saw it coming. For all your clever ideas, you never saw where it actually came from.”
The gun in the enemy’s hand was cold. He knew…he knew alight. The shot that tore out his throat had not come from in front of him. He had blindly fallen into the trap…a trap he should have foreseen. After all, he was the clever, smart one everyone always talked about!
A shudder wracked his fading body. His frame started to struggle for air, but there was no blood to transport it even if he could take a clear breath. His vision was fogging out quickly now.
His enemy leaned down and looked closely at him.
“I’m tired of you. Go on to hell.”
It was just not supposed to have ended this way!