Shot in the Night

"You always get the double bacon," the woman said with a soft smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a flickering pink hue over the chipped counter and cracked linoleum floor. Inside the burger joint, the air smelled like grease and late-night stories—quiet now except for the soft drone of a country song leaking from a dusty jukebox.

"Habit," the man replied, his fingers wrapped around a plastic cup filled with flat cola. "Some things stick."

She leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. "Habit, or comfort?"

"Both," he said. "Long drive home. Burger helps me feel grounded."

Outside, the night was ink-black, the kind of darkness only the country could offer—thick, weighty, and absolute. No moon tonight. Just stars overhead, and the long road that led out past the city’s edge to the quiet hills where he lived.

The woman—he didn't catch her name, and maybe that was for the best—tilted her head. "You're not worried about driving that far this late?"

He shrugged. "Not much out there to worry about. Just trees and time."

They said their goodbyes at the door. She walked to her car with a quick glance over her shoulder, and he stood for a moment under the glowing burger sign, hands in his coat pockets, before heading to his old sedan.

He drove for forty minutes, watching the stars shift overhead. The road narrowed, the streetlights vanished, and the dark felt like it was pressing in from all sides. He turned down a dirt road that curled through the trees, almost home.

Then the engine sputtered.

He glanced down at the gas gauge and cursed. He'd meant to fill up earlier, but the station near the highway had been closed. The needle hovered below empty.

The car coasted to a stop. Silence.

He stepped out, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots oddly loud. No cell reception—he checked twice. The trees around him were still, and the only sound was the distant chirp of night insects.

A faint light glowed in the distance, past a row of trees. A house. He grabbed his jacket from the backseat and started walking.

The house was older, slumped against the dark like a relic from another time. Its windows were dark, but a porch light glimmered above a creaking step. He hesitated, hand hovering over the railing, then walked up and knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. The door creaked open.

A man stood in the shadows, holding a shotgun.

"Can I help you?" the voice was low, clipped.

He raised both hands slowly. "Hey, I just ran out of gas down the road. I don't have cell service. Thought maybe I could use your phone."

The man didn’t respond. Just stared.

"I don’t mean any trouble," he added. "I just want to call someone."

Still silence.

Then, without warning, a loud crack shattered the quiet. The man staggered backward—something hot bloomed in his side.

He fell to the ground, wind knocked from his lungs, staring up at the porch light blinking in and out like a dying star.

Footsteps. Heavy. The man with the gun stood over him now.

"You shouldn’t have come here," he said.

And then—everything went dark.

He gasped for air, pain searing through him like a fire that refused to die. His vision blurred as the cold earth pressed against his cheek, the rough texture of the gravel biting into his skin. His mouth tasted of metal, his lungs screaming for oxygen that wouldn’t come.

The porch light above flickered again, casting an eerie glow over everything. His hand instinctively reached for his side, the heat of blood slick against his fingers. It wasn’t just pain now; it was a deep, bone-rattling numbness, as if his body was already preparing to let go.

Footsteps drew nearer—heavy, purposeful. The man with the gun stood above him, his silhouette sharp against the dim light.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” the man said, his voice low, almost... disappointed.

He tried to speak, but his throat was thick, choked with the sudden rush of panic that clawed at him. He managed a weak groan, struggling to hold on to consciousness.

The man’s boots scraped the ground as he shifted, bending down to examine him with cold eyes. The gun was still in his grip, and the barrel gleamed in the low light. He took a long, deliberate breath, as if he were savoring the moment.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the man asked, his tone almost conversational.

The question hit him like a slap. He tried to focus, to form words, but all he could manage was another gurgled breath. The blood was still flowing, warm and thick against his clothes, and he could feel it soaking through his jacket.

“You were stupid, coming out here alone,” the man continued, as if narrating his own twisted thoughts. “But that’s fine. People make mistakes. They get curious. They poke around where they shouldn’t.”

The man stood up, pacing slowly. The gun was still pointed in his direction, but the muzzle wasn’t as threatening now. It was more like a lingering promise of further harm.

“Do you want to know why I shot you?” the man asked, stopping and turning back to face him.

His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like a drum in the silence of the night. He couldn’t respond. His limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move, and his eyes were beginning to flutter shut.

“Because people like you are a problem,” the man said, as if the answer was obvious. “You don’t understand what happens out here. You don’t respect it. You come poking your nose into things you don’t understand.”

The words were fading in and out, like the flickering of the porch light. His breath was shallow, his body weakening by the second. The darkness around him felt like it was closing in, suffocating him.

The man looked down at him one last time, a flicker of something dark—satisfaction, maybe—passing over his features. “You’re not the first one. And you won’t be the last.”

Then, without another word, the man turned and walked away, his footsteps receding into the distance. The world felt farther away now, slipping from his grasp.

And then it was quiet. The only sound was the distant chirp of the insects and the faint rustling of the trees.

The man’s footsteps faded into the night, leaving only the stifling silence in their wake. His breath grew ragged as he fought to stay conscious. The burning pain in his side felt like it was pulling him into the earth, but he refused to give in. Not like this.

He had to survive.

His fingers twitched weakly at his side, the blood now thick and slow beneath his grip. The sharp sting of pain had dulled into a cold, gnawing numbness, but there was still enough clarity in his mind to realize he couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t lie on this ground, bleeding out.

His eyes flickered to the horizon, where the dim lights of another house glimmered faintly in the distance. He tried to focus on it, his vision swimming in and out, but he forced his body to move. Every inch was a battle—a fight between his mind and his body, which was growing heavier with each passing second.

With a strained grunt, he managed to roll over, pressing his palms into the dirt. His legs felt like dead weight, but he fought to stand. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground again, gasping for air.

No, he thought, dragging his hand through the gravel. I have to make it. I have to survive.

The world was spinning, but his resolve wasn’t. Slowly, he crawled, dragging himself inch by inch toward the light. It felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, but every movement took everything he had. His blood left a trail behind him, staining the earth, but he pushed forward.

When he finally reached the road, he collapsed again, the asphalt cool against his burning skin. His vision was blurred, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, but the house—the faint glow of life—was close now. It was all he needed to keep going.

His head lolled to the side as he raised his hand weakly. It felt like a Herculean effort just to move his arm. He tried to call out, but only a whisper escaped his lips.

“Help…” he barely managed to croak, his voice rough and hoarse.

The house he was headed toward looked abandoned at first glance, but he noticed a dim light flickering through a window. He couldn’t stop now.

A car passed in the distance, its headlights cutting through the blackness, but it didn’t slow down. The silence of the night mocked him, as if the world was moving on without him, indifferent to his struggle. He reached for his phone, but there was no signal. Of course, no signal—he’d been in the middle of nowhere.

A few steps away, the porch light of the second house flickered as the door creaked open.

He looked up, vision clouded, and saw a figure—a woman. Her face was hazy at first, and he couldn’t make out her features, but her presence was unmistakable. She stared at him, her eyes wide with confusion, then shock, and finally concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked, rushing toward him.

He could barely hear her words over the buzzing in his ears, but the warmth of her voice cut through the fog. She reached him, kneeling beside him as he collapsed against her. His body shook with the effort it took to breathe.

“I—ran out of gas. I… need help.” His voice cracked as the words tumbled out.

She gasped as she saw the blood soaking through his jacket, the deep red stain spreading quickly. Her hands were frantic as she fumbled for her phone. “You need an ambulance. Stay with me.”

He nodded weakly, trying to stay awake, trying to stay alive. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and the overwhelming wave of exhaustion was threatening to drag him under.

She pressed a hand to his shoulder, her voice shaking. “I’m calling for help. Hold on, okay? Please hold on.”

He didn’t know if he could. His body felt as though it was already slipping away, but the image of the man with the gun haunted him. The man who’d just shot him, who’d threatened his life for no reason at all. He couldn’t let it end like this.

I will survive this.

His hand moved slowly, finding her wrist, his fingers brushing her skin as he squeezed gently. He wasn’t sure if it was his body or his mind that was failing him, but he clung to the feeling of her presence, the warmth of someone willing to help him when no one else would.

The woman was speaking into her phone, and he heard her say, “There’s a man here, shot… yes, the address is… please, hurry.”

The words echoed in his brain, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to close his eyes. The darkness tried to pull him in again, but he fought it—this time, with everything he had.

His vision blurred again, and for a moment, he thought he might lose consciousness. The dark abyss at the edge of his mind beckoned, but something—someone—pulled him back.

“Stay with me,” the woman’s voice was steady, despite the urgency that laced it. Her hand was warm on his arm, a solid anchor in the chaos of his fading thoughts. “You’re not alone. Help is on the way. Just stay with me.”

Her words were like lifelines, pulling him from the edge of oblivion, but it was getting harder to hold on. The blood was still flowing, sluggish but steady, and each breath felt like it was costing him more. The world swam in and out of focus, and he couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began.

“Stay awake,” she repeated, her voice now close to his ear, as if she could reach inside his mind and force him to listen. “I need you to stay awake. Just a little longer.”

His eyes fluttered open. The porch light above still flickered, casting the only light in the blackness around them. He could feel her hand pressing down on his side, trying to stop the bleeding, but it wasn’t enough. She was doing her best—he could feel it in the urgency of her touch—but there was nothing she could do about the deep, relentless wound.

A faint sound broke through the stillness—distant sirens. He wasn’t sure if it was real or just a dream, but it didn’t matter. It was the hope he needed to hear.

“You hear that?” she asked, a note of relief creeping into her voice. “They’re coming. Hold on, okay? Help’s almost here.”

He tried to nod, but his head felt too heavy, too detached from his body. The pressure in his side was intense, a constant reminder of his fragility. But he didn’t want to die. He couldn’t. Not after everything. Not like this.

His fingers twitched, and he grasped her wrist once more, weakly, but it was the only thing he could do to prove he was still there.

The sirens grew louder, closer now, and he felt a rush of something—relief, perhaps, or maybe the last of his willpower fighting through the fog. He clung to the sound like a man adrift at sea reaching for a lifeboat.

The woman kept talking to him, her voice soft but insistent. “You’re gonna be okay,” she whispered, though he could hear the tremor in her voice. “Just stay awake. I’m right here. Don’t go anywhere.”

But his body was fighting him. His eyelids grew heavy, and no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on her voice, he could feel the darkness pulling him under.

Then—voices. Footsteps. The rush of activity.

“They’re here,” the woman said, almost breathless with relief. “Help’s here.”

A paramedic knelt beside him, his voice calm and professional, but he could hear the urgency in the man’s tone. “We’re gonna get you fixed up, alright? Stay with us.”

The woman moved back, allowing the paramedics to work, but her hand lingered on his arm, a final tether. He didn’t know what he would have done without her, without her steady presence. She had kept him alive when he didn’t think he could keep fighting.

His vision swam again, and this time, there was no stopping it. The darkness closed in, but he wasn’t afraid anymore. He had made it. He had survived.

As the paramedics worked to stabilize him, as they loaded him into the ambulance, he could hear the woman’s voice one last time, faint but clear.

“You’re going to be alright,” she said. “You’re going to make it.”

And then, the world went black.

When he woke again, it was to the soft beep of a heart monitor and the sterile scent of antiseptic. His head was pounding, and his body ached in ways he hadn’t imagined possible. But he was alive. He was alive.

A nurse was standing nearby, and when she noticed his eyes flutter open, she gave him a soft smile. “Welcome back. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The memory of the shooting hit him like a tidal wave, but the details were hazy—like a nightmare that was slowly slipping away with the dawn.

“Where…?” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed, wincing from the effort.

“You’re in the hospital,” the nurse said gently. “You’ve been stable for a while now. You’re lucky you made it out alive.”

Lucky. The word stung in a way that made him want to turn away from it. There was nothing lucky about what had happened to him. But at least he had made it. At least he had a chance to tell the story, to survive.

And then, there was the woman.

“Is… is she here?” he asked weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The nurse’s face softened, but she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re referring to, sir.”

His heart sank. The woman who had helped him, the one who had kept him awake when he thought he would fade into darkness—had she disappeared into the night like a figment of his imagination?

He couldn’t be sure. But one thing was certain: He had survived. He had escaped the danger, and somehow, someone had made sure he didn’t die alone.

As he lay there, waiting for the next wave of answers, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever learn the truth about the man who shot him—and the woman who saved him.

But for now, he was alive. And that, in itself, was enough.