This week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.
Jacob crouched behind the phone booth, hands shaking as he fit another round into his rifle. He heard the tramp of boots on the pavement and the laughter. No one else walked here so carelessly.
Someone had plastered a sticker on the filthy plastic: “Old School Dirt.” Maybe it was a band before everything went to hell. He hadn’t seen an intact booth since he reached the once-proud New York City. If they found him, there wouldn’t be much left of this one. Or him.
Jacob breathed deeply, ready to lean out and shoot all the bastards he could hit.
photo: danny bowman