Sometimes these Flash Fiction stories become something I like to keep going. Last time, we left Uncle Plasma riding atop a truck where the two occupants are up to something. Here is the initial Uncle Plasma story. Here is Part 2. I want to encourage other creative writers to experiment with this Flash Fiction method.
Uncle Plasma, obscured by the bent light around him, rides the top of the truck, noting the location carefully. He sees that the truck seems to be taking a serpentine route through a neighborhood.
He thinks out loud, “Interesting route to be taking at this time of night, any number of people can see the truck this way, but not taking a direct way means they could be trying to lose a tail.”
He checks backwards to see if there is anyone following, and it doesn’t appear so. The truck slows down quickly and makes a hard left turn under a bridge with low clearance and Plasma ducks just in time.
“That could have been very bad.” He remarks to himself.
The truck then slows down and takes a slow, deliberate right down a poorly lit industrial alley. Plasma sees dumpsters, scurrying rats, broken windows, strewn trash, and no doubt, illegally dumped construction materials as he lies on the top of the truck box, peering over the right side. On the left, is a fence, with the other side being an embankment to the river, below. Now he knows where he is.
All the way to the end of the alley the Truck parks at the dead end, where there is a warehouse roll-up door. To the left, there is a gangway between the building and the fence.
The driver and the young passenger jump out. There is no pretense of unloading the truck. They go straight up the concrete steps to the man door at the right of the roll-up door. The driver fumbles through his pockets for the key, and the young driver turns around to check behind them.
“I hope we didn’t get followed.” He says, as he seems to look directly up to where Uncle Plasma is observing them.
“Is that a weird looking light above the truck? What is that?” He says to the driver.
The driver turns to see. “It’s just a reflection from the streetlight.” He says. “Run to the back of the truck and see if there’s a sign of anyone behind the truck. Leave the bag here, be stealthy about it.”
The kid drops the bag and slowly sneaks between the truck and the fence. The driver finally gets the door open, and pulls out a portable lantern. “Hurry up!” He whispers loudly.
The young guy sprints back to the door telling the driver that the coast is clear. They go into the building. Uncle Plasma descends from the truck. From the corner of the building, he can see that there are windows along the gangway. He knows that if he tries to look in, the slight glow of the wave form will give him away. He deplasmifies.
Unable to see much, he very carefully hunches down below the window and raises his eyes to see inside. The window next to him is cracked open, so he can hear the two inside. The lantern flashlight is on a desk, discreetly illuminating the event. The driver dumps the bag out onto the desk, it’s full of cash.
“No no no no!” the driver shouts, “There’s a tracking pod! Crap!”
“I can throw it into the river!” says the kid. He grabs the pod and runs to the window. Plasma ducks and tries to get around the corner, he watches from there. “I can’t get it over the trees!” the kid says, as he runs back to the desk. Plasma returns to his previous position under the window.
“It doesn’t matter, that thing will sink, and they know this is my spot, and they’ll put it together, they’ll know.”
“What are we gonna do?” the kid says, anxiously.
The driver looks around the room with the lantern, he finds an empty plastic drinking bottle. He places the pod inside the bottle and explains.
“We’ go to the roof, we’ll throw this thing over the trees into the river, it will float away, that will keep us in the clear, how’s your arm, can you do it?”
“For sure.” Says the kid.
Pete plasmifies and levitates to the roof, once again obscuring himself with a wave form. He waits near a streetlight where he’ll blend in.
The two guys emerge from the roof hatch and accomplish their task, the bottle is thrown into the river, and they leave through the hatch. Pete descends to the river and scoops up the bottle, then levitates back to the gangway, where he carefully remembers the license plate number as the dudes make their departure, each carrying bags. The driver tosses the original bag between the trees, down the embankment.
Pete fully pulls open the window to the warehouse, gets himself up high enough, deplasmifies and tumbles inside. With the moon now above the trees, providing just enough light, he takes a look around to see what the place is about. It’s mostly abandoned, but it looks like a poker spot. There’s a table and chairs, with empty cans and full ashtrays, with a card deck.
He sees a sandwich vending machine. “How can I resist that?” He mutters as though he’s disgusted with himself. He gets a frightening roast beef and cheese sandwich and goes over to the desk, placing the pod on the desk in front of him. He pulls a packet of mayonnaise out of his trench coat and squeezes it onto the sandwich.
Two men burst into the room to see Pete sitting there with his sandwich in his mouth.
Pete holds up the tracking pod between his thumb and finger. “You looking for this?”
The End918 Words
