He thought his recurring nightmare was just stress—until he heard the gravel crunch fifty stories above the city streets.
Writer’s Prompt
The rooftop wind tore at Mike Carson’s collar, smelling of rain and distant exhaust. Fifty stories below, the midnight traffic of the city blurred into streaks of red and white. Through the binoculars, the curb remained vacant—no armored town car, no sign of Sam Fiest. The audio receiver strapped to Mike’s chest hissed softly, broadcasting only dead air from the bugs he’d slipped into Fiest’s penthouse office two hours prior.
Then gravel crunched behind him.
Mike froze. The sound wasn’t the wind or a stray pigeon. It was the deliberate, heavy drag of work boots on loose roof aggregate.
He didn’t turn around immediately. His heart slammed against his ribs, a violent rhythm that dragged him straight back into the sheets he’d woken up drenching three times this week. It’s just paranoia, he told himself. A night watchman.
Slowly, Mike lowered the binoculars and pivoted.
Two silhouettes stood beneath the skeletal shadow of the water tower, blocking the access door. The taller one rolled his shoulders, a wooden Louisville Slugger resting easy against his bicep. The shorter one hauled a heavy steel folding chair, its legs scraping against the concrete coping with a shriek that turned Mike’s blood to ice.
“Nightmare come to life, Carson,” the one with the bat murmured, stepping into the wash of the red aviation beacon.
Mike backed up. His heel caught air.
He glanced down; fifty stories of absolute nothingness yawned behind his shoulder blades. In front of him, two hundred pounds of muscle closed the distance, lifting the bat. Behind him, the void. Mike slipped his hand inside his jacket, fingers brushing the grip of his snub-nosed revolver, while his balance tipped toward the edge.
What happens next? Does Mike draw, leap, or fight his way through? Finish the story in the comments.
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