This is the next excerpt from my book The Lives of Dexter Peterson. Quite a bit further in than the first excerpt I posted, this glimpse follows Dexter as he works with the French resistance during World War II. It’s not the first time Dexter faced death, but it’s the first time he expected it might actually happen.
Dexter found himself buried beneath a pile of debris, his world spinning and head pound- ing. Part of him marked the passage of time, dimly, as his brain reset itself. He groaned and threw off a large chunk of wood to reveal that his leg had been broken. Once his vision clarified, Dexter looked to his left and saw that a hole had been blown neatly through the barn. The table still stood intact, coffeepot wobbling precariously. One of the teacups lay in two pieces beside him with a small quantity of the dark liquid still in the larger segment. He lamented never hav- ing the chance to actually drink any of it.
Suddenly, his pain receptors resumed operations and Dexter cried out loudly. Struggling to right himself, he grabbed onto what remained of the barn’s side and lifted himself up to a sit- ting position. Before he could gather the strength to rise on one foot the farmhouse teemed with soldiers in dark uniforms. Dexter’s rifle had been thrown clear in the blast, leaving him with only his pistol. As he reached for it, however, a young man stepped through the hole in the barn and leveled his rifle at him.
The Lives of Dexter Peterson v1.5, Pages 46-52 – 103.6k PDF
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