Man With Knife- Part 1

I just had the sudden urge to write this piece. I want to continue it, but I'm unsure how, even though I really like the beginning. Anyway, let me know what you think!

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As Officer Roxton turned his Crown Vic down the rutted and weedy monstrosity that passed for Tamarind lane, he was forced to slow the car to a crawl as roiling fog seemed to seep out of the ground and surround him. He cursed under his breath whoever had made the call that sent him down this miserable lane. The only information Sherry the operator had received was that the farm owner’s dogs had gone berserk and he was convinced that an intruder was coming to ax-murder his entire family. Of course the entire county had been jumpy since last...

Roxton shook his head like a wet dog, trying to shoo away those thoughts. Probably just some bored kids, messing around with the guy, he told himself firmly. Something in the fog caught his eye. The shape, reduced by the fog to a smudge in the distance, slowly gained definition, the wisps of gray fleeing the twin beams of the car’s headlights pointed their way.

It was revealed to be a man, doing something to a telephone pole. Roxton squinted his eyes, and realized that he was hacking at it with a knife. Nervously, Roxton slipped his hand down to his hip holster, checking that his gun was their.

He brought the car to a stop next to the strange man, who continued hewing out a gash in the wooden pole. Roxton sat silently for a moment, taking stock of the man. Ratty blue sweatpants that had been cut off just above the knee so poorly that Roxton suspected the man had used his knife to saw off the offending pieces of fabric. His shirt, on the other hand, was a white dress shirt with mud-stained tails hanging down over the sweatpants. No shoes, and long hand tied in a greasy ponytail, Officer Roxton decided the man was probably crazy, possibly homeless. The two went together less often than one would think.

The telephone pole and probably-crazy-possibly-homeless man were to the right of his car, so Officer Roxton opened his door and leaned over the roof of the car, ready to jump back in and gun it if things got too hot for him to handle (let it be known that Alexander Roxton hailed from Alaska, and had never experienced a summer over 80 degrees until he moved to Kentucky for college, and an unpleasant atmospheric surprise).

“Excuse me, sir,” he said.

The man continued hacking at the telephone pole.

“Excuse me, sir, that’s government property you’re defacing,” Roxton shouted, much louder. He moved a hand to his gun. “I’m going to have to ask you to drop the knife and put your hands on your head.”

The knife-wielding man froze. Roxton tightened his grip on the gun. The man dropped his knife to the ground, then quickly followed it in a spectacular imitation of a wooden board. The thump caused Roxton to jump a little, but he quickly hurried around the car, gun at the ready. But the man was still lying on the ground, a few feet away from the knife, not moving save for a few shudders that wracked his body, accompanied by a gasping, choking noise. After a second, Roxton realized the man was crying.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and walked for slowly, saying, “Sir, I am putting you under arrest for disorderly conduct and the defacement of county property. You have the right to remain silent.”

Mindlessly he went through the litany that he recited to those he arrested when he had the chance, all the while grabbing the man’s unresisting arms and handcuffing them together.

“Okay, now you’re going to have to get up,” Roxton said, grabbing under the man’s left arm and pulling him up. To his relief, the man complied and did not put up a struggle.

Roxton made a small choking noise in his throat.

With a rueful smile on his tear- and bloodstained face, the man glanced down at his shirt front, which was encrusted with old blood, dried brown and crusty, and newer blood whose ominous red drew Roxton’s gaze in the streetlight. “Don’t worry,” he assured Roxton, “It’s all mine.”