Priorities

 Banks by John 55555:

The police officer, Greg McDougal, stood in front of the bank, as he had so often these cold days. The light snow swirled around the hem of his long coat, and the wind bit at his face. Months ago a notorious bank robber, Ranch Lazorchak, had sworn that he would rob the vault of the gold and valuables it guarded. Ever since  that day the police had kept a twenty-four hour watch over the place, and so far they had encountered no trouble.

The guards priorities were simple ones. TO feed his family he must have a job, and the job best suited to him was that of the protector. As a protector his goals were equally simple; his own life was a lower priority than the life of any innocent, his gun and his body would prove this if necessary.

The gold in the vault was a priority too, but not one to die for. The life of a man is worth more than trinkets.

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Ranch Lazorchak sat in his Rolls Royce, his thoughts and his face wracked with hard thoughts. He had sworn that he would have the gold from that vault, and he was a man of his word. The bank had proved a more difficult proposition than he had anticipated. A policeman stood guard night and day, the vault was of a new type, the walls and windows were secure.

He looked down the hood of his car, gleaming black and tinged with a yellow shine under the streetlights, with new snow settling onto its surface. He still owed money on it, and despite escaping from his last hiest, the pickings had been slim and his coffers were becoming depleted.

He spoke to his wheelman. He would have his gold and keep his world, or die in the attempt.

 Drumbeats by Will Tolkien:

Dust scattered into the air as he entered through the doorway, breaking the silence that filled the burned-out shack and the fields beyond. The soles of his boots rasped on the wooden floor-planks, and he cursed. He had to be careful, and that meant silent. After all, They could be listening.

His gaze swept the dim interior, lit by the red rays of sunset slanting through cracked boards. The dust floated upward in clouds around him, sparking in the ruddy half-light as he moved forward, bending slightly. He had to be quick about this. It was a risky chance, and there wasn’t much time.

With careful steps, he made a circuit of the small shack, mentally noting its contents. A shelf to the right—layers of dust, otherwise empty. A twisted bed-frame against the far wall. A large wooden crate to the left. He tried the lid…padlocked. A table beside it. Papers scattered on it—mostly ash.

He stopped, closing his eyes for a moment, and wiped his brow. He was sweating, and his heart was pounding. The silence was heavy, and his ears strained for any noise outside. He willed his breathing to slow. He had done this before. Prioritize. You’ve got time.

A metal bar hung from his belt. He unclipped it and moved to the crate, twisting a tattered piece of cloth around the metal shaft. In the back of his mind he was calculating the time until sundown. The red shafts of light moved slowly up the wall before him as the sun went down. He would have to be precise. No mistakes.

The cloth-covered bar slid cleanly through the ring of the padlock. A quick wrench and a twist. He cringed as the rusted metal protested, then gave way. Almost soundless. He was good at this by now. The lid was off, and he rummaged inside.

Nothing. Rags and some empty containers. Nothing at all. He sighed again, resting against the side of the crate. Another wasted journey. He would bring nothing back tonight. Maybe the bedframe could be salvaged—it was good metal—but otherwise…The sun was almost down. It was time to go.

He stood, brushing dust from his trousers. Outside, the wind was beginning to pick up, and he could hear the dry whisper of the burnt grass that spread in all directions, forever. One more glance around the shack. It was a rare find. Still standing after all these years. It was a shame he hadn’t found anything. He clipped the bar to his belt again and turned to the door…

…but then he stopped, and turned back. Something had caught his eye.

There, in the bottom of the crate. He stooped and brushed away the rubbish and the clinging dust, then held it up to the fitful light.

It was a book. Much-frayed, and the leather cover was scorched, but otherwise intact. Pretty thick too. He stared at it, squinting. He couldn’t read the cover-page. Too dim in here, and it had been so long…

For a moment, he was uncertain. He knew what the others would say when he got back. It was a lot of paper. Good kindling. No time for sentimentality. This was life and death.

They were right, of course. A book wouldn’t keep you warm. A book wouldn’t keep you from being captured by the drum-beaters out there…Survival was the priority.

The priority…

No. Not this time. The book slid neatly into a pocket of his leather pack. He would bring back something after all.

A familiar sound came floating over the plains as he left the shack. The horizon was aflame with the dying sunlight, and the fields were black against it. The noise throbbed faintly in his ears. A rhythm. The beat of metallic drums. Machine-like. Unrelenting. Always searching...

They were far off tonight, seeking through the darkness. But he would take no chances. No more risks.

He slung his pack over one shoulder as he fled into the glowering night, away from the sound of the drums. The extra weight of the book tugged on his shoulder as he jogged on.

It felt good.