Southern Hospitality

Blood pounded in his ears as he ran. They were closing in, and very fast. His lungs burned, his legs were aching and he didn't know how much longer he could outrun them. A cry rang out in the darkness as a heavy pair of hands yanked on his jacket, slinging him backwards and into the brick siding of the local bakery.   

"What now, Yankee fag? You gonna do somethin', fucker?" his attacker spat as he closed in on the cowering man,a silver flash of the knife in his left hand an all too glaring reminder of the present danger.   

"Seriously Tom, I don't think this is a good idea or nothin'. You said we was only gonna scare him a little," came a small voice behind the hulking form of the pissed off man in front of him.   

"Shut up Randy! This fucker is gonna learn here and today that we don't put up with that high falutin' shit he been pullin." Tom said, stepping towards the man again, the knife glaring. 

A long, anguished scream pierced the night as the knife was brought down again and again.   

~*~*~  

Mark blinked slowly awake, hissing in pain as a soft light invaded his eyes. His body ached and the he couldn't move his limbs for the life of him. Mark forced himself to take shuddering breaths as he surveyed the area he was in. He was...where was he? There was a ceiling above him, with a single, flickering light bulb. He was lying on his back on an unfamiliar bed.   

"You're wake..." came a warm, deep voice from just to his left. "I was worried you wasn't gonna make it."   

Mark's head jerked to the left and he cried out in pain. He blinked as there was a cool rag being dragged over the skin over his neck. Mark's eyes raked over an unfamiliar man. He was tall, Mark could tell even with him sitting down. His broad shouldered form was riddled with strong muscles and his square jawed brown face was dusted with a thick black beard. His warm brown eyes looked Mark over.   

"Prolly wasn't a smart idea to do that. You can leave soon as you can move; I stitched ya up as best I could." he said.   

"..Who...?" Mark tried to speak. Damn his throat was dry. He sighed in relief when the male offered him a cool glass of water, helping him to sit up while he sipped it.  

"I found ya on the side of the bakery covered in blood. Whoever roughed you up did a quite the numba on ya. Ya had quite a few knife marks in ya." said the mysterious man.   

Mark's brow furrowed. "..Thank...you..." he said, eyeing the tall black man.   

The man looked surprised by that before nodding. "You're welcome, but you'd best get out of here soon as you're able. I got the feelin that whoever did this to ya won't like ya takin' up refuge with me."   

Mark frowned again. He knew exactly why that was, since moving from his home in Chicago to this rinky-dink town to take up his deceased grandfather's land and settle things, Mark was astounded by the mentality of the town. Racism was very much alive in well in Johnsonsborough, South Carolina. They followed the constitutional laws and whatnot, but it was very clear where the whites lived and where the blacks were. And even more disturbing was, the people here seemed to have a knack for ignoring violent crime. Disappearances of blacks or other "unwanted" individuals seemed to go uninvestigated by the town's sheriff. 

"You...saved me." Mark said, looking at the man again. "...I...owe you my...my life." he winced.   

A frown passed over the man's face now. "No, now, none of that." he said softly. "Just get better an' we ain't gonna have us no trouble, alright?"   

"...What's your name?" Mark asked after a while. The man looked surprised before frowning slightly. "I'm Jo." he said, eyeing the man warily. Mark could tell that even though the man had saved him, he didn't trust him.   

Mark looked at the man for a while longer before turning his head a little and closing his eyes. This wasn't over. Mark would find a way to repay this--Jo, for saving his life. One way or another.   

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A/N: This story is a repost. For some reason my old account got deleted so I'm reposting.