British eyes were focussed on the Queen's Diamond Jubilee Flotilla on the Thames. People who had even the smallest amount of sense were remaining indoors to shelter from the driving summer rains, but the true 'patriots' were donning their rain ponchos and holding street parties to celebrate 60 years under Queen Elizabeth II. The rain did nothing to dampen the British spirits. Hundreds of barges and yachts sailed their way up the river from Canary Wharf up to Kew. The Queen, being one of the richest women on the planet, had her own elaborately decorated barge with gold lavishly laced over wood. I'm surprised the thing stayed afloat, it must have weighed a tonne!

Come early August, the eyes of three billion people will be fixed on Stratford to watch athletes from all corners of the world push themselves to the limit, in hope that it will be enough for a chunk of gold around their necks, and their national anthems played by an orchestra in front of 60000 spectators.

It was the day of the 100m final, and Usain Bolt was favourite to win. Sports commentators from all competing countries were preparing themselves for the fastest race on Earth. 10 seconds to describe the start, middle and end of a race for 8 people. I was sat dead level to the finish line, about 20 meters away, so I had an excellent view of everything that was meant to happen.
About 10 minutes after the athletes had paraded out onto the start line, a steward informed them to prepare themselves for the start of the race. The athletes moved to the starting blocks, their vision like tunnels, focussed only on the space in front of them. Although the stands were bustling with noise from the spectators, there was an ambience of calm before the gun-shot sliced through it, like a hot knife through butter, indicating the start of the race.
Bolt lived up to his name, leaving the blocks in an instant, immediately moving a good five meters in front of the rest of the pack.

Seconds later, the race ended, and Usain began his victory lap around the circuit. He had broken his world world record and had made history (this is getting fictional now), becoming the first person on Earth to officially run 100m in under 9.5 seconds. Considering this, I had to beat the approaching crowd from above me down to the side of the track to get some sort of memento, I can't remember what it was, given the circumstances that have happened to me since. It was probably some sort of signed photograph or t-shirt.
The cheering crowds were enough to awaken a corpse. Victor Bunting (fictional runner) came second, much to many's dismay, considering the trouble he had been in with the law concerning anabolic steroids in the previous weeks.
That is when I heard the explosion.

Emerging from the vast crowds of the Velodrome was a burly young man, wearing a baseball cap which was brandished with the Union Jack, tan shorts and a khaki jacket. A small device was inside his jacket pocket, slightly visible over the rim. His skin was pale and leathery like a cheap handbag. Slowly, he waded his way through the treacle-like sea of people, against the strong current of them who were rushing to the exit, to the side of the stadium. When he approached the wall, he propped himself against it and let a devious smile spread across his face. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the metal remote and entered a four-digit code. A flap opened and large, red button was revealed. His smile spread wider and he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and pressed the button.

A huge explosion rang out across the Olympic Park from the main stadium. The night sky was lit up in a fiery red hue as rubble cascaded down like an avalanche. A cacophony of coughing and spluttering is what followed, along with the desperate out cries of spectators.
To call myself lucky would be an understatement, I was among the people who were only slightly injured by the blast, so I clambered over the broken stools towards the crumbling emergency exit. The metal door frame was mangled and jagged shards of glass from the door's window stuck dangerously out, but this stopped no one from cutting themselves even more than they already were as they broke through to relative safety.

One thought pulsed fervently in my mind. Only one. It's the same word that flashes at the forefront of anyone's mind when they're in danger. Three letters; one desperate meaning.

Run.

Tourists are a pain in London but on that particular day it seemed even worse than ever. A large group of them strolled past me, making cars and even buses halt in their tracks as they crossed the road; the red man on the traffic lights stared at them. Slowly, I let out a sigh and pulled out a packet of Marlboro Blue from the pocket. The flame from my lighter flickered in the city breeze and singed the hairs on my fingers like a casual reminder that I shouldn't be using it. I was trying to give up but, the stress of recent events had wreaked havoc on my anxiety.

Oxford Street was heaving with foreign tourists, dipping in and out of the various souvenir stalls and big label stores. The Primark flagship store opposite the Palace Hotel on Marble Arch was always busy, even after the tourist season has ended. Its' cheap, low quality clothes attract even the lowest of the lowest class, looking for a printed tee made by an eight year old in a sweatshop in the darkest parts of India. I needed to buy a new shirt after what had happened last week, but since then, crowds made me feel immensely uncomfortable. You never know the history of the person standing next to you. Amongst the crowds spilling into the store with me was a fairly short woman, with blue hair and red streaks. She stood out like a sore thumb, despite her height. I was halfway up the escalator to the menswear, when I realised that the initial singe from the cigarette turned out to be a considerable burn. When I reached the top of the escalators, I diverted myself away from my original route to the clothes, and instead made my way to the customer service desk.
I asked if a first-aid kit was available at all and the woman behind the desk told me to come into a room behind it, where she took out a bandage and told me to run my finger under the tap next to her. I turned on the tap and left my entire hand under the flow for the start of the required 10 minutes.
It was at this point that the entirety of the shop floor fell silent, and a shot was fired from somewhere inside the store.

Screams, again, but less muffled, more 'in your face'.

More shots were fired, and several people came running into the room behind the counter, in hope for some relative safety. A woman who scarpered into the room was fumbling for the key to the lock, but that was all in vein. The woman with the red hair and blue streaks kicked the door down with all of her might and cocked the pistol in her hands.
After seeing this sort of situation countless numbers of times on TV shows, I figured it would be best to stay quiet and do that the captor says, if she makes demands. I gestured to the older man next to me to keep quiet. Other people did the same, but the supervisor who showed me into the room for the tap must have found this too much.

She started sobbing. She was dead.