His eyes darted to the left. He had three seconds to get between one car and the next. He stared at the space between the red Peugeot that he was now crouched behind and the broad black Jeep that was a parked a couple of spaces away. Large, wide vehicle. Gives me a few more seconds to think behind it. If he wanted to make it, he had to run for it – now!
He leapt forward, his legs springing behind him, and fell to his knees behind the black Jeep. A shot ricocheted against the ground and the tyre of the sheet hissed as it began to deflate. Hold steady, Jim, he told himself. There was a crackling from in front of him and the radio of the Jeep came on. An automated voice, echoing out into the street, hit Jim's ears, "You are getting slow."
He let out an involuntary yelp at this and launched himself behind the next car, only one space away. Another shot scraped the heel of his shoe and he pulled his foot back underneath him, ducking behind the green Volvo. You fool! he reprimanded himself, Sneering jibes intended to stimulate an emotional reaction – oldest trick, deadliest mistake. He looked ahead – there was a break in the pavement where the zebra crossing lay, leading into another road. Beyond that, there were was one car, parked quite a way down. No good, he thought, too far in the same direction without cover. He looked around. No letterboxes or parking meters to duck behind either. One hope, he concluded. He would have to turn the corner. He couldn't see round it but there was a chance that there would be either a car to hide behind or a doorway to leap into. Two more shots rang out, one smashing the window of the Volvo, the other hitting the bonnet and causing an explosion at the front, the heat from which Jim could feel singeing his hairline. He darted round the corner, pulling into a luckily placed doorway and spreading his arms each side of the posts to keep his balance. As he did so, he felt a tightness in his chest, a surging of hormones to his brain. What is this? he asked himself as he gasped for breath, What the hell am I feeling?
Panic. He was experiencing blind panic. Distracting himself, he peered out to check the side of the street. A bullet shot past him, scratching his forehead. He ducked back in. From his brief glance, he had only seen one car. One car, and that's it? He could try for it – he'd be turning his back directly on his attacker, giving him the perfect target – but if he got behind the car, he would be safe for a while longer. He could think, he could gather his nerve and he could retaliate. One chance. He had to do it.
He counted to three. One, two – he shot off, racing towards the car, his feet barely touching the ground. As his hand hit the bonnet, a searing pain entered the back of his right shoulder. He'd been hit. He fell to the ground, vainly clasping at his wound, his arm straining to reach it. You're useless! You've lost! You're just useless!
He lay, panting, and, for the first time in his life, he felt sorry for himself. In a moment, he propped himself up on his left arm and, slowly, raised himself to his feet. He turned directly around and began walking straight ahead of him. There's no point in running now. As he limped ahead, he stopped at a tall building on the other side of the street, pushed through the double doors and into the empty shop. He found the stairs and began to plod up them until he reached the roof. As he pushed open the door and felt the rush of cold wind sweep past him, the figure of a thin, yet muscular, man, wearing a trooper jacket, and wielding a rifle, filled his view. He walked up to him and held out his hand. "Alright, Seb, you win," he said and the man handed the rifle over. Jim counted in his head, One, two, three, and his hand shot out, striking the already fleeing man on the chest, "Tag," he cried, "You're it!"