The shots keep coming, and Jack’s body is thrown on top of me, his one arm outstretched and firing until I hear the click-click-click of an empty chamber.
I might be screaming, but I can’t tell over the ringing of the gunshots and the pounding of my heart.
At once, Jack is back up, grabbing me by the back of my jacket and pulling me forward. I follow in a gangly mess of knees and arms, trying hard to keep up.
We make it across the room, and he shoves me into a booth. I cower down under the table, hand over ears, terror in my mouth.
Jack is hunched down in front of me. I watch him reload, then peer out around the booth. There’s a few more shots, but I can’t tell from where. It might’ve been Jack, but could’ve been anyone. Though it seems like hours, in reality, it’s over in less than a
