Station Breaker

23 Impulse Control

We lock eyes and then something strange happens. The man's grim expression flashes in an instant to a smile. "David!" he says, pronouncing it a little more like "Da-veed," than "Da-vid."

If he'd met me with the smile a second ago I'd think this was Capricorn's man, or Capricorn himself. Instead, he waited too long. He checked to see if I was alone and realized that even though the stadium is almost empty, the two of us stand out up here.

He starts to walk down the stairs towards me, holding up a friendly finger, telling me to give him a second.

I freeze, not because I believe him, but because I have no idea what else I should do.

His backpack slips from his shoulders and he makes an "oops" face as he kneels down to pick it up.

Your misdirection needs some serious work, pal.

I hazard a guess this is his attempt to draw a gun on me, so I don't wait to find out.

To live a long life as a pilot, sometimes you have to just go with your impulse and do the thing logic tells you is a horrible idea.

I grab the railing and leap over.

I do not look down.

I do not aim.

I don't hang there like some kitten in a motivational poster.

I jump into the fucking air over the edge.

It's a twelve foot drop to hard concrete.

I should have hung over the edge like that goddamn kitten.

BAM!!! My feet hit the ground so hard the echo reverberates across the stadium.

I'd like to thank my parachute instructor for teaching me how to not break my ankles on a hard landing. But, HOLY SHIT this hurts.

I bend into the fall and my ass touches my heels.

As painful as that was, the upside is the noise attracted everyone's attention.

I bounce back up into the air like a Whack-A-Mole that refuses to be whacked.

I don't stop to see if Workman is following me. I race towards the next set of steps and start leaping down half a floor at a time, using the railing to keep me from falling on my ass when I lose my balance.

I've attracted a bit of attention as people are starting to watch from the lower sections.

Who the hell is this maniac that just jumped an entire level and is now running towards the field?

A security guard in a yellow vest starts to jog towards the end of the row I'm leapfrogging down. He's obviously concerned that I'm about to do something stupid on the field.

And he's right.

BANG!!! I watch as the corner of a blue seat to my left disintegrates.

Workman is probably on the rail with a gun aimed at me.

On a gut impulse, I flatten myself on the steps.

BANG!!! A seat five feet away gets a hole punched straight through it.

He's behind me, firing at an angle. That means if I lay flat he can't shoot me until he changes position.

The trick is knowing when he's about to give up his sniper position to run to a new firing spot.

I watch the security guard, who for some mysterious reason, has had a sudden change of heart about trying to intercept me.

He's standing on the field, cowering a little and watching the section above me. His head moves to the right as he tracks something.

Workman is on the move.

I jet out of my cower into a slightly less-cowardly jog that probably only makes my spine that much more easy of a target.

I take row after row of steps in great leaps and get a flash of inspiration to try to jack-rabbit it by not moving in a straight line.

BANG!!! A seat shatters fifteen feet in front of me. Workman doesn't have his gun rest yet and is firing from the hip.

I reach the last row before the field and do a dive over the barrier.

BANG!!! I hear the hit of the bullet right behind me.

Referees are blowing their whistles and the announcer is somehow yelling even more excitedly into the microphone, telling the players to clear the field.

Which I guess is the smart thing to do, but doesn't really help me out all that much.

Not that I would ever use some poor kid as a human shield — sure I'll kick them in the nuts and steal their stuff if they're a violent sociopath — but having people on the field would certainly make my life a little easier.

Focus, David.

BOOM! There's an echo that sounds a lot like Workman jumping onto the lower level.

I bolt, trying to keep my body as low as I can behind the barrier that separates the field from the seats.

I pass by a row of cowering students. They're watching me with frightened eyes, not sure if this is some kind of random shooting where anyone could be a victim — only if they get close to me.

Ahead of me, there's a tunnel leading to the outside of the stadium. If I can make it there…

BANG!!! Concrete chips fly off the wall in front of me.

How the hell?

I change my direction and go diagonally. Out of the corner of my eye I spot another workman on the opposite deck, leaning on the railing with a rifle.

He'd been using the wall I was running behind to range me. Fuck.

Now I'm a wide open target in the middle of an empty soccer field. I should have climbed over the wall.

And then what? Wait for them to come get me?

No dice.

I'm not sure if I can make it to the tunnel before one of these assholes puts a bullet in my head.

I need a better way.

I need a miracle.

Holy crap. Was that thing here all along?

The stadium is so fucking huge I didn't even notice it.

Please work. Please, please…