Standing up high, atop the wall, are several slaverunners, wearing their black face masks, holding machine guns. They aim them down towards us. “DRIVE!” Ben screams, frantic. I’m already stepping on the gas, tearing out of there, as the first gunshots ring out. A hail of fire pours down on the car, bouncing off the roof, off the metal, off the bulletproof glass. I only pray that it doesn’t slip between the cracks. Simultaneously, the crazies rush us from all sides. One of them reaches back and throws a glass bottle with a burning rag on it. A Molotov cocktail lands right before our car and explodes, the flames rising before us. I swerve just in time, and the flames graze the side of our car. Another comes running up and jumps on the windshield. He grabs on and won’t let go, his face snarling at me through the glass, inches away. I swerve again, scraping against a pole, and it knocks him off.
