The sudden movement had triggered the pain at the base of his back from the bike crash. A dull throb resided around his coccyx; however, the searing agony of a hot bullet in his body seemed absent. He moved slowly, as if he’d been shot anyway. The shock had hit him hard. He then looked up at Oscar. The large man worked his jaw in large circles. His ears clearly hurt. But more importantly, Rhys saw the grey splash on the unbroken window in front of him. Rhys stood up, picked up his baseball bat, and stared into Oscar’s cold glare. He laughed, “The glass, it’s bulletproof. Ha, who’s the fucking idiot now?” He pointed at the big man. “You’re fucked in there, Oscar, and there’s fuck all you can do about it. Although you should consider yourself lucky—burning’s too good for you. I can think of many more ways to kill you that would be far more appropriate. Terrorists should have their balls removed without anaesthetic just for starters.” “Terrorist? You were the ones who created this cursed virus.
