page0092.mm

<p>Page 92.</p>
<p>The first shot
thumped into my left bicep. I felt it not so much as a physical pain
as an insult. I hadn&rsquo;t realized how deeply offensive it was to
have someone deliberately injure you. I shouted, &ldquo;Hey!&rdquo;
and my voice was thick with outrage. I was going to march up to this
guard and explain I was a human being, dammit, with hopes and dreams
and an ID card, and you can&rsquo;t just <em>shoot</em> people. You
can&rsquo;t just <em>kill</em> them. Which may have been a little rich,
given I was standing next to the mangled body of the Manager, but I
didn&rsquo;t think of that at the time. I was aflame with indignation
about my violated bicep. The only thing that drove this plan from my
mind was the realization that this bullet was not the last of today&rsquo;s
insults; that many more insults were heading my way within the next
few seconds, unless I got out of there as fast as mechanically
possible.</p>
<p>So I did. My legs
fired. My neck snapped back. Something passed by my head so close it
sucked my hair into its wake. I grabbed at the sides of the bucket
seat, afraid of falling out, which should have been impossible but
that&rsquo;s not what it felt like. With each step, my legs stretched
out before me and my hooves drove into the lawn. They almost slipped
once, and then we reached the sidewalk and I felt them settle. They
liked concrete. I think we both did. I clung on, cars and trees
blurring past me, until the security guards were far, far behind, and
I was safe, and I realized I had left behind something very
important.</p>