“Code Silver,” the PA system crackles. The poor sound quality muffles the panic surely present in the voice of the clinic staffer. Was the static of the emergency building-wide system a purposeful design choice, in the event it needed to mask someone’s pure panic? An interesting question if I had a casual second to think - or breathe. I have neither.

My shoulder slams through the door of therapy room 2; I leave a sweeping arc of crimson painted on its surface as it swings shut behind me. I stagger, pressing my back to the door to remain upright. Pain flares at the contact.

I grope my left side just below my shoulder joint, hand batting my dangling ID badge. I hiss in pain as my fingers find the blood-seeping hole causing the wet adherence of my scrub top -both front and back- to my skin.

I’ve been fucking shot.

Maybe the scene in every action movie where the buff main character continues on totally fine after muttering something like, “it’s a through and through” and slapping on a dirty bandage is actually accurate?

Ow fuck. Ow fuck it’s not accurate!

My hospital ID tumbles from the collar of my scrubs to the ether outside my tunneled vision. The alligator clamp on my collar has put in an admirable performance during my sprint across the clinic. It isn’t rated for the mad dashing, shoving, tripping, falling, and bleeding I have put it through.

My dilated eyes twitch over the room, manically searching for the next corridor to continue my retreat.

Therapy room 2 has one bloody door.

Run, hide, fight. More complicated decision-making is beyond me. My ears ring with buzzing tinnitus and the tachy pounding of my heart.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

This is a speech room; it is spartan. A pair of cheap wooden shelves adorned with toys and a few adult-sized chairs (and a few considerably smaller) will not be hiding even my spindly frame. I leave a bloody trail; it won’t take a detective to piece together my location.

I am fucked.

Paralyzing terror creeps up my spine, replacing the adrenaline that has fueled me for the past frenzied minute.

I choke on my breath as the pain from my wound flares again into electric sensation.

I try and fail to lift a small chair. The wound on my side has my left arm twitching ineffectually to my command. I settle for a laptop from one of the tables, the same blocky gray model in my bookbag across the building. I struggle to imagine a more pathetic sight as I face the closed doorway, deafened, bleeding, and barely managing to brandish my few pounds of corporate provided computer. At best, he won’t open the door with the obvious bloodstain; at worst I can be a minor inconvenience in death and potentially a waste of another bullet.

The door handle turns, because of course it fucking does.

The door swings inwards.

A pronged black muzzle first pierces the growing opening. It spears into the room, abruptly pausing as the door slows in its now labored movement. The door, designed to stop eloping toddlers, is heavy, and spring loaded. The man is slim and doesn’t expect its weight.

I squint through my growing haze and lift the laptop high as the man’s fingers claw into view, gripping the door’s edge and pushing. The barrel pivots towards the center of the room - towards me. I can smash his face while he focuses on getting the door open. I can run past.

There is a split second of opportunity.

A pale face enshrouded in wild black hair swings into view. Pale blue eyes, dilated and blank, stare through me.

I bring the laptop down, behind it all the meager force I can wield.

I miss.

Not even a glancing blow meets the man’s face as my body fails me and the momentum of my swing drags me crashing into a cabinet I have missed on my entrance, breaking a drawer and showering me in loose papers. My pathetic display may actually have surprised him enough to run if I was not quickly becoming acquainted with my body’s physiologic proximity to death.

I hear the door finish opening. I feel the sticky sodden gore spread through my clothing in the aftermath of the impact, tearing open my wound. I smell an all-consuming iron tinge.

I see black speckled with dancing white pinpricks.

I am nothing.