I find what's left of Sarah underneath the wreckage of the downed helicopter. Just her upper half, really; everything else has been crushed by the debris. That look of panic right before the real terror sets in is etched on her face, and nary shall it change again. With a sigh, I reach down and peel the revolver she had been using from her lifeless hands.
Fuck me, this is gonna be tough to explain to everyone when we make it back to camp. Or rather, if we make it back to camp.
Martin's made it across to the next building, and has managed to dislodge one of the ladders from its fire escape. Something to grab when we jump as well, I suppose. The building lurches violently again, and as I stagger to keep my balance I catch sight of someone approaching across the roofs towards us.
Aw, shit. This day's just not fucking letting up.
"Martin, someone's coming!" I yell across the roof to my cohort as I break into a run. "Jason, get fucking moving!" No time for Martin's ladder, good an idea as it is; I don't wanna be on this roof for another second, not with the building starting to come down and some asshole in military fatigues approaching too damn fast for my liking.
Only one thing for it, then.
Let's just hope my jumping skills are up to scratch.
Reaching the edge of the building I push myself into the open air, and for a moment all I can hear is the wind rushing by me, blasting through my hair. It's almost peaceful. Then physics kicks back in and decides that that's enough of this ascending nonsense; I smash into the railing of the opposite building's fire escape and feel the wind go rushing out of my chest.
Jesus wept, that fucking hurt.
With a groan I pull myself over the rail and up the escape to stand next to Martin on a rooftop that's considerably more stable than the other one and thus infinitely superior. Our pursuer has made it across to the other rooftop via a cobbled together bridge, and he's showing no signs of stopping.
I decide to give him an incentive to. Tugging Sarah's revolver from my hoodie, I level it at the man and pull the hammer back. Guns are not my thing, not by a long shot. I hate the noise they produce, how fucking heavy they are and how every motherfucker and his dog seems to be carrying at least twenty these days.
But our friend on the opposite roof doesn't know that.
"That's far enough, asshole!" I yell across to him, "One more step and we get to find out just how many shots Sarah fired off before you assholes hit her with a helicopter! Could be she fired four, maybe six!" With a grin, I adopt my best faux-Dirty Harry accent, "I guess the question is, do you feel lucky? Well, do you? Jarhead?"