Non-classifiable
I staggered to my feet, tore off my helmet and looked down at the crumpled figure on the road. He wasn't moving.
I was sure I had killed him. The blood drained out of my head. I was afraid to approach him. I needed to get help. I took several deep breaths and found myself shaking. Hold it together, I told myself. Just hold it together.
In a quick movement, he filled my viewfinder completely. Before I could figure out what had happened, he had grabbed me by the shoulders. He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and stuck the sharp end of it against my throat.
It hurt. Bad. I wondered if I was bleeding. If he pushed any harder, the pen could burst through my windpipe.
He continued, still sounding oddly casual, "Like I said. When I take this kid's camera and walk out of here with the videocassette, there is definitely nothing you can prove."
I just stand there, listening to the blood pounding in my head. I'm aware of Daniel beside me, can almost hear him breathing. We're dead quiet, but the gang must sense us. The short one has been crouching, looking at the person on the ground. Now he straightens up, turns in our direction. In a low voice, he says something I can't hear. For a second, he steps into the light, and I catch a glimpse of his face. It's angular and bony. Skull-like. I know who it belongs to. His name is Damien Sykes. Lots of people know him. I just pray he doesn't know me.
He's seen us. "Hey! You!" he shouts. Somehow his words break the spell, and we can move. Beside me, Daniel has finally found his feet. He slams into me as he wheels around and takes off in the same direction we've come from. I am right behind him.
