[Mister Saint]: 79.Short Stories.Example of a Chase

     The worn heels of Dunbar's combat boots slapped noisily against the wet pavement beneath them, flinging minute droplets of water with each pounding step. He dared not cast a glance over his shoulder, knowing that to hesitate would be to forfeit himself to... them. Around a poorly-lit corner he ran, diving into the blackness of an alley that reeked of bums and booze, anything to get away from the lit paths. 
     "Got any change..."
     The question rose and fell in seconds. Dunbar ignored the old beggar and shoved his way past a dozen obstacles; dumpsters, people, ripped fences, not caring for the stench of trash upon his clothes or the sharp fence links that tore at his skin. He had no time to bleed.
      Every breath set fire to his lungs, his heart battering the innards of his chest with the exertion of the sprint, but still Dunbar pressed on, ran until he thought his legs would shatter, until his mortal heart would burst from the strain. His weary eyes settled upon a nearby building. There was a harsh pop as his boots slapped the ground when he leapt for a solid steel ladder heading up the side. Cold assaulted his numbing fingertips, but he hardly felt its icy sting. His muscles burned, but he pulled himself up anyway, hand over hand, foot over foot. Their footsteps, hundreds of pattering footsteps, growled in his ears. Soon they would roar, he knew it. And they would be upon him if he could not force his body just a little farther, a little faster.
     At the crest of the ladder Dunbar felt a sudden stabbing pain in his left foot. The crack of his ankle snapping created a sick harmony with his primal wail of defeat, and as he fell, he resigned himself to his fate. It was over. He had failed.
    They flowed over the crest of the ladder, a mindless torrent of the hungry. In seconds Dunbar was totally surrounded, helpless, powerless to stop their insane orgy of excess. He would be their next victim.
    "Mister Dunbar please sign this!" the nearest one demanded, holding out a T-shirt with his face on it, along with the faces of the rest of his bandmates. Her voice echoed against the still of the night, trounced by the catcalls and wails of dozens upon dozens of frantic fans, groupies, and musical tag alongs. Dunbar sighed, pulling a pen from his pocket. 
     "Alright," he sighed, sitting up. "Form a line."