I turned right, pushing the fence gate open with a desperate shove, the creaking sound reverberating in the stillness. Climbing the stairs with urgency, I reached the top only to find a locked door staring back at me. My heart raced as I twisted the doorknob, but it yielded no response. Frustrated, I glanced up at the doorframe, hoping for a miracle. As my fingers slid along the top, I felt a familiar texture juxtaposed against the rough wood. A rubber outline—an old hiding spot for a spare key. A grin broke across my face. "Lady luck still loves me," I muttered under my breath.
After retrieving the key and unlocking the door, I flung it open and dropped to my knees, scanning the space for any trip wires that could alert enemies. Seeing none, I felt a brief flash of hope, but the sensation was swiftly cut short as I heard the unmistakable rumble of the tank outside. Its barrel was swinging toward me. Panic surged. I sprinted through the doorway just as a deafening explosion rocked the ground behind me.
I landed in what appeared to be a kitchen, navigating the chaos like a pinball, leaping to the right instinctively. I crashed into a tub of silverware, scattering forks and spoons across the floor. Dazed and disoriented, my ears rang from the blast, muffling the sounds around me. I needed to keep moving.
I glimpsed an opening to an adjoining office room and charged toward it, leaving behind my pistol and knife, now useless as I sought to escape my doom. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I bolted into a janitor's closet, seeking refuge to gather my thoughts. As I leaned against the filthy walls, I could hear footsteps approaching through the open hole, the crunching of rubble echoing ominously.
Frantically searching the closet for something to defend myself, I spotted a mop. Grabbing the handle, I snapped it in half to create a makeshift spear. Crouching low, I listened intently, my heart racing as the footsteps grew closer. It was then that I noticed a vent shaft above me. A memory flashed back—a scene from an old movie my father had watched with me as a kid: "Die Hard." It suddenly seemed like my best shot at survival.
I was running out of time. I hoisted myself upward and pried the vent cover open, wriggling inside with a desperate determination. The air was stale, the cramped space suffocating, but I had no other choice. Crawling through the vent, I could see and hear sounds of the soldiers below as they conducted a room sweep, their voices low and filled with menace.
"They were supposed to secure this area," one voice grunted, frustration evident. "How did he get away?"
I stifled a breath, thinking how foolish this plan was. This wasn't a hostage crisis; it was full-blown war. My heart sank as I realized that getting to the main office, the only route to exit, was not going to be easy.
As I crawled deeper into the vent, I could feel the tremor of the ground beneath me and the vibrations of the chaos that engulfed the city outside. I focused on my breathing, pushing aside the fear clawing at the back of my mind. One step at a time, I reminded myself. It was the only way to survive.
The further I crawled, the more I could hear the muffled conversations of the soldiers below, a cacophony of military jargon that only fueled my anxiety. I needed to find an exit point soon. It was becoming clear that I couldn't stay in the vents for long; I was running out of options.
With determination, I pressed onward, the faint glimmer of hope urging me to reach the end of this narrow escape route and find a way back to my team while staying one step ahead of the chaos seeking to engulf me.