Phase 1

The D42 driving the battered sports car slumped forwards in his seat, her hands falling away from the steering wheel, her head slipping onto it. From his position in the cramped back seat, the man with whose safe passage she had been charged looked on helplessly as the red stain sprawled lazily across the middle of the fabric seat.

This sloth was an attribute which couldn't be applied to the vehicle at that moment, and the cowering figure, lying flat on his back and petrified, realised that something needed to be done quickly. He cursed his option-limiting position, trying to consider the situation as objectively as he could. His driver was dead, the vehicle shot to bits and himself without weapons except for whatever small arms the wheelz might be carrying. Meanwhile, the car was careering without direction along the highway in the middle of the Wilderness. There was no telling when the plane might return for another strafe, but at the very least consolation he had ascertained that there was only one out there.

The wheels hit a bump in the road, and the Delta's corpse jolted slightly, stirring the steering wheel and causing the car to swerve. He bolted into life, forcing himself from his hiding place and vaulting into the passenger seat. Pushing the young lady's body backwards and grimacing at the bullet wounds, he searched her body for the two things that would help him out There.

A few moments later, he heard the familiar drone of the plane overhead. Again he began to act, frantically hammering at the passenger side door. A few solid kicks later the hinge mechanism gave way, flying open backwards and hanging on only by the sturdy, customised lock. He tightly gripped the side of the door, placed his feet deep in the alcove, and forced himself to his feet.

Hair blowing in the slipstream, he turned his head back to sneak a look behind the car. Surely enough, there was the plane, flying low. In the cockpit he could see the head of the Delta wingz flying the thing. The Delta could probably see him too, and was almost certain to be resting a finger on that damned trigger.

Nothing for it but to jump, then.

He pressed himself backwards into the car for the final time, before hurling himself forwards over the broken asphalt of the ancient highway. Behind him, the plane opened fire on the vehicle, now swerving violently away from its escapee. He landed rolling so that he could get instantly to his feet and begin running as fast as he could towards the nearby line of shrubs at the edge of the highway.

Above his head the plane shot past, guns blazing at the yellow sports car speeding towards the central reservation. In a few moments, the impact came, and he winced as he heard the bodywork screech against the corroded steel, painfully decelerating the vehicle. He heard the plane cease firing, continuing on its bearing. Without looking back, he told his body to keep moving, to accelerate. That plane was coming about, and would soon be upon him.

The shrubs offered little protection, but they were better cover than the open highway and he scrambled through them as best he could, hoping that there would be something better further along. The plane would begin strafing these haggard plants, and if he wasn't somewhere with better hiding places, he'd be as dead as his wheelz was.

He afforded himself one second to shoot a glance to his left, where through the thin line of bare trees he saw a wide field, bordered on one side some way ahead of him by a wall and a thicket of withered trees. He made a quick decision, and broke away from the shrubs, looking over one shoulder to determine where the plane was. He couldn't see it, but he could hear it, and it was close.

Must be flying lower than the tops of those shrubs. If he can't see me ...

His feet pounded against the ground and the stitch in his chest was growing with every step, but he knew that he had to press onwards. There was around fifty metres left to run, but each second counted now. If the plane appeared above the shrub line, he'd be both in range and in the open.

Forty metres ... thirty metres ... twenty metres ... He glanced over his shoulder to see the tips of the propellers nosing above the treeline behind him. Another five metres passed beneath his feet. The cockpit would be clear now, and the finger would be on the trigger. With ten metres to go, he heard the terrifying sound of gunfire behind him, bullets impacting on ground he'd been fighting against only moments before. He drew a deep breath, and tried to accelerate across the last stretch.

The wall was taller than it had looked a hundred metres earlier, and with five metres to go he began to wonder whether or not he'd be able to vault it. Only one way to find out. More gunfire, closer this time. He could taste the acrid smoke on the air as he prepared himself – hands out before him, knees ready for the impact.

His palms hit the coping stones. Instantly he forced himself upwards with his shoulders and knees. Crying out, he caught his shins on the coping stones and flew head first through a few metres of clear air before a tree put an impromptu end to his improvised flight.

As his body hit the reeking leaf mould, more bullets slammed into the wall behind him. The man grinned and hiccuped as the plane tore once more over his head, before his eyes shut in slow motion, and consciousness slipped away from him.