Bullets dissolve concrete, kick up ground, smash steel and zip by your ears like deadly little insects. Vision blurs. Tanks, buildings, rocks--everything just a fuzzy outline of itself. You run. Breath rasps like rocks in a coffee can. Blood in your mouth. Blood in your lungs. Concrete against your back is cold. Can't stop thinking of a mortician's table. Spin out from around the corner, dust grinding under your heel. The 19 foot steel chicken's arms begin to spin. Fire. Dust around you again. Can't see anymore. Can't stand anymore.