Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"Have to get out," I say.

The driver's on the radio, calling it in. No one seems to know a rifle was involved. Everyone is shaken but not as disturbed as they should be. The driver waves at me irritably. "No, you're staying on the bus until I say so. Council policy."

Fair enough, but not today. I reach over, turn the release switch. The door sighs open.

He grabs my arm; I tug my arm free, and bolt for the exit.

"What? You! Get back-" I hear him slamming down on the switch.

I'm almost through and the door closes on my leg. It's a firm grip and I'm hanging, suspended by the door. I yank my leg like some sort of trapped and clumsy animal, and something gives because I'm dropping onto the road, the ground knocking the breath from me.

"Smooth," Tremaine says.

"Screw you," I manage, which is stupid because I shouldn't be wasting any of the breath in my lungs. Blobs dance in my vision.

"And ever so charming."

I give him the finger. Tremaine raises an eyebrow. Lissa's watching the bus.

"Get up," she says. "Get up, get up."

Winded, I lie there on the side of the road. Even with the adrenaline coursing through me that's about all I can manage. I stare blankly at the looming city with its skyline of genuflecting cranes. I'm on the verge of slipping into manic, gasping chuckles. The sky is lit up by the city, everything's calm… and I've been shot at-twice-by my parents.

"Get up," Lissa says. "Now."

At last, after what really can't have been more than a few seconds, breath finds my lungs.

"I'm trying." I get very unsteadily to my feet. Which is when the bus driver comes crashing through the door and tackles me.

I'm back down on the road. More cuts, more bruises.

"Get the fuck back in the bus!" he growls, his arms wrapped around my legs.

"No, I can't!" I scramble, kicking and twisting and flailing, to my feet.

We circle each other. He's taking this personally, his face beet-red, his hands clenched into fists. The driver is a big man. I'm not, just tall and thin. He also looks like he might practice some particularly nasty form of martial art that specializes in snapping tall, thin people in two.

"I don't want to have to fight you," I say, mainly because I don't want to have to fight him.

"Then get back in the bus." The way he says it suggests there's no gentle way of getting back into the bus.

He advances, his eyes wild, obviously in shock, or just extremely, extremely pissed off. I lunge to the right, then sprint around the side of the bus. He crashes after me, swearing at the top of his lungs. There's not much room to move-we're hemmed in by traffic, though none of it is moving that quickly, on account of the accident and the show we're putting on. We get around twice; I've got the edge on him, speed-wise, which is kind of meaningless because all I'm going to do is end up running into his back.

There are cars pulling up everywhere. Some industrious and extremely helpful guy has stopped and is directing traffic, and there's a woman over at the crumpled, smoking Echo. She sees me and starts waving at me to come over, maybe to help. I yell at her to get away. Someone is moving in the car, and I suspect that someone is going to have the rifle. Every passing second improves his or her hand-eye coordination.

The bus driver's boots crunch on the gravel behind me. "Get back here, you prick!" the bus driver yells. I glance around to see how close he is. He catches a mouthful of smoke and bends over, coughing. The air is positively toxic. For a moment I worry that he might just drop dead. But at least he's not running after me anymore.

"This is all going so wonderfully," Tremaine says, startling me. I ignore him.

I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and sprint-sneak over to the helpful guy's car, a green hatchback. I feel like an absolute bastard. The keys are in the ignition, which is a relief. I start up the car, and shoot down Coro Drive, fishtailing around the bus, and nearly smash into oncoming traffic. I straighten the hatchback at the last minute, not knowing where in Christ I'm going.

In my rear-vision mirror the bus driver is roaring away at me between coughs, the helpful guy with him. He's not looking that helpful now, and I don't blame him. I feel awful, like I've mugged a nun.

"Was that wise?" Tremaine is grinning at me, now also in the rear-view mirror. I've never seen a dead guy looking so full of himself.

"Shut the fuck up."

"It's so nice to see that you can keep your cool in a crisis."

Tremaine's lucky he's dead already. "Well, only one of us is still alive," I snarl.

Low blow, but true. Tremaine is a prick, and being cruel to him is the least of my crimes today.

"What the hell else was he supposed to do?" Lissa asks him.

They flit around each other in the back seat of the car, two aggressive and luminous blurs.

"Not breaking the law might have been a good beginning," Tremaine says prissily.

Yeah, I could have fled the scene on foot. Not having the police chasing me as well as Stirrers would have been a good idea. But the Stirrers would have caught up with me for sure. I needed to get out of there fast, even if that meant stealing the Good Samaritan's car. I glance back at Tremaine. "Next time we'll follow your plan. Which was… Hey, didn't we already ascertain that you were dead?"

"You're deadest." Tremaine clenches a fist in my face. "That's what you are. Which really doesn't surprise me, you bloody hick Queenslanders."

"Come a little closer, and I'll fucking pomp you, dead man."

"Oh, shut up," Lissa says. "Both of you shut up."

Four blocks later, and heading back into Paddington away from the city, I ditch the car (leaving whatever money I have on me in the glove box for the owner's trouble) hoping that there are no CCTV cameras around. There's nothing to connect me to it. I should be safe, particularly when I shave off my beard, which I am going to be doing very soon. Clean-shaven, I'll look like a different person; certainly not the kind of guy who would steal a car, anyway.

OK, so that's the story I'm running with, because I have to believe something.

I walk another four blocks looking for the right bus. I must be a sight: bloody hands, torn pants and edgy as all hell, glancing up and down the streets, ducking for cover at the slightest noise. Any second I expect a bullet to come driving into my brain or worse, into my back, driving me to the ground where I'll writhe like road-kill. If I'm going to be killed I want it to be as quick and painless as possible.

Finally, the bus I'm after is trundling down the street. Why does public transport travel at such glacial speeds when people are trying to kill you? I flag it to a stop, flash my pass and get on board. The driver barely gives me a second glance.

"Where are you going?" Lissa asks.

"My question exactly." Tremaine's voice drills into my skull.

"Home," I say, keeping my voice low and spinning toward the dead couple. "Is that all right with you two?"

Lissa slaps her forehead disdainfully, and looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Surely you wouldn't be so stupid as to-"

"Exactly. Surely I wouldn't be," I say. "There's a back way-well, it's actually someone's yard. They're not going to expect me to go home, anyway. They're going to expect me to go to Mr. D."

"He has a point," Tremaine says, which immediately makes me suspect my own logic. "Besides, you can bring Mr. D to you."

"I don't like it." Lissa frowns.

"Any more than you don't like being dead?" Tremaine winks at me. He's certainly taking a bipartisan approach to pissing people off.

"Hey," I say. "That's below the belt."

Tremaine shakes his head, even manages a laugh. "Boy, you've got it bad."

Lissa is looking at me, with that mocking expression I'm getting to know so well. I feel about two inches tall. "He does, doesn't he?"