Lost Bullet

Chapter One The white boy walking along Tottenham Court Corridor spotted a tree snake in the elder plant growing up the side of a house. He was about to move on, staying away from it, when he was distracted by a small piece of paper that fluttered out of an upstairs window. Pushed along by the breeze, the piece of notepaper sailed straight toward his head. Owen grabbed it in his fist as if he'd caught a moth that was threatening to land on his face. Immediately, there was a scream. "White scum!" It was so loud, so angry, and so high- pitched that Owen could not even tell if it had come from a man or a woman. He wasn't going to hang around to find out who had shouted because he recognized pure hatred in that voice. He shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and ran. On both sides of Owen rampant ivy, elder, and clematis were choking the buildings. The rifle poking ominously out of the window above and behind him was camouflaged by the masses of leaves. When Owen heard the first shot, he let out a frightened yelp and ducked. Covering his head with his hands would have been useless against the bullet if it had been on target, but it thudded into the trunk of the elm tree just to his right. Refusing to freeze with fear, he dashed away quickly. Weaving his way down the windy London corridor, swerving around the trees that had pushed their way up through the tarmac, he tried to make it difficult for the sniper to get a clear shot at him. The second bullet ricocheted off the ground in front of him and to the left, but the third caught his hand. He cried out in pain but did not dare stop. Cradling his injured left hand in his right, he stumbled on toward the intersection. In a few seconds he could turn on to Oxford Freeway, safe from the person with an itchy finger on the trigger. As he dodged around another tree, a window shattered with the force of the next stray shot. Once, before Owen was born, Oxford Freeway had been busy with automatic cabs, its walkway bustling with pedestrians. But no one had been employed to maintain it-or any of central London's routes-so nature had reclaimed lost territory. The cabs'onboard computers, equipped with the latest artificial intelligence, soon learned to avoid the center of London because it became impossible to negotiate the erupting trees and shrubs. Besides, too many passengers and pedestrians were mugged in those parts to risk it. Owen knew Oxford Freeway only as a concrete and wildlife jungle, the natural habitat of rats, snakes, and crooks. Still, until bullets learned how to turn corners, he could escape in the neglected freeway. At the sound of another gunshot, two red squirrels darted up an old elm tree. At once, Owen felt his right foot give way as if someone had kicked it out from under him. He gasped and faltered, yet he experienced no pain. He expected to cry out in agony when he put his weight back on that leg, but he felt only some extra pressure on his heel. The bullet had hit the tarmac, bounced up, thudded into the sole of his shoe, and come to rest harmlessly in the thick layer of rubber. Desperate to stay on his feet, Owen staggered to the intersection with Oxford Freeway. Two small patches of ivy clawing up the closest house exploded, revealing red bricks underneath. Chest heaving, Owen darted around the corner, where he was shielded from the rifle fire. Yet he did not relax or slow down. He scurried along the corridor in case the sniper came out of hiding and tailed him. Avoiding the tangle of overgrown vegetation, he raced as fast as he could, still clutching his bleeding left hand, until he got to Wardour Walkway. Turning left into the narrow passage, he zigzagged through the warren of alleys to lose anyRose, Malcolm is the author of 'Lost Bullet ', published 2005 under ISBN 9780753458303 and ISBN 0753458306.