Will to Survive by Eric Walters Page A

The tiny bulbs lit only the area directly in front, along Erin Mills Parkway; the light didn’t reach into the houses and spaces on the other side.
    I saw a series of flashes—muzzle bursts from different parts of the building—followed instantly by the sound of gunfire. One of the guards on the wall crumpled to the ground.
    â€œOh my God!” Lori exclaimed.
    Almost before the words had gotten out a second guard was hit, his body spinning backward at the impact of the bullet. There were more and more flashes from the tower, but nobody else was hit—at least not that I could see.
    â€œTurn off the lights!” I screamed. “Turn off the lights!”
    Lori jumped to her feet and started yelling again and waving her arms in the air—and making herself a perfect target.
    â€œLori!” I yelled. I jumped forward, knocking her over. She groaned as we smashed heavily into the gravel.
    There was a loud impact—a bullet smashing into the rooftop right by our heads—then a second. I grabbed her and rolled us back over until we were sheltered by the wall again.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œI’m … I’m okay … The bullets … We were almost shot.”
    â€œPlease don’t move,” I said. “Stay here.”
    I disentangled myself and started to crawl away, still sheltered by the edge of the building.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she demanded. “Where are you going?”
    â€œI have to warn them. We can’t have people heading across the open space toward the wall. The shooters have too good an angle. Don’t move until I come back to get you!”
    I scampered along with the protection of the bricks until I was well away from where we’d been shot at. I now had no choice. I had to move across open roof space to get to the ladder and down. If I moved fast they probably couldn’t draw a bead on me. I took a deep breath and then ran as fast as I could. Grabbing the top of the ladder, I swung myself over the edge—almost falling, desperately grabbing with my feet and hands and securing a hold. I slid down the ladder, landing at the bottom with a loud thud, almost tumbling over with the impact.
    I ran along the back of the stores, completely sheltered from the snipers. People were coming on foot, their flashlights marking their arrival, like signal beacons for the shooters.
    â€œCut your lights!” I yelled. “Get down, get down!”
    Flashlights snapped off as people took cover. In the dark they’d be safe—unless the shooters had night-vision goggles. The first of the guards joined me along the wall.
    Then a pair of headlights came up the road—another perfect target, even more visible than the flashlights of the people on foot. It was my Omega, which meant either my mom or my dad was driving. I ran straight toward the car, right into the beams of the headlights, waving my hands. The car skidded to a stop in front of me. Not wanting to waste time explaining, I leaned inside the open window, over my father at the wheel, and pushed off the headlights, throwing us into darkness. My mom was in the passenger seat and Herb was in the back.
    In the sudden gloom, I told them we were under fire.
    â€œWhere is it coming from?” Herb asked.
    â€œSnipers in the condo tower! They’ve been picking people off. At least two guards down.”
    â€œLet’s move behind the stores, get out of the sight lines,” Mom said to Dad as I stepped back.
    My father bumped the car up over the curb, crossed the sidewalk, and pulled in right beside the back of the buildings. I ran after them and got there as they were climbing out.
    â€œTurn off all the lights!” my mother called into a walkie-talkie.
    â€œWe should signal for the reserves,” Herb said.
    â€œI agree,” my mom said. “And let’s get Howie stationed with a team at the northeast corner.”
    As my mother repeated