T7: Alba

Things weren't going to plan; that much was obvious. In all the chaos and the shooting, Alba had rather lost track of how many of the black-clad gun-women she'd encountered, but the definition of 'light resistance' had been stretched to breaking point. There were more of them up at the top of the stair-well, shooting down, their pistol slugs cracking against the concrete balustrade and the wall behind her. She braced her own weapon and fired back, her toned thighs beginning to burn a little from the sustained climb.

"How many are there?" gasped Danielle from somewhere behind her.

"Keep moving!" she snapped. "They can't have many left! We're almost..."

She'd broken her concentration. The target she'd been watching up at the top of the steps had gone to ground- either hit or scared enough to stay ducking. But on the circular rail that ran around the top of the stair-well, one of the other fuckers had been popping up to shoot; snatching off quick, poorly-aimed shots that peppered the wall around Alba. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the bitch realised that she wasn't drawing any return fire- that she could take her time.

Most of her shots wasted themselves in the concrete: One hit the lip of the bannister, one cracked off the wall and span away with a whine. And one hit Alba right in the chest with a damp crunch, making her squeal in surprise like she'd just found a spider in her hair.

The heels of her tall boots scratched on the hard steps, twisted treacherously and gave out under her. Her knees buckled, her chest cramping as she sucked reflexively at air that suddenly wouldn't come. She fell- down on the steps, one hand reaching down to stop herself from slipping and sliding and tumbling down the rest of the way while the other reached up to the soft silk of her new Givenchy blouse.

It came away wet and red.

'Keep moving...' she tried to say, more by habit than from any force of conviction.

She couldn't.

There was no air.

The others- Danielle and Carrie and Denise and Jenny- all carried on anyway. Once they'd gone, and the breath still wasn't coming and the blood had soaked most of her shirt, Alba found herself wishing that some of them had stayed- but of course, it was too late by then.