Tindy was sweating, wide-eyed staring at the red face of her fat manager, Paul, whose snarling mouth fogged up the round glass in the door. He slammed into the wooden door again and again as if he felt no pain. It rattled. The automatic lock wouldn’t hold for long. The only exit out of the small back room of the bar was through the staff lift, which she had pressed at what felt like an eternity ago, and - she glanced at the red number again - it was one floor away. 

The radio Paul carried crackled to life, muffled, “This is…um….” 

[i]Who the fuck is Jimmy Jameson?![/i] Adrenaline had heated up her emotions and she was angry at the idiot who didn’t have the sense enough to tell her where he was holed up in. 


The lift dinged. It was the best ding she had ever heard in her life. The metal doors opened, slowly it seemed, and she was joyous to see no other madman inside. She rushed in and hurriedly pressed the button to the second floor numerous times.