His eyes were still showing the bright orange after image of the muzzle flashes. The pitch black night was hard enough to see in without glowing blinders blocking most of his field of view. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need eyes to feel which way was down hill.

Down, down, and farther down he went. Through the branches and bushes. Crashing through weeds and briers. The denim of his jeans ripped on a jagged tree limb as he hopped a fallen tree. A chest high bramble of thick thorns tore at his cheek. A boot lace came free and caught on a root in the dark, pitching him forward through the dark wooded hill.

He paused there on his face. His heart was pounding and the orange explosions had faded from his eyes. He listened, trying to hear anything over his own panting and pounding heart. Nothing was coming, not through the woods at least. Up above, back a hundred or more yards he could hear rushing cars, sirens, voices, and see flashing emergency lights.

Below, he could hear the rushing river and taste freedom.