Zen in the Face of Mortal Danger
The air was swathed in thick clouds of dust as the two picked their way through the rubble of the gates.
“Roland! Can we hurry it up a little?” Franklin shouted, grimacing at every shot fired. “It’s dangerous.”
“Not particularly, no,” said Roland, walking with his nose still in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. “As long as I can tell where the bullets’ll be, we should be fine. Duck.”
Franklin’s dropped immediately, a salvo of lead whizzing over his head. “You’re crazy! I’m moving up to the castle!”
“There’s a man who’s about to take a bullet in the place you’re running to, and if you keep running, you’ll take it instead.”
Franklin stopped and frowned. “Now you’re talking sh—” A man gurgled ten feet away and sank to the ground. “Okay, okay, I’ll listen.”
“Good. Now just take eleven steps in twenty-two point three seconds and we’ll be in the castle.”