Wyatt crouched quickly behind the park bench, gunfire all around, the sounds of it echoing off nearby buildings like fireworks in a canyon. His hands were steady, though, and he reloaded swiftly, tossing the empty magazine aside. If he lived, he'd pick them up later.

More pops rattled off. These were distant, though. Shouts from the other officers calling out orders and positions. There was too much yelling over his own radio. He could hear crying...

A baby's crying.

From the left. He turned around, and immediately he felt something rush over his head, shooting his hat off, the sound of it following soon after. More pops, louder now. Against the bench this time. The bench was saving his life.

A baby's crying, the mother holding it, clutching it to her.

Bodies around them both.

I'm pinned, he thought. The bench. My feet are exposed.

He's not shooting at my feet. Can't see them? Isn't looking for them?

Might as well...

He dropped low and peaked out. There was a face behind a bush, looking in his general direction, gun in hand... but not noticing straight away Wyatt's face peering out from between the bench's legs. By the time he did, Wyatt had his gun out. When he fired, it was awkward, and the gun immediately kicked back and almost hit him in the face. He regained the grip and aimed again, only the body of whoever was shooting at him was slumped lifelessly over the bush.

Two more, firing at other officers from behind some jungle gym contraption. He needed four shots to bring them both down, writhing in pain, guns out of reach as their hands covered their wounds. Not dead, though.

Wyatt looked over and saw Jamille, an undercover operative who was hiding behind a tree. "They're down," he yelled. "Get their guns."

Jamille, wide-eyed and nervously cradling his own gun, glanced out apprehensively, before he saw the two gangsters on the ground. "Nice shooting, Milter," he said, before looking around to see if there was another danger. Wyatt also glanced around. The lady and the child were still there, crying.

More bodies around them this time.

No gangsters nearby, though.

Five shots. Five left. He pulled out another magazine, had it ready.

"Go, I'll cover you," Wyatt yelled. Jamille nodded, and after taking one last apprehensive look, darted across the short distance of the park towards the jungle gym from the tree he was using for protection. Sparkle from a distance, and the ground poofed up around him, and then the noise of more pops. Wyatt shot three times at the light, and saw a body slump down. Jamille was at the side of the two gangsters, wrapping plasticuffs on them and collecting their rifles.

Two shots left. "Jamille," he called out. "Throw me one of those and some ammunition."

Jamille looked at him with a smile. "You've shot these before?"

"No, but I'm almost out."

He pocketed the extra magazine and holstered his gun, just in time to see the assault rifle land in a patch of grass near him, with some magazines soon littered around it. He got up to go get it and instantly the bench splintered, and shots exploded.

He dove back down.

Someone I didn't see?

The shots kept coming. He pulled out the revolver again and waited for a pause. "Jamille?" he yelled.

He couldn't hear a response through the gunfire, which wasn't letting up, thundering as though the park itself was being ripped apart. Two shots wouldn't be enough. He reholstered the gun, and crawled along behind the bench until he could see the rifle. The tree that Jamille was behind was about ten yards away.

Dive, somersault, grab the rifle, roll to feet, sprint for the tree.

No word from Jamille. When the gunfire stopped, he pounced. Getting ahold of the rifle made his roll awkward, and he found himself on his knees, trying to push himself up to his feet, when the ground started to poof up around him, and then more gunfire. He bounded over the ground towards the tree and dove again to get behind it. In the river that ran through the park, about twenty yards behind him, there were splashes. He hadn't felt the bullets as they went by.

Lucky...

The shooting was coming from the hill, closer to the street. The shooter had the high ground on him. Again, why he was safe behind the bench. The gunfire was still coming, though. Wyatt felt the shots all around him, could almost feel them raining against the far side of the tree.

"Jamille!?" he yelled. Still no answer.

It was unusually bright out, so much so that the notches on the tree caught his eye immediately. Somebody had carved them in, for climbing. He looked up. It was only spring but the branches were full of leaves, and only ten feet up or so the trunk split.

Over in the sand, the mother was cradling her baby, still screaming.

More bodies around her. Where were they coming from?

"Get behind the slide!" he yelled at the mother, but she probably didn't hear him. He could barely make out his own voice through the gunfire.

The rifle had a strap, so he slung it over his shoulder and began to climb up the trunk. Soon, he was up high enough that the bullets were hitting the trunk of the tree below his feet. He took hold of the crotch between the two branches and hoisted himself up. The tree had branches that swooped low, and it was hard to see through all the leaves. He grabbed the rifle and swung it around front, gripping and aiming.

It'll have a stronger recoil, he told himself as he aimed towards where the shots had come from.

A wind kicked up and moved some of the branches out of the way. Two of the gangsters were there on the hill. One was still firing at the base of the tree, and the other was moving to a better position. He steadied himself and aimed. Short, controlled bursts, he reminded himself.

He squeezed the trigger, and shot off seven rounds before he even realized it, and the gun almost jumped out of his hands, turning off to the side. He lost his grip, but it was still strapped to him. When he looked back, he couldn't see anything straight away... until the wind caught the branches again, and then he saw the one who had been shooting, now on the ground, twitching.

The other yelled out something, before grabbing his gun, and aiming in Wyatt's general direction, although again, not looking up, not seeing him amongst the branches. The wind let up and the leaf coverage settled, and Wyatt was hidden again. He got control of the gun, brought it around front and lifted it up to aim, readying his body to absorb the kick properly. He closed one eye and tilted his head so that he was looking straight down the barrel, right through the sight.

The wind picked up again. The gangster was pointing his gun frantically in every direction, but didn't look up until it was too late. Wyatt only needed to squeeze off two rounds, and the gangster fell out of view.

Finally, Wyatt looked down, over at the jungle gym, and saw Jamille lying there, coughing up blood and breathing heavily, his hand covering a bloody mess on his belly.

"Jamille," he yelled. "Hold on."

He grabbed his radio. "Officer down. Get somebody to the center of the park, at the jungle gym. Officer down. He's not in uniform."

"Hey tree boy," somebody called out, back in the direction of where he'd seen the woman and the child before. He looked over, and saw two more gangsters there. One was behind the woman, his arm around her neck, and her eyes were wide with fear. The other was cradling the kid, and had his gun pointed at its head.

They were looking straight at him. His heart sunk, and the soles of his feet shivered.

"No..." she was sobbing.

"Get down here," the one holding the kid said. He was wearing sunglasses and had a toothy grin.

"Move it!" yelled the one holding the woman. From the way he grimaced, he was a bit more rattled. "Drop the rifle, leave it strapped."

"Ok ok..." Wyatt said, bringing his leg over so that he could crawl down the notches. He took his time. Maybe he could get them unawares, and then use the rifle to-

"Hold the rifle by the strap," the grimacing one yelled. "Pick up those magazines and bring them here."

Wyatt sighed. There was still gunfire, still some yelling from police officers, and even the wailing of sirens from other cars, but they were distant. Somehow, Wyatt knew that other than him, the two gangsters and the lady and her child, they were the only ones in that part of the park. Even the bodies...

...the bodies were gone.

He looked over at Jamille, who was still sputtering blood, still lying there, but apparently out of view. He was holding the other rifle in his hands, though. The two gangsters who were there with him were lying on the ground, motionless but still breathing.

Wyatt walked over slowly to the magazines that Jamille had thrown him earlier that he didn't have time to pick up. Holding the rifle by the strap in one hand, and clutching the ammunition awkwardly in the other, he advanced towards the two gangsters, standing there in the middle of the sand, not relenting their grip on either the mother or her child.

But where did the other bodies go?

"For a small fucker you sure were dangerous," the gangster holding the kid said. "How many did you take out? Four?"

"Five, I think," Wyatt said. When he reached the sand, he stopped, waiting further instructions.

"Yeah, that's far enough. Toss them here." The gangster gestured with his gun. "I ought to thank you. One of the ones you took out, over on the hill, I'd been meaning to do myself, but you know how it is..."

Wyatt tossed over the ammunition, and then swung over the rifle by its strap.

Two shots left.

"I guess I'll kill you quick." He took aim at Wyatt as the other one, the one holding the woman, pushed her aside and slapped her hard, sending her to the ground.

"No..." she said. "Please let me-"

Gunfire ripped through the sky from the jungle gym. The gangster holding the baby turned in the direction of the sound, and the other grabbed ahold of his gun. Wyatt quickly unholstered his gun and took two shots, and was about to try to reload when he saw both slump to the ground, each of their faces a bloody mess.

"Stevie!" the woman yelled, running over to the child, who was being held awkwardly by the dead gangster's arm.

Wyatt heard something unintelligible from the jungle gym. He turned around and rushed over. Jamille was lying there, the rifle in his hand. "Did it work...?" he asked, spitting more blood out. The two gangsters, the ones who'd been handcuffed... weren't there.

"Yeah man," Wyatt said. "Hold still." He adjusted Jamille so that he could lie properly against the side of the jungle gym, and he examined the wound. He cleaned away the blood from it as best he could, ripping off a portion of Jamille's sleeve.

Suddenly he heard the sound of voices from behind. His gun was empty, but maybe they didn't know that. He jumped up and turned around... and saw three uniforms and a couple of paramedics.

"Whoa tiger, it's the good guys," one of them said. It was Kent, standing there, his hand up protectively, as if to shield his perfect mustache.

"Sorry, sorry," Wyatt said, before pointing to Jamille. "Take care of him."

The paramedics rushed quickly to him, and Wyatt walked away, looking back at the slide. The child was back on it, riding down it happily, and the woman was coming towards him, flashing a beautiful, brilliant smile at him. He only noticed now that she was taller than he was.

"How many did you get, Wyatt?" Kent asked from behind him.

"Seven, I think," Wyatt said.

"Really? I don't see seven bodies here..."

"Carrots are better for your eyesight than doughnuts, Kent," Wyatt said, walking towards the woman.

"Oh SNAP," one of the officers said, and everybody laughed at Kent, Jamille included.

The ground between Wyatt and the woman closed quickly.

"I can't believe it, you're a miracle worker," she said, her hands coming up to caress his face. She was really beautiful, close up. She crouched over a bit and leaned in close to kiss him fully on the mouth, and the cops behind him cheered. "Attaboy, Wyatt." He inhaled her perfume, and it was intoxicating. "I don't know how I can ever repay you for saving us."

"Just don't pinch me," he smiled.

"Why?" she said, her fingers going out towards his forearm.

"NO!" he yelled, but it was too late, and the bright sunny park was replaced by the darkness of his bedroom.