PM was circling, circling.
A shell shook 248.
Dennison ducked to avoid the concussion: he rapped his shoulder on the gun butt: he was angry and fired blindly, and wet his lips with his tongue.
Men were escaping, dozens of them.
Dennison fired in rage, fired at the windows of an apartment: he riddled a closed door: he chipped off stucco: he fired into a pine tree: his shooting jag was warming his belly. 248 swung around a corner.
"Watch out for that concrete slab!" Dennison warned.
PM did not hear.
One of the tracks grazed it.
Dennison signalled again.
His eyes were watering from the heat and smoke.