It was a blustery night in spring when my friend came after me with a gun. We had called a hiatus during a study break (there were girls there, after all), but that was over now, and he was after me. And he was motivated, because I had been a roadblock to his winning streak for most of the week. During the first two or three days, he had collapsed the list with gusto, collecting bounty cards at the rate of one every few hours. When he got the card of the guy who was supposed to get me, he gave me fair warning.

I thanked him for the warning, expressed amazement at his record (I had only managed to get one or two cards), and began thinking of how I might skulk past him for the rest of the week. My friend was innovative; he had taken out one of his targets by having a buddy drive him around campus prone in the back seat of a convertable. When his driver spotted the target, he drove slowly past, and my friend popped up for an easy and surprised kill. My friend also had athleticism, and a certain agressive instinct on his side. On my side I had my own prediliction toward caution and preparation.

As he arose the next morning and, wrapped in a towel, headed for the showers (our dorm rooms were adjacent), he exclaimed his frustration at seeing me showered, dressed, and, books under my arm, headed out the door. It was six am. But getting out the door ahead of him, while giving me the advantage of terrain, presented another problem. The cafeteria was a no-fire zone, but the cafeteria was closed at this hour. In fact nearly all the buildings on campus were closed. So I chose a high hedge which flanked an administration building opposite the entrance to the cafeteria, crept in and waited. Having lost his bid to ambush me on the way to breakfast, my friend took his sweet time getting ready, undoubtably taking a shower so lengthy it would put Seattle to shame.

At length he appeared, strolling along the long sidewalk that lead to the cafeteria, and from my cramped vantage point I realized I had a choice to make. Were I to emerge from the hedge and close to firing distance, I’d lose the advantage of concealment in exchange for a chance at an hour’s reprieve. On the other hand I’d face him with no cover and no surprise. I let him go into the cafeteria, and settled for needling him again by sauntering up behind him as he walked toward the counter.

Later that same day I needed to move from the student center back to my dorm room, and noticed that my friend, who had been hanging around, had suddenly gone scarce. He must have sensed I was planning to leave; perhaps I looked nervously at the exits as I chatted with my friends. There was nothing to be done but to run for it. I chose an obscure exit –an outer door at the bottom of a stairwell– opened the door a couple of feet and stood on the threshold watching and listening for a long time; must have been a couple of minutes. I decided it was clear. Gun in hand, I pushed my way through the door, and just as my eyes came past the swinging door’s edge, I saw in my peripheral vision a form behind the door. My left hand swung up reflexively and I pulled the trigger. He never got a clear shot at me. My little rubber bullet hit him in the eye.

He was a good sport, my friend. Shots to the face were considered bad form; intentional head shots were taboo and wouldn’t count. But my friend wouldn’t hear of anything but a one hour reprieve for me. Chagrined, concerned for his reddened eye, and distinctly relieved and delighted at the sudden lifting of the stress of evasion, I quickly set out through the campus running any and every errand I could think of.

The next several days were a blur of study, fatigue, ragged nerves and sleep deprivation. By the night of the study break I was very tired. There were only three of us left. We met briefly at the end of the study break and decided to end this thing, OK-Corral-style. The dorm where we met had a quasi half courtyard surrounding a parking lot on three sides. We’d each come from a different entrance and converge in the parking lot.

As I waited in the south wing for the signal to charge, I felt my spirits rising. I wanted to be the last man standing (I wasn’t one to take winning lying down), but win or lose, it would be over soon. The balance of the contest would be decided in a final blaze of glory; a few minutes confused running, yelling, shooting, and then we’d have a winner and two losers. And we’d all go and get a good night’s sleep. Out in the parking lot, a former contestant threw down a makeshift flag and yelled “Go!” I plunged out of my darkened doorway into the dim, yellow-purple glare of the street lights.

We were all bundled up against the cold wind. My friend was wearing shorts, but also wore a bulky sweatshirt. I had on a sweater. The other guy was wearing a windbreaker. As my friend veered toward me, I shifted right and took aim at the fellow in the windbreaker and pulled the trigger. And again. And, slewing back to the left, again. Amazingly, I was still alive for a fourth shot. Now I was litterally fleeing my friend, and pumping shot after shot at that blue windbreaker. And then we all stopped. My magazine was empty.

“Did I get you?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t feel anything. Did you feel anything?”

“No, I didn’t feel a thing. You may well have hit me, but I can’t tell in all this wind.”

And then we stood there, less than an arm’s length apart and laughed. Nobody reloaded. Nobody pulled a sneaky shot. We just stood around planning the next final showdown. We settled on a cease fire until 10:00 am the next day. At that hour we’d meet and end it.

The weather wanted to win, and none of us wanted to be shot down like dogs in the rain, so we postponed the showdown a couple of times throughout the day. Finally we decided to end it inside the student center at 4:00 pm. This gave me time to finish my classes, take a nap, shower and get dressed. I arrived at the student center still weary from the week’s pursuits, but also refreshed. My limbs were loose, and my mind was calm and disposed toward humor. At the appointed time we each took up a corner of the student center’s main social area (having shooed away anybody who didn’t want to get caught in our crossfire). Our master of ceremonies gave us the go, and we just kinda stood there, looking at each other. We were all tired and wanted it to end. Yet we had all survived so long, and hated to end without victory. Except for me. I didn’t care anymore.

I stepped forward, grabbing a nearby chair as I strode into the middle ground. I swung the chair around in front of me, and sat down, crossing my legs with my gun laid casually accross my lap. My friend vaulted a couch and moved in like a lion stalking his rightful prey. But my passivity opened up my friend’s flank; the WindBreaker could now target my friend without much fear of me, and so he moved in with speed born of anticipation of an easy kill. And just as he closed with my friend and prepared a careful shot, I raised my gun and shot him from my seat. I shot without aiming; no aiming was necessary. The WindBreaker was standing no more than ten feet away. I savored the look of betrayal in the WindBreaker’s eyes for just a second, and then I felt the sting of my friend’s rubber bullet hitting my neck.