The First, The Second and the Third

Victim

Hawking was running lightly
and quickly through the fog-stained air. His tiny footsteps touched the puddle covered pavement. Behind him came shouts and swears of gangs. Hawking didn't exactly know how he got into his situation, but he only knew he had to get out. The shouts and the swears were chasing him. Hawking was a deer, running from a predator who knew they were going to catch him.
He had been running for a while now. He had no idea how long, but it was a while. But Hawking wasn't tired, far from it in fact. All over Hawking was shivering with the quaking fear that the gang would catch him and viciously attack him.

The straight road morphed into a junction. Left, a marching row of still brick houses, right, a scatter of fields with a twisty grey line, which was the road, twirling around it. Hawking immediately turned left into the row of houses. As he jogged down it, the shouts and the swears were softening, as if the predator had given up on its prey. Hawking turned into a black alleyway, and panted for his life. Never had he ever been so tired before.
Hawking couldn't remember much of the last few days that went by. He couldn't understand why the gang was trying to attack him. Maybe it would all come back to him? Struggling to sit, Hawking lowered himself into a squat. Had they gone? Was he safe?
All of a sudden a cat screeched from behind him. Hawking looked up to see six lanky figures, silhouetted against the moonlight. The Gang. They had found him. Crying under his breath, Hawking braced himself for the impossible.