There's a gunshot.
Bart sprints behind a box to write this down. He should probably be doing something like calling the police or running away a million miles per second, but he doesn't have a phone and his legs have apparently permanently glued themselves to the floor, so he's not going anywhere.
No running anymore.
His heart beats painfully hard in the pit of his chest.
Another gunshot goes off. Bart's pretty sure this one flew straight through the box he's hiding behind. It's hard to write anymore, because his hand is shaking and he doesn't know what to do and he's scared shitless. He begins to cry.