Bruckner
He would never leave it.
In that instant of realization, Erich felt a release, a benediction of such cleansing strength, he felt invulnerable.
As he stood next to Hawthorne, he turned and spoke vaguely in Sinclair’s direction. “I…I feel…funny,” he said. “Something is—”
“What’s the matter?” said the technician, who reached out to steady Erich. It was a helpful, human gesture, and Erich felt a brief pang of guilt for the deception.
Pretending to lean into Hawthorne for support, Erich used him as a base, a pillar, and finally, a launching point. With all the power and feeble energy he could summon, he pushed off propelling himself forward.
Forward, at the Rube Goldbergian structure of the Project Norway device and the detonation mechanisms of Herr Kress.
Everyone moved.
Lunging for him. Hands reached out from both sides—Hawthorne and one of the crew—and even though their talon-like fingers caught the hood and shoulder of his parka, he twisted and stretched as he fell.
“Get him!” yelled Sinclair.
Erich felt his body stretching, laid out almost horizontally, as if he were trying to fly toward the bomb. And it was in that instant that he realized how old he actually was. Despite his mind being sharp and clear and as agile as it had been so many years ago, and despite the curious refusal of his body to age at a normal rate, he had still become weaker than he wanted to admit.
And therefore, what he intended and imagined as a forceful, lunging attack was nothing more than an attempt at a rapid movement in mocking painful slow-motion.
But in spite of this, he had instilled a great instantaneous panic in all of them around him, and they didn’t dismiss his age or his lack of mass or power. They converged on him and physically detained him, freezing his progress and yanking him backward from the device.
He had failed.
And everyone seemed to expel their pent-up, fear-choked breaths at once.
All but one.
In that brief interlude of collective relief as the men relaxed, knowing they had stopped him, and were transporting him back and away from his target, Erich saw rapid movement at the periphery of his vision.
So quick. Almost a blur. Like a torpedo at launch, the shape burst past him and the bodies who held him.
Tommy.
And in that instant of belated realization, he was beyond them, flying through the air like a linebacker making a tackle. One of the crewman rose up to meet him, to collide, to stop him.
And he did, but not before Tommy reached out with a final surge of power and will, his thick, gnarled fingers barely touching the wires.
The wires that connected the frozen timer with the detonator cap embedded in the waterproof pack of explosives.
The wires running through the dead man’s switch.
Turning, Erich saw the red wire slip free, and—
—flash
—white
—nothingness