HEROES ALWAYS STROLL away from explosions on TV. Just saunter along, not looking back. I’m starting to think that’s all CGI.
We’re far away, in the last room before the elevators. The percussive force still picks us up and tosses us like balls at the Super Bowl.
White stabs my eyes. The boom blasts out a second later (loud, so loud, can’t think see hear…).
I strike something. Solid, soft; I can’t tell. I hit it hard enough that it doesn’t matter. My scream’s punched out of me before it can sound.
Ears ringing. Eyes burning. Every nerve screeching pain-pain-pain.
Mom’s car rolls again, seat belt slicing my stomach. My skull is a balloon, swollen tight around that pressure, that terror, that wordless, primitive certainty that this is how I die …
Wait. Not a seat belt. Arms. Pulling me close, holding me safe.
Vision swims back, crosshatched with fire. I feel myself scream. It’s a full-body exercise: muscles tensing, throat blazing as I push sound past my vocal cords. I can’t hear it. Nothing but tinnitus: a mosquito drilling into my brain.
Chunks of debris hurtle around us. I brace for impact—gonna die, gonna die. But the boulders burst open, shattering off Sherman’s shield. Its surface glimmers, alive with dashes of lightning-bright brilliance. We curl together in the eye of the storm.
Jav, I plead, mouth moving clumsy around the word. But she’s here, too, collapsed against Sherman’s side.
I’m so grateful I could kiss her. I don’t know which her—possibly both. But now’s not the time—especially as the far end of the corridor caves away, darkness gaping beneath.
Sherman’s eyes widen. She yells something. The arm over my chest tightens (mmm … biceps…). The other hooks Jav. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I get the gist.
Hold on tight.
I cling like my life depends on it. Right now, it probably does.
Tremors shake the ceiling, cracks spider up the walls. Time for one last thought. I make it a resounding FUCK. Then the floor buckles, and down we go.