Before she can argue, I grip Woodstock’s arm. “Get them out of here and don’t come back.”
He nods. A good soldier.
I glance to the back, find Collins’s confused eyes and say, “Love you.” Then I throw open the side door and jump.
If Collins replies, I don’t hear her. The roar of rushing air, of missiles and of Nemesis, fills my ears. Vibrates my very bones. Things are about to get very loud around here.
I pull the ripcord for my base-jumping parachute after just one second of freefall. Another second longer and the chute wouldn’t have time to deploy. It’s a close call already. The black fabric unfurls, catches the air and arrests my fall just thirty feet from the ground. I land hard, shouting in pain, as my legs fold beneath my weight.
After pulling myself free from the chute, I hobble to my feet. I’m standing by what remains of the New England Aquarium. I strike out to the west, heading for the back of the apartment building, where Endo should have touched down. I realize he might not be there. He could have bugged out. I could be risking my life for nothing. That he didn’t check in with Alessi is what concerns me, though.
The pain in my leg increases with each limping step. I press my hand against the limb, covering the wound, and I feel the warm tacky wetness of blood. A lot of blood. Moving is probably a bad idea, but at this point, I don’t have a choice. As I reach the end of the wharf, upon which the aquarium was built, I shout, “Endo!”
The lack of reply doesn’t slow me down. I’ve got just over a minute before the mother of all bombs turns me to dust. I turn left and spot a billowing black shape. “Endo!” I hurry forward. The parachute is tangled with a mass of ruined outdoor tables with blue umbrellas. “Endo!”
A groan. Movement. I yank away the chute and find him lying amid the debris. His face is covered in blood. “Came down too fast,” he says and glances up. “Hit the building.”
I glance up. A seven story, concrete building looms above us. He must have bounced off the building and fallen into the tables. “Can you move?”
“I’d prefer an ambulance,” he says.
“Either get up or all you’re going to get is dead.”
“Nemesis?”
I turn my eyes skyward, find the black triangle of a stealth bomber high above and point it out. “MOAB.”
“Shit,” he says with uncommon surprise, pushing himself up. I pull him to his feet, but after that, he’s on his own. I can barely stand as it is.
“This way!” We hobble back past the Aquarium, heading for a green railing above which is mounted a circular sign with a big T in the middle. The red brick is unforgiving beneath my feet, each impact a new kind of agony.
The sound of a continuing missile barrage, coupled with Nemesis’s roar, draws my attention back to the harbor. Nemesis is aglow with explosions, writhing in pain or fury. Probably both. The fighter jet pilots have done a good job of avoiding those orange membranes.
Then the missiles stop.
The jets flying past overhead peel away, afterburners roaring as they flee the scene.
A tiny black dot falls from the sky, headed toward Nemesis.
MOAB.
I look forward, the subway station is just fifty feet ahead. If I were healthy, I could cover the distance in a few seconds. Now...it’s going to be close. The problem with MOAB is that it’s a fuel-air explosive, meaning it will detonate before it strikes Nemesis, creating a thermobaric wave of stunning force and heat not unlike Nemesis’s self-immolation.
Ignoring the bomb and its target, I push past the pain, willing my legs forward. Endo reaches the stairwell before me and plunges into the darkness. He shouts in surprise about something, but I don’t slow as I reach the steps. Instead, I throw myself downward, expecting a brutal but potentially lifesaving fall. The surprise comes quickly as I splash down into salt water. The subway is flooded. We’re still too high!
“Down!” I shout, ducking beneath the water and swimming for all I’m worth, while the salt water burns my wounds. After just five strokes, a wave of pressure moves through the water and my body, drawing the air from my lungs. I instinctually head for the surface, but I bump my head. Seeing stars, I spin, pressing my hands against an invisible ceiling, unable to tell if they’re moving through water or air, or even if I’m right-side up. I’d shout if I could. Scream like a madman. But there’s no air left in my lungs.
And then, from the darkness, some unseen predator strikes hard, pulling me to my doom as water rushes into my lungs.
29
I have no memory of how painful my birth felt—to me, not to my mother. I imagine it wasn’t comfortable, being squashed down in too tight of a space, head compressed, limbs twisted. Torn from the world I knew and thrust into a coldness without connection. Could there be anything much worse than that?