We moved through the murky tunnel for another ten minutes, following the wide stone floor as it sloped down, twisting and turning deeper and deeper into the earth. The music jabbered on, getting louder, more intense as we drew closer to its source. At last a flicker of light intruded on the gloom surrounding us. As Greg and I crept closer, the light grew—a lurid green illumination playing against the rough stone wall, occasionally interrupted by the flash of black silhouettes. The hallway dead-ended and hooked to the left, presumably leading to the temple’s main chamber, since this seemed to be the source of both the light and the strange music.

Greg pressed up against the wall before carefully peeking around the corner, just a glimpse. He pulled his head back almost immediately, and though much of his face was obscured in shadow, I could tell he was pretty damn shaken up by whatever he’d seen. He slipped back a step, then motioned me over with a quick jerk of his arm. I pushed in close, careful not to disturb any of the rubble or dirt underfoot.

You gotta see this, he mouthed at me, without actually saying the words, then backed up a step further so I could get into position. I silently crept around him and hugged the wall, just as he had done, preparing myself to take a peek. My breathing sounded thunderous in my ears and my heart labored away in my chest, pounding away like Big John Henry driving steel. This was it, the end of the line. Whatever was in the connecting room was all that stood between us and safety, between us and freedom. I took one more deep breath, then popped my head around the corner, ready to get a sense of just what we were up against.

The sight was so disorienting I almost couldn’t figure out what the hell I was looking at. My mind didn’t even have a frame of reference for this kinda screwiness. The chamber beyond was a large rectangular room, maybe 1,500 square feet, just about the size of the VFW hall my pop used to drink at. The floor was rough stone like the rest of the temple, but everything else looked like something right out of a nightclub. A very, very twisted nightclub. Maybe the old guy in the clink hadn’t been as full of horseshit as I’d originally thought—there certainly was one helluva party going on down here, with decorations to match.

Strings of intestine hung from the ceiling and walls, for all the world like rolls of crepe paper draped about. Stacked against the right wall were the party favors: metal drums that reeked of Napalm, crates filled with mortar rounds, boxes of weapons, and ammo. Enough arms and munitions to equip a small army. Wooden, oriental-style lanterns dangled from the ceiling and sat on round banquet tables surrounding the chamber, shedding sickly and unnatural green light, casting the partygoers in deathly illumination. And the partygoers themselves …

Men and women—both Americans and Vietnamese—all of them dirty, disheveled, and bloodstained, sat around the tables, eating from platters of food while they jawed away, talking loud enough to be heard over the music. Occasionally bursts of manic laughter broke out, the eerie sound of people no longer a part of the rational, normal world. Everyone also, uniformly, had an odd tri-leafed flower sprouting from their necks—a thick green vine, sunk right into the carotid artery like an IV drip.

A clump of men and women dotted an open patch, which apparently served as a dance floor, moving and swinging, grinding and groping, as they boogied like the end of the world had come and gone, and there was nothing left to live for.

Against the left wall, someone had erected an elaborate stage covered in purple satin, which housed the main attraction. The raised platform held maybe twenty men—all with blue-tinged skin and dressed to the nines in fancy-pants tuxedos a couple of decades out of date—each playing a different instrument, and playing the shit out of ’em. Trumpets and saxophones, clarinets, and a quartet of strings. A piano man working away at a beautiful dark wood Bosendorfer Imperial Grand. Unless those cats had a crazy-good special effects department tucked away somewhere in the back, they weren’t human.

It was the three women dancing center stage, however, who stole the show and held the audience in hypnotic rapture and adoration. They just had to be the sirens the old coot had mentioned. I knew they weren’t card-carrying members of the human race, just like I knew the sun didn’t rise in the south. One look was enough to tell me that. Those women were about as human as classic Greek sculptures. Sure, they had the same general shape as real women, but everything was too right, too perfect by a mile.

They each wore 1920s flapper dresses—each dress a different hue, one red, one gold, one black—encrusted with sequins and cut away to reveal too much in some ways, while not revealing enough in others. Their skin was pale and smooth as alabaster, their breasts too damn big, their waists too damn small, not to mention they had hips like a pair of battleships and legs that went on from here to eternity. The trio should’ve been any guy’s wet dream, but they looked about as real as life-sized Barbie dolls and made me want to go to a confessional booth on general principle.

The truth was, they were unwholesome—and not in the good, fun, lets-drink-and-boogie-the-night-away unwholesome. More like we-will-steal-your-soul-and-dance-on-your-friggin’-grave unwholesome. Yeah, pass.

A massive noise reverberated from the back of the chamber, the sound rich and deep like the sound of an earthquake or a tree crashing to the ground. A moment later, a voice called out. It was Wrangle.

“Our guests have finally decided to join us,” he said in monotone. “Please, stop the music, let us receive them.”

The women ceased their swaying, words trailing off as they turned large eyes, completely purple without any sign of pupils, toward the doorway. The men and women on the dance floor likewise stopped their frantic movements and shifted away from the floor, settling into seats amongst their fellows. Okay, so previously I said the singing women commanded the room’s attention, and understandably so, but that was only because I hadn’t been afforded a clear view of the far wall.

But now that the dancers were all sitting, I finally caught a glance of the party’s host. He was a living tree, no two ways about it. A massive creature, five or six feet wide and nearly six feet tall even sitting, that looked like the friggin’ jungle had just come alive. I’d seen this thing in the strange vision the old man had shown us, but the reality was something altogether different. Gnarled roots and jungle vines composed his entire body, while wispy growths of moss clung to his … let’s go with face … forming something that resembled a beard.

Bright colored flowers—exactly like the flowers protruding from the partygoers’ necks—dotted its body, each swaying in some gentle, unfelt breeze. On second look, I realized those flowers weren’t swaying in a breeze, they were breathing.

In one massive hand he held a staff made of gnarled wood and jungle blossoms, shaped like a jaguar scaling a tree. He had his other hand wrapped around Rat’s scrawny neck. He wasn’t choking him, not yet, but the posture was clear: One wrong move and I pop his head like a meat-balloon.

Wrangle stood just behind and to the left of Rat, eyes vacant and glazed, flower protruding from his neck; clearly, whoever had previously lived inside his head had moved out and something else had taken up residence. The Tree man inclined his head, just a fraction of an inch. Wrangle moved without a thought, beelining across the room toward the weapon stocks. He bent over and rummaged through a large wooden chest for a moment before withdrawing a boxy green radio—a PRC 25, which had a range of eight klicks—and a satchel of colored smoke grenades, used for marking position for airlift.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Probably, there’d be another US squad somewhere in range—hell, our platoon might’ve sent out a search and rescue party for us—which meant that radio was our ticket out of this shithole. Except, I couldn’t see any possible way that we’d be able to use it, considering we didn’t stand a chance in hell of walking out of here alive.

“Please,” Wrangle said, though I got a firm impression that the Tree man was the one driving the ol’ Wrangle mobile. “Please, come in, mageling, you and your guest both.”

“No thanks, your Royal Treeness,” I replied, pulling my head back. “I think we’ll just hang tight right here. Hey, how ’bout you just send us out the little guy in your hand along with that radio and we’ll just call it even? No harm, no foul, no need to make this messy.”

The creature issued a great booming laugh that shook the temple and sent a few loose rocks tumbling from the hallway walls. “I like messy,” Wrangle said after the wall-shaking laughter finally subsided. “Messy is fun, messy is entertaining. Not to mention the fact that I have the advantage. A roomful of armed and loyal killers, a hostage, and your only means of survival. No, I think we shall have to do it the messy way.”

“Asshole,” I called back. “I hate to bring out the big guns, but I’ve got magic powers and shit. So you better just let us go, or I’ll bring down this whole place right on top of your smarmy-tree-head.”

The creature laughed again, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. “It is true that you have power,” Wrangle said. “I can sense it in you, wafting off you like a sweet fragrance. But you are unformed, your gift just awakening.”

I paused, trying to work through this in my mind. It seemed we were at an impasse here, and I wasn’t sure how to move forward. “Whatever,” I said at last. “Let’s cut the pillow talk, bud. Obviously you hope to get something, or you wouldn’t be talking, you’d be shooting. So how about you just get to the point and tell me what you want.” It wasn’t a question—the guy had an angle he was working, though damned if I knew what it was.

“I have plenty of men and women to do my bidding,” Wrangle said, scanning the room with his glassy eyes. “Pawns who will perish by my will and in my service. But a raw, untrained mageling? Now that is a prize worth having.” Wrangle went quiet. He stood perfectly still, mouth agape, eyes moving back and forth in their sockets, like he was looking for something. Like maybe the creature inside his head was flipping through his Wrangle dictionary, searching for just the right word.

“In chess,” he finally said, “sacrificing two pawns for a knight is a fair trade—occasionally a risky gambit, but as they say, nothing wagered, nothing gained. So I will trade you for your two friends, this Greg and Rat. I will allow them to go free from this place, with the equipment they require, and, in turn, your power will serve me.” The Tree King held out his staff; a pitch-black flower bloomed from its tip. “A gracious offer, no?” Wrangle said.

Yeah, gracious. The offer was clear as good crystal—if I was going to serve the Tree King, it would be under the influence of his freaky-deaky flower-power. That wasn’t gonna happen.

“Give me a minute to think, huh?” I called out, before turning back to Greg. “The hell do we do here?” I asked him. He looked deeply shaken, maybe more deeply shaken then I’d ever seen him before. For the first time in our friendship, he looked lost. Greg was always so solid, so levelheaded, but that was because his personal motto was Semper Paratus—always ready, always prepared. He could be coolheaded in most situations because he always had a plan. But there was no plan for this, no precedent.

“I just don’t know.” He shook his head slowly back and forth. “I just don’t daggon know.” He paused for a beat, clearly kicking something around in his head. “Yancy,” he finally said, “we can’t leave this be. Maybe we don’t walk away from this, but we have to make damn sure this thing ends here. I saw the firepower they’ve got in there. How many people are gonna die for us to live? Even if we leave, those crazy sons of bitches in that room are gonna murder hundreds.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I’m not a hero. I never wanted to sign up for the Marines or fight in someone else’s war, but I sure as shit didn’t want hundreds of men or women to die if I could do something about it. I reached into my pocket and groped the ragged chunk of crystal the old man had handed me. I ran my fingers over its rough edges, feeling the electric thrum of power run up through my hand and nestle behind my eyes, the energy building. Someone needed to put this overgrown houseplant on notice, and it looked like I was the guy holding the lawn mower. Just my luck.

“Alright,” I said, pulling my hand from my pocket. “I got this. Just keep on your toes. We’ll play it by ear. Be ready to move. And if it all goes south … well, you get your ass outta here. Don’t do anything heroic, alright?”

“Is this about what that old man told you?” he asked, his voice low, pitched with concern.

“Yeah, but like I said, I’ve got this.”

He grunted, then nodded, though I could tell he wasn’t easy with it.

I raised my rifle, bringing it up to the ready, then stepped out into the open. “We can deal,” I said, “but I’m feeling just a mite suspicious, so I’m thinking some good faith is in order here.” I paused, doing a quick scan of the room, trying to figure odds. I was also scouting a good spot to take cover behind. Off to my left, there was a pile of stone rubble, which looked to have been cleared away from the dance floor. Not a perfect position, but not half bad either.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I said. “You have meat-puppet Wrangle there”—I nodded toward the man handling the radio—“bring those supplies this way first. My friend Greg gets the gear, then I’ll drop my gun, come in there, and you let Rat go, you dig it?”

The Tree King nodded his massive head, which creaked and groaned when he moved, then casually waved his staff at Wrangle. “Aye, very well,” my former squad mate said. “I can display a little ‘good faith.’” The creature gave a crooked grin, which revealed a mouth full of blunt stone teeth.

Wrangle thoughtlessly shuffled toward me, quickly drawing in range, radio held out in offering. Which is precisely when I moved. I let my rifle drop—trusting the sling wrapped around my body to catch it—while I ran behind him, wrestling an arm around his throat in a chokehold and maneuvering his body in front of my own. I hastily drew my revolver and jammed it up against his head, just for good measure.

“Drop the radio,” I said, gritting my teeth. The Tree King looked vastly amused and completely unconcerned by the turn of events and once again nodded his head. Wrangle, without thought, dropped the box and satchel containing the colored smoke grenades. Carefully, I pushed Wrangle in front of the gear so that he and I were shielding Greg from any potential fire.

I didn’t even have to say a word—I could hear the scuffle of feet behind me, and I knew Greg was gathering the equipment. The reality was, Greg, Rat, and I probably weren’t leaving this room alive, but it’s always good to have a backup plan just in case.

“You have the radio,” the Wrangle-puppet said. “Honor our agreement. Release my servant, and come to me.”

I didn’t move and I certainly didn’t let Wrangle go. He was my temporary shield, and I wasn’t about to give that up.

“Release. Him. Now.” This time it was the Tree King himself who spoke, and the short sentence was a command that reverberated around the room, rattling my teeth and resonating in my bones. “I grow weary of this game and wish to return to the party,” Wrangle said as the sound died away.

I glanced at the Sirens, who had all begun to sway on the stage in eager anticipation, as though they could sense the impending change in the air.

One of the inhuman singers cast a sultry look at me. “Come,” she cooed with a voice as sweet as honey, “come dance with us, mageling, indulge in release, free yourself from inhibition.” She shifted her hips and ran a hand over her chest, the strange light playing against her silky smooth skin.

“Yeah,” I said, bobbing my head. “I’m all about freedom—just maybe not the way you’re thinking.”

This was it. My finger tightened on the trigger.

A quick squeeze, and the gun jerked in my hand. Wrangle’s weight dropped as a spray of blood misted into my face. I let him fall and dove left as a chorus of gunfire opened up, not from in front of me, but from behind me: Greg laying down suppressive cover fire. I glanced back at Wrangle’s limp body crumpled on the floor and wanted to quit right then and there. Wanted to throw in the towel and give it all up. I’d thought it would be easier to kill him—I mean he’d turned on us, he’d gunned down Stanton, kidnapped Rat, and dragged us into this shitty situation.

But I still felt like the biggest bastard to ever walk the face of God’s green earth. He’d been a victim too, and even though there hadn’t been any other choice, I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to live with myself, assuming we did make it out of this alive.

Though you know what they say about assuming ... But, making it out alive wasn’t likely, so at least I wouldn’t have to live with the guilt for long.

Though I couldn’t see much from my hiding spot, I could hear the Tree King’s forces scrambling to defend themselves—flipping up tables, snatching up weapons, and returning fire in the space of a few seconds. Strangely enough, the musicians on stage didn’t take cover, but instead started another set: a big band version of “Paint it Black” by the Stones. The music was accompanied by the booming commands of the Tree King, speaking in some primal language I couldn’t understand.

“What do you hope to accomplish?” The question came from fifty different throats, all of the Tree King’s enslaved servants speaking as one. “You cannot stop me. I am a Leshy King, clothed in immortality. This will gain you nothing.”

“We’ll see about that, asswad!” I hollered back.

As quick as I could manage, I jammed my hand into my pocket and fished out the emerald, clutching it tightly in my fist and drawing its power into me, its force filling me up like water in a dry sponge. Now I just needed to get Rat—if he was still alive, of course—backtrack out from this death-trap room, and burn the place to the ground. I waited for Greg to start another round of cover fire before popping up, pistol in my right hand, emerald in my left, held out before me in a tight fist.

Several men and women lay scattered around the floor, some twitching, others moaning, a few completely still. The ambush had taken a pretty serious toll, but we were still outnumbered thirty to one, not counting the otherworldly musicians or the Tree King. Speaking of the Tree King, he was up and lumbering toward me, his one good eye fixed on the pulsing stone in my hand. And boy did he look pissed—like a junkyard dog who’d lost his favorite squeaky toy and then got blasted with a pellet gun. Uber, uber pissed.

On the plus side though, he was no longer holding Rat, who was now cowering in the corner with his arms wrapped around his head. Small victory, there.

“My eye!” A chorus of voices cried out from around the room as the Tree King moved ever closer. “Give it to me or suffer an undying existence of misery and torture. You will be rooted to the ground, jungle ants will pick the flesh from your bones, maggots will feast on your organs. Give it to me!”

“I’ll give you this, you really know how to sell it,” I shouted as I leveled a few shots at the approaching hulk, which, as expected, did pretty much zero to slow his approach or really affect him in any way whatsoever. But that was okay. I had the stone, and I had a metric-shit-ton of raw power eating me up on the inside, demanding that I do something with it. In my mind, I envisioned fire—hungry flame that needed to burn and consume—pumping up out of the stone, washing over the Tree King, who also happened to be King of the crazy assholes.

I pushed the thought outward, sending the image and the energy back through the stone. Ribbons of green fire shot out, wild and uncontrolled, like striking lightning. A few coils snaked out toward the soldiers hunkered down behind tables, while a few more lashed out at the crates against the wall, setting some of the wood boxes on fire. That could prove to be problematic in the long-term, since there was foo-gas and lots of bombs over that way. But that was really only a problem if I survived the next five minutes. Not likely, considering only a handful of the green beams even went in the Tree King’s direction.

I couldn’t control the power. It was flowing through me and I knew I was giving it form, manifesting it into flame, but I couldn’t seem to bend it to my will. It was the emerald, its innate force overloading whatever meager ability I’d gained since starting this shitty mission. Trying to rein that energy in was like trying to control a wild, bloodthirsty baboon with a leash made from yarn. Not to mention the fact that the Tree King had power of his own. Tree roots had sprouted from the ground in columns, shielding him before the flames ever came close to touching him.

More roots ran over the floor, living things that creeped around my feet and ankles, literally rooting me in place. I aimed down and pumped the few remaining pistol rounds I had into the creepers, which blew apart in sprays of woodchips. Though the Tree King seemed to move with the plodding slowness of a mammoth, he’d managed to cover most of the distance between us. I struck out with another round of jade-flame, a more concentrated beam of fire about the width of my wrist, which plowed into his leg and set it burning bright. Score one for me.

The Tree King let out a howl of displeasure and pain, one great hand beating at his leg to stifle the embers glowing there. I tried to zigzag the beam up to his torso, but with no luck. Instead the beam just flickered and died, unwilling to cooperate with me.

Something slithered around my throat—a root, which had torn itself free from the wall—constricting and cutting off the oxygen flowing to my lungs. I dropped my spent pistol and grasped at the vine with my now free hand, trying to cram my fingers into place, desperate to yank the thing loose.

My fingers strained to find purchase, but couldn’t make any headway, not even an inch.

I gasped, my mouth working open and closed like a fish on land as I struggled for air, my head quickly growing heavy. Fuzzy. I changed tactics, dropping my right hand away from my throat and fumbling for the M-16 secured to my body by its sling. I got my hand around the pistol grip and pulled it up, firing haphazardly from the hip at the hulking Tree King. I pumped my finger, firing shot after shot in a last-ditch gambit. Many of the rounds went wide or plowed uselessly into the ground, but a few careened into the jungle beast: flowers spinning through the air, jagged pieces of wood raining to the floor.

But he still seemed unconcerned. He had eyes—well, one eye—only for the stone in my hand. He wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let me leave here alive with that damn stone. Having it back was everything to him. It meant being whole. Seeing me pay for my insolence probably came in a close second.

The rifle clicked dry, my mag spent. I let the weapon fall, now worthless. My vision had gone almost entirely black, and even though I continued to struggle for air—because, let’s face it, what else was I gonna do?—I knew it was a losing battle. This was it. End game. I’d done a helluva lot better than I thought I would. Rat was still alive and there was a good chance Greg could make it out of the temple in one piece. Hell, with that radio in hand, Greg might even get home alive, the jerk.

When I blinked my eyes open again, the Tree King’s giant, ugly mug was right in front of my face, a fat stupid grin splitting his malformed face in two as he reached for the gem with one gnarled hand. This close, I could smell the stench of rotten fruit and moist earth wafting off him like bad perfume.

“You should have given it to me, mageling.” It was obvious that he was using his “inside” voice, and it still made my eyes want to pop right out of their sockets. “Now, I will have it all. I will be complete. I will enslave your mind and use your talent, and…” He held the last word, savoring the taste of tension. “And I will kill your friends. Just. Because. I. Can.”

His hand wrapped around my fist and tangles of jungle growth entwined themselves about my wrist and fingers like mini serpents, working to pry my hand open and free the stone.

I gripped the gem until my knuckles turned white, clamped down until the edges of the emerald cut into my skin and warm blood ran down my wrist.

The thought of him getting the stone and then murdering Greg and Rat was too much to bear. Not on my watch. Fuck that jazz.

Hate boiled in me, churning inside, a hate so strong it was almost blinding. I fed all of that anger, sadness, terrible regret, and loss into the stone. Another beam of jade-power shot through his wooden hand and up into his arm—the limb flew apart at the seams, exploding into lawn mulch. Green fire splashed over his torso and face, turning him into a living bonfire. He staggered back, tottered for a moment, and crashed to the floor with a boom that shook the ground beneath me.

The vine loosened around my throat and I tumbled onto my ass, now weak, exhausted, and spent. My body shook with jittery adrenaline, my chest labored to pull in some much needed oxygen. I looked on the fallen titan, feeling disconnected from the whole scene. I’d done it. I’d beaten that prick, despite all the odds stacked against me. How about that? If I’d had the energy for it, I would’ve pumped my fist and done a victory jig while yelling obscenities into the air.

Which is precisely when that giant son of a bitch pushed himself back upright, despite the fact that he was burning like the sun at high noon.

There was a terrible knowledge in his good eye, the knowledge of his own impending death. He was confused about what had happened, that much was obvious, but it was also clear that he knew his moments were numbered and ticking down by the second as the green fire ran over his body. His doom was inevitable, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The damage was already too extensive for anything else. But there was something else burning in his eye as well. Revenge. He was going to die, true, but not before he crushed me to meat-paste and danced a spirited victory jig of his own right on my bones. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop him.

I slipped the stone into my pocket and used the wall behind my back to worm my way upright. If I was gonna meet my end, at least I could meet it on my feet. A flash of movement caught my eye, something moving just behind and to the right of the Tree King.

Rat scampered fully into view as the Tree King took a ponderous step forward, throwing his body around the creature’s good leg. That crazy son of a bitch. I never would’ve thought he had it in him. Rat was no hero, and he certainly wasn’t the guy to take one for the team. Not by his own choice anyways. The creature glanced down, a look of sheer annoyance passing over his inhuman face. It was the same look someone might spare for an actual rat.

“What the hell are you doing, asshole?” I yelled at him. “Get outta here, idiot—I’m saving your ass here.”

Rat just shook his head and gripped the monstrous leg tighter. Fear wormed across his face before hardening into resolve. “My mom!” he shouted. “Tell my mom I’m sorry.” I could barely hear the words over the clamor of the music, but I did hear them. Time seemed to grind to a halt, everything moved in slow motion. The Tree King reached down to pull Rat free with one of his burning hands, but it was already too late for that. Rat had a smoke grenade clamped tightly in one fist, the pin missing and the spoon depressed. The little guy must’ve grabbed it from the stockpile of weapons and munitions.

There was a pop, followed by a flare of light, and then a thick white fog belched out, along with a gout of flame. Though the grenade was meant for marking purposes or concealing troop movements, every solider knew it could be used as an incendiary device. The shit inside those smoke canisters was white phosphorus, aka Willie Pete, and that shit was worse than Napalm. Napalm burned, and burned hot, but Willie Pete burned at damn near 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit, stuck to the skin like shit to a blanket, and couldn’t be put out—not even with water. Stuff burned right down to the bone.

The flame spread up over Rat, racing up his arm and over his cammies, clinging to his exposed skin and biting down. He let out a scream, a tortured sound, which only lasted for a moment. The Willie Pete quickly consumed the oxygen around him, so his cry became only a wordless portrait. The fire didn’t stop with Rat. It spread up the Tree King’s leg, branching off to join with the bright green flame, a river flowing into the ocean to become one. The Willie Pete burned through the Tree King’s lower extremities, and he toppled once more, his legs now charred stumps.

The music died away at last, fading as the Tree King thrashed and groaned on the floor, the life finally draining out of him. I tore my eyes away from Rat’s burning body, unable to watch for a second longer, and glanced at the stage. The band was filing through a shimmering portal, which let out on some city that didn’t belong anywhere I’d ever seen. One of the sirens offered me a wink, then blew me a kiss as though to say Au revoir before the doorway snapped shut around her. The band vanished as completely as though they’d never been here at all.

I needed to move. Rat had paid an incredible price to give me a shot, and I couldn’t waste it, not even if my body refused to cooperate with me. I pushed myself away from the wall, stumbling into a lurching run as I made for the exit. I rounded the corner and saw Greg standing a few feet up the passageway, just as a gigantic explosion ripped through the air, filling my head with ringing and my eyes with white pinpricks. The ordinance against the far wall must’ve finally gone up. My damn knees gave out and my eyes slid shut as a rush of hot wind washed over me.