I can’t see the ladder, but I can hear his voice. Turning toward him, I look up. A thin line of light shows the border of a square hatch. I struggle to my feet, leaning against the wall, and I pause to catch my breath. The air here still smells of ocean, but stings with the tinge of toxic chemicals. The burning in my throat and lungs might not be from more than drowning and being revived, though.
With a modicum of strength returned, I shuffle across the hallway like one of the undead, and catch myself on the wall, clinging to a ladder rung for support.
Endo stands next to me. “I know that we will never be...friends.”
I’m suddenly feeling awkward and uncomfortable, like when I was asked to the prom by Jenny Stillwater, my childhood-friend’s little sister. Not only was she four years younger than me, not only did I remember her in diapers, but she was my friend’s sister. It’s just not done. Of course, when I saw her again, three years later and all grown into herself, I wondered if turning her down was actually the best choice. But Endo isn’t about to grow anything feminine.
“I just want you to know…” he says, “you have earned my respect.”
“Just because Nemesis has—”
“Not because of how Nemesis—or Maigo—views you. Or even because of how you view her. But because you repeatedly put your life at risk to do what you believe is the right thing to do. Including returning for me.”
In the silence that follows, I realize that compliment time is over.
“Yeah, well, thank you, fuckface. Would you mind climbing the ladder now so we can find out who ordered that strike and kick their ass?”
“Gladly,” he says. He starts up the ladder, grunting with each rung ascended. As I follow, barely containing a scream with each step up, I realize that neither of us will be kicking asses anytime soon. There’s a clang of metal as he reaches the top and shoves. A flash of light reveals the brick tunnel around us. But then the hatch closes and Endo lets out a little growl. For a moment, I think we’re trapped down here, but Endo climbs another step, gets his shoulder under the door and shoves. Blessed sunlight pours into the tunnel. I expect Boston’s cool ocean air to follow, but I get a lungful of hot, foul smelling filth. I cough for a moment, while Endo exits.
When I reach the top, he bends to help me out. We’re not far from where we started, standing on a walkway in what used to be the Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park. It had been spared destruction a year ago, but it’s now a smoldering ruin. The grass is gone, replaced by ash, whisked away by the wind. Most of the trees were uprooted and either tipped over or flung away. Those that remain upright look like large incense burners, smoke twisting away from the tips of still burning branches. Anything that had been untouched by Nemesis has now been destroyed. Buildings. Wharfs. Boats.
We hobble together, toward the Harborwalk, along the shore. Through columns of rising smoke, I see the harbor. Steam rolls over the ocean’s surface. The remnants of a mushroom cloud billows upward. In the distance, jets circle in groups of three, wary.
Nemesis remains.
She’s still in the same spot, curled in on herself, a colossal armadillo. Smoke rises from her protective carapace, but I see no real damage.
She’s motionless, but not dead. While MOAB is an impressive weapon, wonderful for killing people and destroying buildings, Nemesis is designed, or has evolved, to withstand such an explosive force. Hell, she contains an even more powerful explosive force.
A grinding sound turns my eyes to the right. We’re standing in the shadow of a long, five-story, brick building. The Marriot, if I’m not mistaken. The red bricks, now scorched black, are crumbling.
Dread grips me. I’m not sure where it comes from, but its intense. And real. There’s a mountain of shit currently heading toward a very large fan, and we are still squarely downwind. The chop of a helicopter gives me a small amount of hope. I lift my aching arms and wave.
Betty comes in from the North, flying low and fast. A cloud of ash swirls into the air, whipped up by the rotors. Endo and I run for it while the Marriot caves in on itself behind us. We’re met halfway by Collins and Alessi, who silently help us into the chopper. Rather than bring me to the passenger’s seat—my usual station, Collins rather forcefully guides me to the back. Once I’m in, she slams the door and takes my seat in the front.
I lean forward, fighting the pain in my ribs, and pick up a headset. Once it’s on, I say, “We need to leave. Now.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Woodstock says, lifting Betty off the ground. “We’ll be headed north in just—”
“Not north!” I shout, the fear taking hold again. “Southeast. Through the North End. Go!”
I’m glad he doesn’t ask why. I have no answer. It’s just a feeling. We need a barrier between us and what comes next, and the ruins of downtown is the closest thing to a wall around here.
As we swing around and speed through the still standing skyscrapers of Boston’s North End, I look out the window and up. The line of jets is incoming again.
They fire.