He held on to the man’s helmet, sure it would break his neck at any second. Michael planted his feet on the backseat, then pushed off, diving through the opening so that he landed on the floor of the front cabin. The cop fell with him, his body slipping out of its seat belt and landing on top of Michael. Outside the windows, the world was spinning, buildings at odd angles and the blue sky flashing in turn with gray steel and glass.
“Now!” Michael yelled. “Grab the wheel!”
Sarah was already climbing through the opening, reaching forward. Bryson helped, lifting and pushing her. Michael wrestled with the cop, terrified that he’d somehow get his gun free and start firing. Someone would come after them soon—surely the falling police vehicle had been noticed at the station.
Sarah grabbed the steering wheel just as the cop got a hand free and punched Michael in the face. Pinpricks of light exploded before his eyes. He gripped the lower section of the man’s visor and yanked fiercely. It flew up and something cracked, though it didn’t come free.
The cop’s face was creased in fury. “You must be the stupidest …,” he started to say, but the whole universe seemed caught in a cyclone, everything spinning. Michael looked at Sarah, hoping she could gain control.
She tugged at the wheel wildly, leaning into it with her full weight, trying to steady things. But the car kept swerving, tilting, at last shooting upward. A horrible scream of engines vibrated the windows. Sarah’s tongue was pinched between her lips; strain filled her eyes.
There was a terrible crunching sound just as Michael slammed forward into the bottom of the dashboard. The world shook as windows broke and metal screeched on metal and the noise of crumbling brick filled the air.
Then it all stopped. The car was still, tilted heavily to the right. Michael looked out the busted window and saw nothing but the ground far below.
The stillness after all the noise of the crash was spooky, as if they’d been on a roller coaster and time froze before the ride had quite finished. There were groans, the sounds of harsh breathing, and a distant honk or two from the street below.
Michael’s thoughts immediately went to the cop—he braced himself, ready to struggle and fight him off. But the man wasn’t moving. He was lying completely still on the floorboard, his head tilted at a weird angle against the passenger-side door.
“Are you guys okay?” Michael whispered, carefully shifting to get a look at the rest of the car. He was scared that one wrong move might make the entire vehicle slide loose.
Bryson grumbled something from the backseat, but Michael couldn’t see him.
Sarah held on to the steering wheel with both hands so she wouldn’t slide toward Michael and the cop. She nodded. Behind her shoulders, he could see the wreckage of brick and glass through the broken window of her door, a dusty darkness beyond that. The plastic and metal of the hovercar itself was twisted and bent, its mangled body precariously held in place by the building’s ruined edges.
Bryson’s head appeared in the opening between the protective glass doors—which were still intact—behind the front seat. “This thing could fall any second. Let’s get out of here.”
“Is he dead?” Sarah asked, her eyes fixed on the unmoving cop. The cracked visor of his helmet jutted to the side, but they couldn’t see his face, pressed up against the door.
“I don’t know,” Michael answered. His muscles ached from the weird position in which he lay. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. “Go, Sarah. Climb out. I feel like my arms and legs are about to fall asleep.”
“What if it shifts?” she asked.
“You wanna be inside when it does?” Bryson answered. “The back door is blocked by a bunch of broken brick. We have to go through your window.”
“Okay.”
She carefully moved her feet around until she found a solid purchase; then she reached up, gripping the underside of the window. From there she pulled herself to a bent piece of metal jutting out of the brick wall of the building. She tested it first, and soon she was climbing up and out of the car, disappearing into the darkness. Michael could hear the rattle of shifting bricks.
“You go next,” Michael said to Bryson. “I need to get myself into a better position.” He started working on that while his friend climbed into the front seat, using the steering wheel like a ladder rung.
“Perfect place to attack a cop,” Bryson said over his shoulder, moving up through the broken window, using the same hand-and footholds Sarah had. “Right across the street from his police station, for all his chums to get a good look-see. They’ll be swarming all over this building in five minutes, guns cocked and fingers itchy.”
“Sorry.” Michael groaned—his muscles ached so much; fire burned in his tissues. “Next time I’ll attack the cop sooner. Promise.”