Chapter 75
Tristan
When I open my eyes, I briefly panic, thinking that I’ve gone blind.
But, no, I’m not blind.
It’s just dark.
But why is it dark? Isn’t it the morning?
I blink several times, as if that’ll help. Still dark.
I try to sit up, but a wave of nausea suddenly hits me. Whatever systems were shut down in my body wake back up with a vengeance, and fierce, sharp pain lances behind my eyes, matching by another pain, cold and tight, in my ankle.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, and then lean over and vomit.
The last thing I remember: rolling Mr. Boucher out of the Avant & Co building with Vinnie, Charlie, and Mila. I rub my aching forehead, trying to remember what happened next.
I got him into the ambulance, and then what?
Then….
I gasp, remembering.
The ambulance started to shake, then jump, as the world around us moved.
I remember the violence of the shaking, I remember Boucher screaming “fuck this!” and running from the ambulance—suddenly, no heart attack!
He didn’t make it far. I remember the pavement rippling, bucking, and splitting, a geyser of water blasting into the air, and then he was gone.
I remember screaming after him, then turning towards Truck 27, where Mila and Vinnie and Charlie were ducking and covering, and shouting for them, and then—
And then I don’t remember anything else.
Stay calm, Tristan, I tell myself. Breathe.
I do a mental scan of my body. My head is pounding—I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a concussion. My left ankle throbs, and my hands and the left side of my face stings. I gingerly touch my cheek, and my fingers come away warm, wet, and sticky.
Blood.
Fuck.
My eyes have slowly adjusted to the darkness around me, enough for me to get a rough picture of where I am. The street seems to have collapsed beneath me, and I’m underground. All around me are mounds of jagged concrete and rubble. Above me, more concrete, with a tiny sliver of dim light.
Taking a deep breath, I try to move, but I can’t. My left ankle screams in pain, and I let out a sharp cry.
My ankle is caught under some rubble. Hopefully not enough to crush the bones, but enough that I can’t move it. I hope that the dull throb I’m feeling is the extent of the pain, and that I’m not going into shock.
You have to move, I tell myself. You have to get out of here.
I know how earthquakes work. There’s the first shock, and then there are the aftershocks, which are often as deadly as the initial tremors. Judging on the destruction around me, the first earthquake was pretty damn bad.
I have to get out of here before the aftershocks hit.