"You're hit."
"I'm functional."
No complaint. No dramatic reaction. Just assessment and continuation.
Professional.
We push forward through the maelstrom of falling architecture. Every step requires split-second decisions about which path offers the least probability of sudden death. Dodge left around a tilting column. Sprint right to avoid a cascade of loose stones. Stop completely as an entire section of roof crashes down ahead of us.
Like navigating a battlefield where the enemy is physics itself.
Thorne whimpers constantly, a stream of fear-soaked babble about broken bones and internal injuries and wanting to see hisfamily again. Neither Ressa nor I waste breath on reassurance or comfort. Survival requires focus.
Save the sympathy for after we escape.
Fifteen yards from the gate. A navigable distance under normal circumstances. An eternity when measured in falling masonry and structural collapse.
The remaining roof groans overhead like some massive beast in its death throes. Dust falls in thick curtains that turn breathing into a conscious effort. Through the haze, I glimpse other figures moving. Ressa's scattered soldiers attempting their own escapes through the chaos.
Some will make it. Some won't. Nothing we can do about it now.
"There!" She points toward a gap between two fallen blocks. "We can squeeze through there!"
I study the route she's indicated. Narrow but passable, assuming the precarious balance of debris overhead doesn't shift while we're underneath.
Risk versus reward. Stay here and die slowly. Try the gap and maybe die quickly.
Easy choice.
"Go."
We maneuver Thorne through the opening with careful haste, his injured leg dragging uselessly behind him. The space is tighter than it appeared from a distance. We have to turn sideways and duck beneath a granite lintel that hangs supported by luck and the friction of stone against stone.
Don't breathe too hard. Don't jostle anything. Don't think about the tons of rock balanced over your head.
Halfway through, the structure shifts.
Just slightly. Just enough to make the lintel drop another inch and compress our escape route into something barely wide enough for a single person.
Stuck.
Thorne's bulk fills the narrowed opening like a cork in a bottle. Behind us, the way we came disappears under fresh debris. Ahead, freedom beckons through a gap we can no longer fit through.
Perfect.
"Back up," Ressa orders.
"Can't. Exit's blocked."
She cranes her neck to confirm what I already know. The route we used to reach this position no longer exists.
Forward or nowhere.
"Can we widen the gap?"
I examine the precariously balanced stones above us. One supports another, which supports a third, in a delicate architecture of mutual dependence. Disturbing any element might bring the entire arrangement down on our heads.
Or it might give us the clearance we need.
