They moved like ghosts—ragged, limping, and kept upright by spite alone.
The maze of shipping containers offered a precarious sanctuary. The air here was heavy with the ozone tang of electrical fires and the low, constant rumble of the burning facility. Every breath was a gamble; every footfall on the gravel sounded like a gunshot in the tense, smoke-filled air. Brice led, his movements jerky and uneven, his left ankle firing off fresh waves of agony that made his vision swim. Behind him, Brian kept low, his Steel Skin humming beneath his dermis—a dull, leaden weight that made him feel sluggish, but kept the shrapnel from turning him into a sieve.
“There,” Brice whispered, his voice raspy. He pointed toward a rusted, open-top container positioned perfectly between them and the tanker.
Brian didn’t wait. He dove, his boots sliding across the slick, oil-stained concrete. He hit the container’s wall with a muffled thud, his ribs screaming in protest. He slumped against the corrugated steel, his breath hitching, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to keep his composure.
Brice slid in beside him, his eyes dancing with frantic, lethal energy. He wasn’t just looking for an exit anymore; he was hunting.
Outside the container, the rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch of combat boots grew louder.
“Sector clear to the left,” a voice barked, metallic and filtered through a radio. “They’re heading for the fuel depot. Intercept.”
Brice nudged Brian, his shoulder brushing against Brian’s bruised arm. For a second, the manic energy faded, leaving behind the exhausted, desperate reality of two friends who were completely out of options. Brice looked at the blood soaking into Brian’s shirt.
“You doing okay, man? Really?”
Brian cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the tight space. He gripped the steel pipe so hard his knuckles turned white, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been better. But I’ve definitely been worse. Mostly, I’m just annoyed that I’m not wearing better shoes for this.”
Brice let out a short, wet laugh. “You really are a psychopath, you know that?”
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“Takes one to know one,” Brian countered, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic thrum. “Three, maybe four guards. They’re cautious. They know we’re twitchy.”
Brice pulled a small, jagged piece of metal from his pocket—a heavy-duty bolt he’d scavenged from the laundry room wreckage. “When I toss this, aim for the tanker’s pressure seal. If we can vent the gas, one spark does the rest.”
“And if we’re standing too close?”
Brice looked at him, his expression suddenly, startlingly earnest. The manic gleam faded just enough for a flicker of genuine camaraderie to break through. “Then we go out in style, partner.”
Brian smirked. “I hate you so much.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get ready.”
Brice didn’t wait for a signal. He acted entirely on the impulse that had been brewing since the moment that mirror shattered against his head. He didn’t just toss the bolt; he hurled it with every ounce of his remaining strength, aiming not for the seal, but for the heavy metal coupling directly above it.
CLANG!
The sound was absolute.
The guards spun around, flashlights blindingly converging on the source of the noise.
“Contact!” one roared.
Brice surged up from the container, eyes locked onto the tanker, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Now, Brian!”
Brian stood, his entire body flashing into that impenetrable, dull gray. He wound up and swung the steel pipe like a sledgehammer. It connected with the venting valve with a sickening, heavy thud.
A high-pitched, pressurized hiss erupted—the sound of a thousand snakes waking up at once. A massive cloud of volatile white vapor began to engulf the loading dock, swirling around the confused, shouting guards.
“What is that?!” someone screamed. “Get back!”
Brice’s hand dived into his pocket, pulling out a flare he’d swiped from the maintenance locker. He didn’t think. He didn’t check the distance. He just fired the flare, a bright, searing streak of crimson tearing through the vapor.
He didn’t stick around to watch.
“Run!”
Brice grabbed Brian’s sleeve, hauling him toward the drainage canal access.
They didn’t even make it ten yards before the world behind them turned to liquid gold.
The roar was physical, a wall of heat and pressure that slammed into their backs and ripped them off their feet. The lip of the drainage canal caught them like a concrete mouth, swallowing them just as the worst of the blast screamed overhead.
Fire rolled above them in a boiling wave.
Brice hit the muddy embankment shoulder-first. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent white pain flashing behind his eyes. His ears rang so violently the world went silent except for a thin, endless whine. Something hot kissed the side of his neck. He smelled burnt hair and cooked leather.
Brian crashed down beside him hard enough to split the mud. His Steel Skin flickered across his arms in broken, uneven patches, dull gray fading back to bruised flesh before flashing again like a dying light. He coughed once, then again, hacking black soot onto the wet ground.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
The tanker was a skeleton of twisted steel, the loading dock a pyre of wreckage. Secondary pops cracked through the inferno as ammunition cooked off in the heat. Somewhere in the distance, alarms changed pitch, rising into a sharper, angrier scream.
Brice tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The canal tilted sideways. His stomach lurched, and he spat mud and blood into the water trickling past his boots.
Brian’s hand landed on his back, heavy and shaking.
“You,” Brian panted, staring at the inferno through smoke-reddened eyes, “are an absolute nightmare.”
Brice lay back against the cold, damp earth, one hand pressed to the burn along his neck. Pain radiated through him in layers: ankle, ribs, shoulder, palms, lungs. But under all of it, beneath the ringing and the smoke and the taste of blood, there was a look of profound, petty satisfaction on his face.
He watched the flames lick the sky.
“Maybe,” Brice murmured, closing his eyes for one heartbeat of glorious, blissful peace. “But admit it. That was better than taking the stairs.”