He crunched his eyelids shut, trying to get shot of the noise in his head. But it only made it worse. He reached out about him. Realised he was lying on the floor. On the Station floor. He could feel skin—soft skin. He cracked an eyelid open. Saw that it was Samantha. She lay on her back. Her chest rose and fell with troubled breathing. Before Mitts knew it, he was up on his feet. The world was a silent macabre spectacle. Scattered bodies all around. None of them moving. No sound. Mitts reached out. Took hold of Samantha’s shoulders. He gave her a shake. He spoke to her. But his voice never even reached his own ears. He heard only ringing. Burning . . . he could smell burning. He breathed in. Felt ash lining his throat. He had to get out. He had to get himself and Samantha out. A muted crunching sound behind him. Mitts turned to look. A large beam which supported the ceiling. Wilting beneath its own weight. There was no time. Soon it would collapse. Mitts grabbed hold of Samantha’s fingers.
