The sheer force of that apocalyptic detonation sent both young men flying in opposite directions.
Michael was hurled back like a weightless paper doll.
His body skipped several times across the charred earth before slamming into the base of one of those ancient trees. The impact was enough to rattle the very roots, sending a final rain of ash and dead leaves down upon him.
He lay there, motionless.
His matte-black armor was rapidly disintegrating into twinkling motes of dark light, leaving only the scorched remains of his undergarments and the raw, burned skin of his chest behind.
The shimmering white thread was still there, seeping out of his sternum and flowing toward the faraway horizon.
Ray fared no better. In fact, his condition was worse. He tumbled through the haze of the settling ash, his path smeared by a bloody trail of crimson.
