Free Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. by Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke Page A

tissue.
    So extraordinary was the sight of Ashlyn with Steven upon her back that it was hard to accept it as reality, and for a scant few seconds it kept them from moving to help her.
    As Ashlyn bent to set Steven down, her strength failed her. Stratt, who had risen first, arrived just as Ashlyn collapsed unconscious to the floor—Tomlinson right behind him.
    At that same moment, thirty-five meters up the street, Cole’s fusion reactor exploded.
    Forty klicks out, hovering high in the atmosphere, Robbie watched the blast. Everything within two kilometers vaporized instantly. Beyond that, millions of projectiles created by the blast shredded even distant buildings on the outskirts of Denver. The once bustling city was now and forever gone. What little was left crumbled before the eight hundred kilometer per hour blast wave.
    Robbie watched in awe as a mushroom cloud rose into the stratosphere. Starving trails of fire chased the fleeing oxygen, clinging in vain to a last breath of life.
    As Stratton had assumed, the blast blew the tornado and the storm front apart, ripping the heart out of it.
    To the team, even through the sound-dampening walls it sounded like the world was ending in an ear shattering blast.
    A violent tremor shook the building. The ceiling panels and overhead lights fell. The cabinets, chairs, and desks in the room turned into volatile projectiles, ricocheting off the walls and smashing into each other, fragmentizing everything.
    Paris watched as a heavy desk was thrown across the room, where it bashed the two frozen bodies of Tynabo and his wife, dashing them into hundreds of tiny pieces.
    Huddled in a corner, Paris’ eyes went wide as a hand with only a single, extended middle finger landed inches from her. Inside, she chuckled, wondering if the gods were trying to tell her, “You’re screwed!” Her quirky smile quelled quickly as half an eyeball and a frozen piece of toothed jawbone fell beside it, making her want to retch.
    The same splintering desk then rebounded, slamming into Moore, breaking his hip.
    Moore screamed, chastising himself as he realized he had forgotten to turn on his suit’s dampening field. Paris reached out to help but missed as he flailed away from her. Trying a second time, she grabbed his outstretched hand, pulling him into the corner with her. With the ferocious tug, Moore again screamed out as his wrist snapped.
    Stratton, thrown against the far wall, landed on his back, face up. With the ceiling panels gone, the light from his helmet settled upon a heavy, solid-metal girder swaying precariously above Ashlyn, its weld joint broken. In the blink of an eye, with his suit’s servo assist, he launched himself through the air. In one quick motion, he grasped Ashlyn around the waist as he flew over her, carrying her like a limp rag-doll into the far corner. The jagged steel point of the beam came crashing down, spearing the just vacated flooring where Ashlyn had been lying. Stratton ordered Gena to enlarge the circumference of his suit’s dampening field, encapsulating her, his body shielding her.
    Tomlinson had gone to Steven, encapsulating him within his own shield, covering him.
    It was near another minute before the worst of the shaking subsided. The room was a snow-covered, littered battlefield.
    Martinez and Victor, extricating themselves from beneath a heavy pile of snow that had found its way into their corner, were the first to move. Victor may have been a fearful man, but he was a good doctor. Retrieving a heated, thermal blanket from his duffle bag of supplies, he brought it to Ashlyn and spread it on the icy ground. Stratton then gently laid her atop it and folded it over her. While scanning her vitals he said, “Martinez, Moore, get Steven’s suit off. Get him ready for the paddles; I’ll be there in a sec.”
    “No can do, Doc. My hip is broken,” groaned Moore. “Not to mention my wrist.” He shot Paris a disgruntled scowl.
    “Don’t glower at me, rookie.