Running without looking, having already leapt without thinking, Tom surges through a mass of clinging, scraping hands. A hail of Spanish swear words and bullets fly over his head. The burrito in his gut threatens a repeat appearance.

“I’m gonnadie, I’m gonnadie,” Tom whispers to himself and to the darkness busily enveloping him. He cannot see the pallid eyes following him. He cannot see his erstwhile protectors’ efforts to save him. All he can see is his own violent death. A thought crosses his mind, that only a week ago he was quibbling with the girl at Starbucks about how much cream cheese had been applied to his bagel.

A hand, a large hand, grips his upper arm. As if held by the Colossus itself, Tom jerks to a stop, whipped before he can really make sense of direction onto his back in the dust. His first instinct is to struggle, but the hand is joined by a second one on his chest.

Out of the dark rumbles a raspy baritone, “Thank god you ran. Those two fanatics were going to sacrifice you.”