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misshapen steel. Nothing was recognizable as anything he owned. The smoking pit was more like something shown on TV on Veterans Day:
Scenes from the London Blitz
.
    Sam looked to either side. The neighbours’ homes still stood. The walls were scorched and large strips of vinyl siding had melted away to expose cheap, particle-board sheathing underneath. Fireproof glass-block bathroom windows had cracked and blackened, but the houses themselves remained unbreached.
    This hole was where his home should have been.
    Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out except for a slippery hissing exhalation, which roiled across his tongue and vanished like mist through his lips. He inhaled and felt cold air climbing into his brain, numbing it further. It slid into his lungs, constricting them and making it harder to breathe.
    He peed himself again, warmth trickling down his leg. But even that sensation lasted for onlya short moment before the cold reclaimed it.
    There were voices all around him, hands trying to pull him back from the edge of the hole where his house had stood, but no one could move him. His feet were part of the ground.
    He remained frozen until a flicker of colour on the edge of his vision made him turn, and the flashing red and blue of an ambulance drew him forward.
    The back door of the ambulance was open. Inside lay two large, zippered, white nylon bags. One was shorter than the other, but not by much. Sam walked to the bags and knew with heartbreaking certainty what they contained.
    ‘Where’s mine?’ he asked numbly.
    The ambulance attendant just looked at him.
    ‘Where’s my white bag?’ Sam asked, louder this time.
    And in that moment the bubble burst and time, noise and commotion rushed in to fill the vacuum. Sam felt the tugging pressure of a hundred pairs of hands. The hands were also screaming, a thousand sharp little mouths nipping at his skin and making incoherent noises that suddenly blended into one ear-piercing, agonized wail.
    And just before he collapsed, Sam wished the hysterical fool making all the racket would shut the fuck up.

9
    The world had stopped spinning.
    Zack lay curled in a ball, his mind buzzing with a thousand radio stations all broadcasting at once.
    ‘Sir?’
    Zack felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and give a firm shake. His eyelids fluttered open, and the morning light pierced straight into his brain. He squeezed his eyes closed again and groaned.
    He didn’t want to be awake; he didn’t want to be alive. Most of all, he didn’t want to accept all he had lost.
    ‘Sir, are you injured?’
    ‘Fer Chrissake, Colin,’ said a woman’s voice, its smooth, sing-song centre edged with a faint Celtic burr. ‘He’s a bleedin’ drunk. Either forget it or take him to the cage.’
    ‘He’s wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, Mary. He probably owns the Merc.’
    Zack lifted his hands to cover his eyes and slowly raised his eyelids again.
    ‘What happened here, sir?’
    Zack opened his fingers slightly to see a poster boy for police recruitment. The officer, who he presumed was Colin, stood six foot four with broad shoulders, a lantern-shaped jaw and skin the rich, velvety colour of medium-roast coffee.
    Zack shifted his gaze to the woman. Officer Mary was a pale, sharp-faced brunette with thick, wiry hair that defied styling.
    ‘Are you injured?’ Officer Colin repeated.
    ‘More than you know,’ Zack mumbled.
    The words felt too large for his mouth. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was thick and woolly and far too dry.
    The officer produced a small plastic bottle of water from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top and held it out.
    The bottle was still cold and Zack rolled it across his forehead before tipping it forward and pouring a generous amount into his mouth.
    He held the water for a few seconds before allowing it to trickle down his parched throat.
    It hit like acid.
    Zack tried to fight the sudden uprising, but his heart wasn’t in it. With a lurch, he