Turner touched something cold.

Running his hand along the object, he knew he had found the gun. He did not know whose, but it would serve his purpose.

The doorway was a vague outline, barely discernible. Turner stumbled across the room and felt for the door, then used the wooden jam to guide himself out into the hallway.

He was nervous about what he had to do next. The hand holding the pistol shook involuntarily at the thought of standing up to the soldier downstairs.

The house shook again and a brief fist of air slammed down the hall to push Turner towards the stairs. Someone was firing off explosives at a furious pace. It had to be the helicopters of the next attack force.

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The air grew heavy, then a roar of breaking wood came from above. The house rocked at the sound, knocking Turner to his knees. He perceived emptiness in the hallway, then fell to his chest and slid over the lip of the stairs. Something huge passed over him as he bumped down the steps, then the noise stopped and he was lying at the base of the stairs.

A loud rumble came from outside the house, immediately followed by lurid flames reflected on the walls.

Oddly, the television still worked, bathing the room in a blue light that seemed disturbing.

Turner tried to get up and fell back, gasping. In his descent of the stairs, he must have sprained his back.

“Great,” he mumbled. This was getting better by the minute.