I flung myself into our pickup’s bed half a second before the rebel ammo dump blew. Even at half a mile, the sound slapped me flat on my back. Jimmy"s mouth flapped, his shout inaudible against the crescendo of detonating ammunition, rupturing poison gas canisters, and overlapping napalm pyres. If the pickup had still had windows, the blast would have shattered them. I clamped my hands over my ears, but the sound shook my brain in my skull. As the echoes faded, the pickup’s neglected engine roaring to life rattled my joints.
“Hold it, Kyle!” I shouted. “Don"t run!”
If we sat still, they might not realize we had set the charges. Either Kyle didn"t hear me, or his twitchy nerves made him shove the pickup into gear. With a series of bumps and lurches, our truck pulled from the bombed-out po
