There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Jack felt in that moment that he would die and, like Akhenaten, have no great journey to the Otherworld, no vision of what the Reality of Existence was. His heart was beating like a drum in the vast cacophony of thunderous sound that cracked and roared and rumbled around them.
He looked back in a frantic attempt to see what was happening to the others, and there he saw, looming out of the swirling fury of the storm, the faces of the hostile gods, the gods Akhenaten had offended. And on the hill where he had last seen Eliot, was a huge, dark figure, many metres high, with arms raised, orchestrating the storm — the centre of an immortal hatred, an everlasting demand for vengeance.
Jack held Emma close. If they were to die, they would die together
