Kerney stood watching it all happen as if it were a soundless movie in slow
motion. The screaming inside him drowned out everything else. He shoved the
guard aside and swung the M-60 toward Griffin. He fixed Griffin in the sights
through a blur of tears and squeezed the trigger. The weapon shuddered. Tracers
flew from the barrel to the gangly orange figure vaulting over the grass and
sand. Griffin rose triumphantly in a movement more beautiful than any Kerney
had ever seen, then floated down and collapsed, limbs askew, onto the ground,
like a broken marionette.
