The scenery is smudged water-color. A red, orange and gray that bounces off the tops of the towers that touch the sky almost as far as you can see. Debris continuously falls from broken windows all-around. Desks, paper, office equipment—Daily Manhattan life spilling into the streets of the dead. One hundred guns flash in the distance and the growling overcomes the screaming and the pulsing beat of mortar shots.
Bullets pass by faster than I can even think, or judge for that matter, and then a shredded piece of cloth flutters off my shoulder and the red hits me in the face.