And I’m rolling—madly, over and over to the right. Away from the direction the comet came, off the wreckage, and onto the cold, wet pavement. Frag the pain, frag the fact I’ve got something driven deep into my ham, frag the fact that my back feels like it’s on fire. If I don’t react fast—now—I’m dead. Still rolling, I drag my left hand across my eyes, trying to wipe away the blood, while my right hand pulls out my H & K.