Wyvernfight

The bomb rocked the buildings on Farringdon Road. Danny found himself lying face down on the walkway. Dust and screams filled the late evening air. A whistle sounded far above, another incoming gift from the Kaiser. He coughed, bowing his head, hands up to protect. The ground shook. Footsteps pounded.

Up, he told himself, but his body refused. “Up!” he said aloud and he found himself running to a building torn and battered, fire licking at its sides, his messenger satchel bouncing on his back. In the near dark, he stopped just inside what used to be the foyer. Fire consumed half the building. Low clouds reflected its eerie glow over the broken heap of timber and bricks before him.

“The zeppelins are here!” someone needlessly shouted. Muffled, as if it came from the other side of a large water trough.

With his good eye, Danny squinted into the shattered interior. A bloodied severed leg quivered. Something moved beneath it. He plunged into the debris, heedless of the flames, and threw the leg aside. More timber, a broken bed frame from the floor above. More bricks and pipes than Danny thought were possible. How tall was this building before the Germans bombed the shite out of it?