He landed, embedding in the living world so deep that he almost went under. With little more than his head aboveground, it took all his will to push himself out of the earth. Had he been in any deeper, it would have been hopeless, and all his thrashing about would have done nothing but take him farther down. But bit by bit he hauled his shrapnel-blasted body upward. Perhaps the holes helped. Perhaps they made him lighter.

The explosions had stopped by the time he pulled himself out of the ground, and he looked at his own damage. As always the wounds were painless, but that didn’t mean the sensation was pleasant. He watched as the wounds healed themselves closed. Even though they were gone, they left a haunting memory of their presence, like the lingering feeling of nightmares.

Nick turned back to the spacecraft to see what was left of it—and of Johnnie-O. To his surprise, the shuttle, the fuel tank, and boosters were all still there suspended in midair, completely undamaged. Perhaps the ship had been designed to withstand such explosions or perhaps its memory was too proud and permanent to ever be troubled by an attempt to take it down, whether intentional or accidental. Of course the same could not be said for the Ripper’s rickety scaffold. It was completely gone, which was no surprise. Nick suspected the thing would have fallen if someone had blown on it too hard.

Up in the now-empty cargo hold, Johnnie-O still clung to the inside of the hold, the structure of the shuttle having shielded him from the worst of the blast. Unable to hold on anymore, he slipped and fell, yelling all the way down. He hit the lip of the cargo hold, and bounced off it, tumbling down the tail and careening off the shuttle engines, until landing face-first on the all-too-solid deadspot tarmac, a hundred and fifty feet below the spaceship.

“Johnnie!” yelled Nick, racing to him.

Johnnie-O sat up, dazed. “Am I blown up?”

“No,” said Nick, “you’re okay.”

He looked no worse off than the shuttle itself, except for one thing—the cigarette that had perpetually hung from his lip since the moment he died was now gone—the only part of him incinerated by the explosion. Nick helped him to his feet and decided it was best not to point that out; best to let him discover it for himself once he was in a state of mind to notice.

Then from behind them came a wail of absolute and utter despair.

“My collection!” screamed the Ripper. “Look whatcha done to my collection!”

Nick looked around him; twisted gun barrels and unrecognizable pieces of tortured metal littered the deadspot— and beyond the deadspot even more destroyed weaponry was sinking into the ground of the living world.

“Look whatcha done! Look whatcha done! It’s all gone!”