Firelit Skies

Short scene based on the prompt: Start with the action

It must be Armageddon. Or Ragnarok. One of the mythical events prophesied by the seers of cultures long gone. The windows of an office block shatter, showering glass down upon the road and cutting into my clothes as I run. I catch my reflection in one of the intact windows and see the blood stream down my face. A flesh wound. And the least of my worries.

I feel the rumble of the earth beneath me before the mountain rises behind me. A colossal tower of rock and stone, pierced with spikes of architecture. Other people scream and yell, sprinting down the streets of Canary Wharf. I have no breath for screams. My terror has crystalized into the need to escape and all I can manage is to gulp air into burning lungs.

More join us as we run, stampeding through the street. Some of the herd split off as we pass the Canary Wharf tube station. The sound of rending metal causes me to think better of it and I turn away from the ruined artificial gardens. The bridges are my solace, my chance at escape from this nightmare.

The sky is turning red now, and a heat is pouring off the mountain in waves. How can this exist? How can the ground crack and rise and consume the rigid structure of civilization? This is no earthquake. No "simple" collision of the planet's crust. Something huge and ancient is coming.

I try not to look as the boulders of torn roads thrown into the sky succumb to the unerring force of gravity and come crashing down on the head of fellow escapist with a sickening thud. Despite my best efforts, I catch sight of the edge of the man's suit peaking out from beneath the concrete. Before the label soaks in the deep red blood. I note, with a shiver, that we shop at the same tailor. Or shopped I suppose.

I can no longer tell if my lungs burn from the exhaustion or if the air itself is alight. Another wave of heat radiates from the mountain and I feel my legs begin to buckle at the sheer awe of it. But I can hear the water lapping lazily against the side of the island; oblivious to the chaos above it. The bridge at last comes into sight.

People on the main land stand, fixated in fear on whatever was behind me. Some had phones pointed at the sky. Others just stared, slack jawed and eyes wild. I refused to look.

10 steps left. 9. 8. 7. I didn't hear it coming. You'd think something that large would make a noise. You'd think that the literal destruction of your route to freedom would have some tangible output to be aware of. But until the debris hit the bridge, it was utterly silent. The sound of cracking stone tore the world in two. The supports collapsed and my route to freedom was no more.

Water had never been my greatest love. I had scoffed when my sister had insisted on teaching her children to swim. In this day and age. My thoughts turn to her and I promise myself that I'll apologise if I can just make it out. The edge of the bridge comes up fast and I don't hesitate. I can't. I throw myself into the murky depths of the Thames. The cold is a shock. Relief from the heat is welcome but my lungs, still crying for air, struggle with the transition.

I manage to right myself in the water and burst up to the surface, spluttering. At last, my eyes open and I see. I have come up facing Canary Wharf. Facing the mountain. And for the first time since I began to run, I can see it's cause.

Perched atop the mound of stone, raised 40 metres into the air, is a colossal lizard. Wide set and muscley. Red scales glint dully off the firelit sky. It's claws, each as long as my entire body, grip the rock as it surveys the surrounding area with what can only be described as satisfaction. It rears, and another wave of heat rolls off the mountain. This one so intense that I can feel my consciousness slip; retreating to safer pastures in the recesses of my mind. Before I am entirely lost I stare up one more time. Two leathery wings of incomprehensible size stretch out from the lizard's hunched shoulders. It roars. I let the river take me.