Morgan
A girl I dated once told me that slow motion was a favorite technique of filmmakers during the ’60s and ’70s, that if you choose a dozen films at random from that period, more than half would contain a slo-mo sequence.
That’s what it felt like, falling down the elevator shaft, the rectangle of light from the doorway above growing steadily smaller. Strangely, I felt okay about the whole affair; my body was giving out anyway, ravaged by Backlash.
I thought I heard my name echoing down the shaft, but I had my mind on other things, like the vial. Before I fell, I had started to remove the lid, by the time I’d fallen twenty feet, it was to my lips and I was drinking.
Another twenty feet and absolute zero shot down my throat into my gut, freezing it solid. Wow … you’d think that would hurt, but all I felt was a numbing slosh in my stomach, followed by lassitude.
Two more floors. Long shaft, the cables blurred past my shoulder. At least the end would be quick. From far away came a roaring like the end of the world. It came to me that I felt pretty good; the Backlash was easier on me than I expected.
Thump.
Why wasn’t I dead? I’d hit hard enough. Oh, a body beneath me. That was lucky, a soft-landing that kept my brains from decorating the elevator top. Couldn’t feel my legs, though.
Then the world unfolded before my eyes.