Can someone explain something to me?

  Yeah, I get it. I probably sound butthurt. My perfect record? No longer intact. But seriously, can someone please explain how I’m supposed to take down this jabroni, descend a goddamn volcano, and get out of this place before it explodes—all in under one fucking minute?!

  Which part of this mission has been simple?

  My venting has to wait, though. Henchman‘s charging at me, katana raised high.

  Judging by his grip, I’d wager he’s never held a sword before in his life. He brings it down like he’s chopping firewood.

  Every move he makes is so damn telegraphed that dodging him is almost an insult. Swing after swing, he attempts to hit me, but each is easier to evade than the last.

  With one final slash, his blade makes contact… with the floor.

  The katana snaps clean in half—the broken piece coming closer to me than he ever did.

  Motherfucker looks shook.

  I think he understands how dire his situation is, but half a blade is still half a blade. He grips what’s left and lunges for my stomach. Instinctively, I grab his wrists and shove back.

  Now we’re locked in a little tug-of-war: he wants to disembowel me, and I’d rather he didn’t. Turns out, Henchman’s a lot stronger than I gave him credit for—and he’s starting to win. If I don’t act fast, the missile will be the least of my concerns.

  I swear, I’m normally more tactful than this, but he’s standing in such an inviting stance that I can’t resist. I cock my right leg back and slam it straight into his nuts.

  He cries out, his grip loosening just enough for me to knock the katana from his hands.

  As it falls, I plant a roundhouse kick to the base of the handle, driving the broken blade straight into his gut.

  Henchman stares in disbelief, sputtering, “How?”

  He looks down at the hilt jutting from his stomach, blood gushing from his new opening. He slumps to his knees, as though accepting defeat.

  Leisurely, he pulls the blade out, opening the bloodgates.

  It’s fucking disgusting how much he’s bleeding.

  And… now he’s trying to stand back up. Son of a bitch.

  Summoning what strength he has left, Henchman staggers to his feet. This fucking cockroach isn’t dead yet.

  “What is your problem? What did I ever do to you? ” I just want this to end.

  “EVERYTHING!” His spit is still there, but it’s flecked with blood now. “You fucked everything up! The missile! The research! My promotion! I hate you!”

  I repress a laugh. ”Just tell me who you’re working for, you fucking psycho, and I’ll make it quick.”

  He glares at me. “I’d rather die a thousand times.”

  I let out a sigh, knowing I’m not gonna get any answers out of this guy.

  Then he lunges at me, slower than a stoned sloth due to all the blood he’s lost. I sidestep his pathetic attack and decide I’m finished playing with him.

  I grab the uranium container, still lying where I dropped it earlier when he tried to impale me.

  Henchman stumbles forward, collapsing onto all fours, clearly out of steam.

  “This is for earlier.” I snark.

  WHACK! I bludgeon the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. He’ll bleed out long before he wakes back up.

  I take a tiny breather. Sure, he didn’t really pose much of a threat, but he wasted precious time, and I still don’t have a way off this godforsaken volcano. There can’t be more than thirty seconds left. Fuck! What now?

  Climbing down? Totally out of the question. And Eagle Kid’s still too dazed to be any help. Besides, remember that gap? He couldn’t have flown us anyway.

  If I still had my parachute, this would be survivable. But I don’t. I scan around frantically for some kind of fabric, anything. I find one option—Henchman.

  There’s no time to think about the ethics of stripping someone to make a DIY parachute. There just isn’t. So I get to work.

  First, I undo his belt. That’ll act as my pull cord.

  Next, his pants. They’re coming off, too. Then his shirt. Then his undershirt, underpants, and socks. They’re all going in the pile. Each scrap is essential.

  Swiftly, I tie everything together to fashion the makeshift parachute, making it as sturdy as possible. Okay, now I need to run the belt through each end. The holes need to be exactly aligned, so I guide Eagle Kid’s talons through the fabric as precisely as I can. He doesn’t protest to me using him this time.

  Belt’s now secured. Shit resembles a crude paraglider more than a parachute. Will this even work? Hell if I know.

  Pretty sure paragliders aren’t meant for skydiving, and I don’t even have a surfboard—or, you know, any semblance of a plan.

  I eye the whole mess. Is this thing gonna hold both of us? What other choice do I have?

  There’s no other fabric left… well… I mean, maybe there is.

  Goddammit! They’re already ruined, and it’s not like I have any dignity left to lose.

  I strip down until I’m completely nude. Using my tattered, favorite outfit, I patch up any weak spots in the fabric. It’s not pretty, but I’m now a little more confident it’ll hold our weight.

  Problem is, shit’s still a damn paraglider, and I need something to surf on. I’m running out of time arguing with myself. I have to move—like yesterday.

  Is there anything up here I can use as a surfboard? No. I find nothing because there is nothing up here. I’m alone up here with nothing but Henchman’s blood-soaked, naked body.

  And then, a terrible thought crosses my mind—could his body… actually support us? No, no, no, that’s a terrible idea. Trying that would turn the mountain into a belt sander and grind him into dust. Not only would it be fucking disgusting, it wouldn’t even work.

  I need something sturdy, something metal, but everything here is bolted down. No flamberge to dislodge a chunk of the floor this time.

  We’ve got belt buckles, but somehow I don’t think they’ll be up to the job.

  Fuck, there’s absolutely nothing!

  My eyes drift. I mean… there’s the uranium container, but that’s out of the question, right? It’s rather small, not to mention it’s full of highly radioactive material. Surfing on that would be quite literally my worst idea ever…

  Son of a bitch. There’s no one here to talk me out of how fucking stupid this is.

  I need more time, but this place is about to blow any second, so God help me, I fear I have no other choice.

  Swooping up the still-dazed Eagle Kid, I tuck him under my right arm, praying he doesn’t slip free. I’ve been sweating for quite a while.

  I grab each end of the belt and pick up my “surfboard” of highly unstable uranium.

  After approaching the edge, I take one final look down, just now realizing how high up we truly are.

  This is such a terrible fucking plan. But it’s this or the missile. At least this has, like, a 0.01% chance of survival.

  BOOM!

  The platform rocks violently. I lose my balance, stumbling backward—right onto Henchman’s naked body.

  Eww!

  Then again, as a matter of fact, maybe it is lucky I landed on him. The explosion bursts out through the base doors.

  Acting on instinct, I grab his nearest appendage and pull him over us, using his body as a blast shield. The shockwave launches all three of us off the platform.

  Clutching Eagle Kid tight, I reposition us midair so we’re at least falling upright.

  I slide the uranium container under my feet just as we hit the volcano’s slope. At the same time, I release the bunched-up paraglider. It whips open, catching the wind.

  My feet barely fit, and the uranium’s sparking against the volcano’s surface like crazy, roasting the fuck out of my feet with every shower of embers—but, hey, at least we’re alive.

  Although, we’re fucking zooming—I can hardly keep control. I pull down left and right on the belt in an attempt to steer.

  I glance down at Eagle Kid, still clutched under my arm. I probably cracked a few of his ribs, making sure I didn’t let go. But as long as this “surfboard” holds out, we might just make it.

  There’s no sign of where Henchman got yeeted in the blast, but credit where credit’s due—he saved our skins back there. Not like he had a choice, though.

  The downside of being naked hits me right now—literally. Loose rocks keep ricocheting up and pelting me in my nuts. Shit fucking stings. Surfing down the slope is already bumpy enough, but now it’s getting worse—like, a lot worse. Rumbly, even.

  Almost like the damn thing’s about to—

  KA-RACK!!!

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I didn’t exactly have “volcanic eruption” on my bingo card today, but I guess setting off a missile inside a volcano has consequences. I’d been so laser-focused on escaping that I didn’t stop to think about it—or maybe I just didn’t want to.

  Either way, it’s my mess to ride out now!

  Glowing streams of lava blast from the volcano’s summit, spewing molten chaos into the air. A dense cloud of smoke and ash blankets the once-clear sky, swallowing the sun and prematurely plunging the island into nighttime like a light switch just got flipped.

  A glob of lava splatters just inches to my right, sizzling ominously. A brisk glance over my shoulder reveals another flaming projectile barreling straight towards me. I yank to the left, jerking us sharply to evade the molten death. A massive boulder crashes nearby, detonating into a storm of little, razor-sharp fragments.

  Everything behind me wants me dead, and I can’t see any of it coming.

  With a painstakingly careful maneuver, I shift my weight and pivot 180 degrees, my back now to the trees. The awesome destruction is in full view now—lava and debris flying at me from all possible directions.

  Pull left—dodge the lava. Pull right—avoid a falling rock. My lungs are searing hot again, just like on the plane earlier. Love that for my respiratory system.

  I successfully manage to dodge each incoming threat, but now there’s a new problem: I’ve lost sight of the base of the volcano, and I’m sure it’s approaching rapidly.

  Also, I know I said I had a full view like two seconds ago, but my glasses are caked in soot again, reducing my vision to a smudgy nightmare. Fan-fuckin’-tastic.

  Thank God I have foresight. I shimmy back to my original position because, just as I predicted, we’re about to hit the bottom. As the terrain flattens out, I kick up the back of the uranium to compensate for the curve, inadvertently sending out another shower of sparks.

  But, of course, one little asshole rogue spark jumps to my makeshift paraglider. Unaware of the ember hitchhiking its way up, I yank back, hard, on the belt ends, desperate to reduce our speed.

  The paraglider bursts into flames, splitting apart instantly.

  Shit!

  I let go of the charred remnants, watching them flutter away uselessly in the wind.

  Even though we are braking, it’s nowhere near enough to avoid the giant tree dead ahead. Also, steering’s no longer an option.

  Fuck, we gotta jump.

  Clutching Eagle Kid tight to my chest, I twist my body to shield him and heave us off the "board." We crash into the rough island floor, skidding to a brutal halt, scraping across dirt and debris along the way. Every inch of my body is scratched the fuck up and bleeding.

  But we’re breathing. That’s all that matters.

  I check on Eagle Kid. He’s still alive.

  No time to nurse my wounds—the lava is still pouring down, and the falling rocks haven’t stopped their assault either. Hoisting both of us up, I take off running in the opposite direction of the volcano and its impending destruction.

  Each step is a gamble. Lava pools spread swiftly, forcing me to navigate the terrain like a literal game of “the floor is lava.”

  My entire fucking body screams in agony—not just from the jump, but from it all. Falling out of a plane. Getting knocked unconscious. Fighting five guards at once. And don’t forget all the relentless running.

  My legs feel like they’re about to pop out of their sockets, like I’m a fuckin’ Potato Head.

  Through the choking haze and ash, I catch movement ahead. I wipe my glasses for the millionth time and squint. I notice a massive, gray blur charging toward me from the left.

  It’s Rhino Guy! And the rest of them!

  They made it out!

  But, hold on, they’re not alone. Dozens upon dozens of animal hybrids, of all shapes and sizes, flee from the chaos. My earlier suspicions about there being more experiments in the base were, unfortunately, correct.

  But even though I see them, I’m not sure how many of them see me. I duck and weave, dodging creatures running for their lives.

  This one giraffe fucker nearly crushes me as it thunders past.

  Avoid the lava. Evade the wildebeest. Dodge the falling tree.

  Son of a bitch—I just accidentally stepped on a porcupine!

  What else?! What fucking else?!

  BANG BANG BANG!

  Bullets whizz past my right side. Gunfire? Where the fuck? Are they shooting at me? Or is this the eruption playing tricks on my ears?

  Twisting my head around like an owl, I spot them: two shadowy figures emerging from the smoke behind me. Guards.

  They fire as they run, but with all the... "everything" going on around us, their aim is as shaky as their footing.

  Funny enough, without "everything" going on, I’d most likely be dead.

  But they’re gonna get lucky at some point, and I can’t risk waiting for that moment. I need to take them out.

  Inspiration strikes.

  I remember how flexible these trees were when I used their leaves for that slingshot earlier. Maybe I can turn them to my advantage.

  I spy the nearest tree along my path and take cover behind a bush adjacent to it. Grabbing the tree trunk, I bend it back as far as I can.

  The guards draw closer, blissfully oblivious.

  Snap!

  The tree trunk whips forward, striking them both squarely in the chest. They crash to the ground—and then—

  A stampede of hippo men plows through, trampling the guards where they fall. Just obliterating them. I leap out of the way at the last second, narrowly avoiding the same fate.

  But there’s no time to celebrate. Back to running. Always running.

  Out of the smoke, new assholes emerge—this time riding motorcycles.

  At least they’re only armed with batons instead of guns.

  They’re closing in fast. Three surround me—one flanking me on the left, another on the right, and one directly behind. Their engines roar as they accelerate, closing the gap until they’re practically on top of me.

  Whack!

  Whack!

  Batons rain down on me from both sides. I do my best to block their hits with one arm while shielding Eagle Kid with the other.

  Then I see it.

  Up ahead, lying in the dirt: a thick, sturdy branch.

  And just like that, I’ve got a plan.

  Timing it perfectly, I kick the branch into the spokes of the bike on my left. It tangles in the wheel. The machine grinds to an instant halt. The guard doesn’t. He flies forward, catapulting over the handlebars and slamming face-first into a tree.

  The disabled bike bounces back from the impact, colliding with the guard behind. Both man and machine go tumbling in a flurry of metal and fleshy carnage.

  That leaves the last guard on my right, still swinging his baton like an asshole. Each hit lands with a fucking sharp pain.

  I clench my teeth and wait for an opening.

  When the next swing comes, I grab hold of the baton and, with what strength I have left, push it back into him. The sudden shift in weight causes him to overcorrect. Gravity does the rest, sending him sailing into a nearby river of lava.

  I don’t stop to process what just happened.

  Run. Just keep running.

  The lava continues spreading, angry, swallowing up the island with terrifying speed.

  If I can reach the shoreline, the ocean might hold the lava back. Might. But getting there feels impossible.

  Still, I push forward, feeling pains unfelt by man before.

  I sure hope straight ahead is the fastest route. The steep slope of the mountain speeds the lava’s flow, and it’s continuing to gain on me.

  Gah! Keep running!

  As I hopscotch from one shrinking patch of solid ground to another, the gaps between them become wider.

  I need to get to higher ground.

  I spot a jagged rock formation up ahead and decide it’s my best bet.

  I sprint for it, beginning to climb just as the lava nips at my heels.

  Every muscle is on the verge of failing. And let’s not forget—I’m still completely naked.

  Reaching the top, I scramble across the rocks only to realize that staying here is a death trap. I have no way down. And if there are any guards left, I’m easy target practice.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, but with no other options, I jump back down, landing on the last remaining patch of grass.

  The lava never relents, snaking forward like it’s hunting me. My detour bought me a few seconds—ten at most—but there’s nowhere left to climb. Trees are out of the question; they’ll go up in flames the moment the lava breathes on them.

  Fuck! No time to think.

  Just run. Just keep running.

  I sound like goddamn Dory if she grew legs.

  The lava surges forward quicker than I can. My body is jelly. The tree line thins out, and I spot the shoreline up ahead, but the tide’s lower than when I crash-landed.

  There’s no way I’ll reach the water in time. My sole option is the dunes to the northwest.

  I choose one to dive under, pressing Eagle Kid and myself into the ground as lava pours over the top, missing us by mere centimeters.

  This has to be it—there’s nowhere left to go. We’re so fucked. The lava closes in from all sides. We’re so fucked!

  Wait!

  I’ve been trying to climb higher, but maybe that’s the wrong play. What if we go lower? If I can dig us under the lava, we might survive.

  It’s a stupid, desperate idea, but it’s all I’ve got.

  I use Eagle Kid like a trowel and dig into the sand with everything I’ve got. My arms revolt in protest, but I can’t stop now. Thankfully, the sand’s soft, light, and easy to move. But there’s so much of it.

  Lava creeps closer as I toss sand toward the flow.

  The air thickens, heavy with smoke and heat. Breathing feels like swallowing a fireball. I don’t understand how Yoshi does it.

  Okay, I think the hole looks big enough. I don’t have time to second-guess. I climb in, flattening myself, tucking every limb, every crevice, and every orifice into the tight space.

  Good thing I’ve totally resolved my claustrophobia issues with my therapist and am absolutely not a “work in progress,” as Dr. Collins likes to say.

  I squish Eagle Kid beside me, folding him into the cramped space. I begin covering us with the sand I just dug out. Feet, legs, stomach, neck—I bury everything.

  To conclude my brilliant plan, I take the deepest breath of my life, grab the last few handfuls of sand, and bury my head and face. I pull in my hands just as the lava reaches us.

  It’s unbearably hot. The thin layer of sand between us and molten death might as well be a napkin. Breathing was challenging before—now it’s nearly impossible. The air is suffocating and sweltering.

  But we’re alive for the time being.

  I have no clue how we’re getting out of this, though. Somehow, this feels even more dire than anything I’ve faced so far. Or maybe I’m just so fucking completely over everything.

  I didn’t think beyond ‘don’t get burned alive.’ So I don’t exactly have a plan for getting us out of here. Do we wait for the lava to cool? That could take hours—days—and there’s no chance in hell we’re surviving in this hole that long. Honestly, Hell might be more pleasant than this.

  We’ve got minutes at best. Air’s practically nonexistent. I have no idea how I’m still holding on, but Eagle Kid? He’s covered in feathers. I can’t imagine how much worse this is for him. The poor kid’s been through enough shit already.

  We need to leave, but how? The water’s close, but there’s no way to get to it without cooling the lava, and who woulda thought, but I don’t have a way to cool it down.

  Smoke starts creeping in through the cracks in the sand, replacing what little oxygen is left. We are going to suffocate if I don’t do something. Son of a fuck!

  Tunneling under the lava, straight to the water, is such a dangerous option, but what else is there?

  Using my fingernails, I dig like a madman. But it’s slow—too slow.

  I switch to Eagle Kid once there’s enough room to move. Yeah, I know I just said he’s had a rough ride already, and sure, he’s gonna be picking sand out of his beak later, but it’s this or death. He’ll thank me later.

  Palming the top of his head, I dig furiously, gasping for air when I can. My lungs aren’t designed for this—they’re not a damn bong.

  Good God, I hope he’s still breathing. The idea of using a dead kid as a digging tool is just too dark, even for me.

  I try to be careful, but I’m not careful enough.

  I break the first rule of Minecraft, and sure enough, a glowing orange trickle of lava seeps in from behind. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

  Panic sets in. More than ever. I pick up the pace. Now using both the kid’s beak and my hands, I frantically shovel sand out of the way, tossing it at the lava to delay its advance—not that it helps much. The glowing goo inches closer second by second.

  And then another pocket bursts, allowing even more lava into the tunnel.

  Like a desperate, deranged mole, I dig.

  And dig.

  And dig some more.

  The sand beneath my hands shifts into mud—we’re close to the water—but the lava’s closing the gap. My fingers are raw. The heat feels like it’s cooking me like a roast. I’d kill for even just one layer of skin protection.

  Weeks of diligent moisturizing—gone to shit.

  One final, desperate shove, and I break through—straight into a wall of water that smacks me in the face with a concrete fist. The current sucks us out of the tunnel and into the open sea, tossing us around like we’re trapped in a damn washing machine. Water floods my lungs, replacing the smoke.

  I hold Eagle Kid to my chest, struggling to keep him from being swept away.

  I can’t tell which way is up. My chest tightens. I plead for air.

  Then—

  A light.

  Faint, but unmistakable.

  I kick toward it, my movements desperate, my lungs seconds away from popping like balloons.

  Finally, we break the surface. I gasp and sputter, coughing up seawater as I fight to breathe. Every muscle throbs, but we’re alive.

  Even better—Eagle Kid’s alert. The cold water seems to have snapped him out of his daze.

  “Huh? Where are we?” he croaks, blinking up at me, choking.

  “I’ll explain in a bit,” I rasp, voice shredded. “First, let’s swim over there.”

  I spot a patch of beach ahead—one of the few areas not yet swallowed by lava. Toxic steam boils upward where the molten rock meets the ocean. We have no choice but to swim through it.

  We eventually drag ourselves up onto the shore, collapsing on the sand. I lie flat on my back, staring at the sky, trying to recover. Just a moment. That’s all I need.

  Nearby, Eagle Kid spreads his wings to dry, equally drained.

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply, willing my body to calm down.

  The calmness lasts for all of five seconds.

  The ground begins to rumble again.

  Goddammit.

  KA-RACK!

  My eyes open in time to witness another massive eruption. A fresh wave of lava shoots into the sky, spewing even thicker, blacker smoke.

  So much for rest.

  This place is hell on Earth, and we need to get the fuck out now.

  At this point, do I even need another reason to leave?

  With no aircraft, the only way left to leave is to build a raft.

  I tell Eagle Kid to stay put and set out on what I hope will be my final mission on this cursed island.

  Staggering my way up the beach, I gather every thick branch I can find, then wade through the toxic gas to collect seaweed from the shoreline. The plan’s simple: branches for structure and seaweed to lash it all together.

  “Hey! Mr. Buzz Buzz!” Eagle Kid’s panicked shout interrupts my frantic work.

  “What now?” I snap, spinning around—only to see the lava from the second eruption slithering across our last stretch of safe beach.

  Oh, fuck!

  I race back with what I’ve managed to collect. Without hesitation, I begin construction on the best—and shittiest—raft anyone’s ever seen.

  I loop the seaweed over one branch and under another, crisscrossing them tightly. I’m not sure if it’ll hold or float, but there’s no time to test it.

  “Get on!” I bark.

  Eagle Kid clambers onto the raft as I drag it into the water. I throw myself on it just as the last section of sand is consumed by the lava.

  Miraculously, the raft holds.

  Holy crap, we made it.

  We both collapse in exhaustion, splayed out, limbs dangling over the sides, as the current pulls us away. From here, we watch as the volcano continues its eruption, raining down across the island.

  The direction we’re headed?

  Who knows?

  What’s important is we’re alive.

  What’s important is surviving. Surviving long enough to get back home to the Patriot Isles and figure out what the hell is going on.