Even with his head covered, the light seeps in at the edges, between the folds of his clothes and through the thin skin of his fingertips. The sound is worse, though it's hardly sound, it's something else, something more. Johnny feels his whole body vibrate, feels the city quaking in preparation for an immensity of destruction heretofore unimagined, even in this off-brand Hell.

He can't stay here for this. He doesn't have anywhere to run, either.

He's curled up in the remains of a demolished house, well, a skyscraper, an edifice of some kind. Doesn't matter. He can still do this, right? If it led into some kind of Hell before, maybe this time it'll go out the other end. Maybe he'll end up in China. Ha, ha.

Trembling and panicking enough that even this doesn't seem so fucking bad in the wake of what's about to happen, he curls in harder and plants his hand on the ground, what's left of the foundation, and he thinks, manic and grinning at his own internal fucking joke, Ftairs.

There they are. Plunging down, down, into depth and darkness and cold unreality. Unlike Will before him he doesn't have Karen to pull him out. He just has an angry God that may or may not survive this, may or may not remember him, may or may not follow him in.

Fuck it. He can deal with drifting in the void. He's done it before, on his own terms. It's better than the unmitigated holy terror that's happening around him.

He sinks down, crawling, stumbling, slipping down the stairs. Into cold black oblivion. The entrance seals behind him.