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...t that hit him. At the age of 36, he was one of the oldest surviving inhabitants of the city of London, and he was beginning to feel every second of it.
   As day broke in earnest, David crawled through the hot, cloying, ash-riddled air that rose up from the recently straked ground, feeling the gaseous tar and dry, acrid dust coat his skin and clothing with every step. Say what you like about dragons, they knew how to make you feel miserable.
   His night time battle was already fizzling out of his short term memory. His kills no longer seemed to matter, and the deaths of his friends could wait until he was rested. Numbing his heart to the thoughts that would so totally consume him later, he trekked on back to the underground, unsure whether the tears rolling down his face were from inside him, or meerly a byproduct of the sweat and heat that drenched him as the twisted molten girders and vehicles all around cracked and cooled in the morning's embrace.

David hears a muffled cry from a badly damaged car.

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