Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes by R.M. Grace

How
many fingers am I holding up?”
    Wavering
before his eyes are the chunky digits that poke out from the
fingerless gloves.
    “ Eight.”
    Gunner
sighs and drops both hands. “There's ten.”
    “ Eight
and two thumbs,
fuck face.”
    “ Well,
you seem okay.” Gunner stops to inspect his eyes before getting
back to his feet.
    “ I
don't see a hole,” Blackout says as he looks about the ceiling.
    “ Yeah
well, I had to lug your heavy ass away from it.”
    Shaking
his head, Blackout stares around at the filth in confusion. It
doesn't even look like the same place. “Where are we?”
    Gunner
stares, head tilted as if to state “where the hell do you
think, moron?” Yet, Blackout realises something else within his
mate's irritation. He may have the hangover from hell, but the spark
in his eye—the spark he hasn't glimmered in months—is
back.
    Reaching
for the outstretched hand, Blackout gets to his feet. “What
came through?”
    With
fingers running over the dirty stubble at his jaw, Gunner looks back
at the rubble behind them. “Not sure, it just . . . stopped.”
    “ Fire?”
Blackout sniffs the air about him, but nothing comes to him besides
the dust and wisps of tainted air.
    “ No.”
    The
look in his mate's face forces him to turn.
    What
the hell is going on here?
    Sure,
there are sirens in the distance, but none seem to be getting any
closer, nor do any more screams fill the air. There appears to be no
commotion at all now, at least not from anywhere he can tell.
    I
must have hit my head harder than I thought.
    He
touches his forehead, then withdraws from the sting. If he didn't
know any better, he would insist they have transported to another
place.
    “ Which
way?”
    Gunner
steps past him and motions with his head. “Must be a way
through this, give me a hand.”
    Furniture
blocks the way—a pine wardrobe and a mattress still with the
sheet hanging on. Across the material are crimson stains which
Blackout notes look too dry to have been from this accident. Wooden
planks have fallen atop them as well as bricks and filth.
    Gunner
heaves the planks out his way and tosses them to the floor without
thought.
    Lending
him a hand, Blackout throws fallen bricks and other debris aside when
his hand touches something soft. He delves deeper to pluck the item
from the rubble. As he stares at the limp body, he cannot help
feeling a pang of something in the pit of his stomach.
    He
stares at the black eyes and red mouth on the stuffed body. The
thread hangs either side, making it seem as though the red lips are
frowning. The wool on the misshapen scalp is chestnut and hangs
either side in thick pigtails. On its modest, floppy body is a dress
of white and blue chequers that's sewn onto the limbs. A white frilly
apron is around the waist and large bloomers hang down to the thighs.
It reminds him of a rag doll his younger sister, Harriot, had of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz .
    Even
under the filth coating it, he swears it is hers.
    Hers
had a huge smile though.
    “ This
isn't time to find your inner child.”
    Dropping
the doll to his side, he stares at Gunner's hardened face.
    Maybe
he is right to be grieving. We've both lost people, yet he is the
only one acknowledging it.
    Once
they clear enough rubble, he waits as Gunner holds the mattress up
enough for him to bend beneath. Ducking his head, he slips through
and returns the favour, then drops it back down.
    This
side of the rubble, the floor is clearer and in a better state of
disrepair.
    The
open door at the end of the corridor leads into a modest hallway area
where the staircase is. Although it all looks relatively similar from
when he was walking around earlier, he still cannot shake the feeling
this isn't the same place.
    As
they come out into the open space with dust particles floating above
their heads, they find the staircase. Fallen obstacles restrict the
stairs leading upwards. Downstairs is more favourable with mostly
only glass from the shattered high