Damon sank further down into the wreckage, the box floating behind him.
Pulling it into the water with him was a little harder than he expected, the buoyancy of the wood resisting his grip. He let himself sink, careful to avoid the twisted shrapnel jutting out around him. The water was murky in this part—rust, decay, and time had turned it into a thick, brown-green soup.
As he descended, his eyes caught glimpses of skeletons caught between shattered beams and collapsed walls—silent, brittle reminders of those who had died here. He wondered briefly how they'd met their end before quickly forcing the thought away. He didn't have time to get lost in the past.
His friends were inside the box. He needed to make sure they lived—to get them to breathable air. That cramped space must be suffocating… claustrophobic.
