Fifteen feet tall. Eight tons of muscle, shell, and bone.
The Tide Turtarex runs.
Not fast, not by my standards—but each of its strides eats thirteen feet of ground while ours eats six.
"CLIFF. GO, GO!"
I slap Oliver on the back as I pass him and push everything I have left into a sprint. The shoulder sends a bolt of pain down into the elbow and I convert the pain into speed.
Behind us the earth shakes. Each step of the Turtarex lands like a mortar hit. Frost jumps off the sand with every impact.
Something on its shoulders starts to hiss.
I risk one glance back.
Lumps of wet biomass are swelling along the ridge of the shell—boils the size of watermelons, each one glowing a sick yellow from inside. The biggest one pulses, contracts, and fires.
A wad of something splits the air over Oliver's head.
"DOWN!"
Oliver ducks on instinct. The wad sails past his scalp by maybe six inches and hits the stone outcrop to our left.
The rock dissolves.
