The Tyrant's Tomb

Time’s up. Wait…that was my cue. I was supposed to run. But I couldn’t.
I stared, frozen in horror, as Caligula buried his dagger in Frank’s belly.
“Yes, it is,” Caligula croaked. “For you.”
Frank squeezed harder, crushing the emperor’s throat, making Caligula’s
face turn a bloated purple. Using his wounded arm, which must have been
excruciating, Frank pulled the piece of firewood from his pouch.
“Frank!” I sobbed.
He glanced over, silently ordering me: GO.
I could not bear it. Not again. Not like Jason. I was dimly aware of
Commodus struggling to crawl toward me, to grab my ankles.
Frank raised his piece of firewood to Caligula’s face. The emperor
fought and thrashed, but Frank was stronger—drawing, I suspected, on
everything that remained of his mortal life.
“If I’m going to burn,” he said, “I might as well burn bright. This is for
Jason.”
The firewood spontaneously combusted, as if it had been waiting years
for this chance. Caligula’s eyes widened with panic, perhaps just now
beginning to understand. Flames roared around Frank’s body, sparking the
oil in one of the grooves on the asphalt—a liquid fuse, racing in both
directions to the crates and traffic barrels that packed the tunnel. The
emperors weren’t the only ones who kept a supply of Greek fire.
I am not proud of what happened next. As Frank became a column of
flame, and the emperor Caligula disintegrated into white-hot embers, I
followed Frank’s last order. I leaped over Commodus and ran for open air. At
my back, the Caldecott Tunnel erupted like a volcano.