The first tremor was but a slight rumble, enough to break Alexander out of his trance, but only just. He looked around even as the long-ago sound of gunfire still echoed in his mind. Vaguely, he knew he had to get home, take some pills, try to sleep, wait out this spell in which he could not separate past from present, memory from reality. 

Still, he could not shake the white-hot, darting pain of bullets tearing through his vital organs--the doctors had said his survival and complete recovery had been nothing but a miracle--or the mind-numbing agony of his recently broken arm. He must have just imagined that. It had to have been the PTSD.

Alexander began a brisk walk, shoving his hands in his pockets, bowing his head. The bus station wasn't far; he could feel a few quarters warming against his fingertips.

The next tremor nearly shook Alexander off balance--he instinctively reached for a wall to balance himself. He could hear a few screams of surprise, punctuated by the call of car alarms along the street.

Another earthquake? It wasn't uncommon for Vegas to occasionally feel the weak aftershock of an earthquake in California, but to feel something this bold so soon after the initial tremor was strange. Was this the source of an earthquake instead of the aftershock?

The third tremor dislodged a streetlamp. It crashed over the street, glass shattering over concrete. Buildings swayed but did not collapse. People began stumbling from their homes, not wanting to be inside a building that could collapse.

What was going on?

The same warming sensation that had enveloped Alexander during the car accident did so again. He cursed under his breath and pushed himself away from the wall. He began walk at a faster pace, almost a run, in an exceedingly more desperate attempt to get home as quickly as possible.