There's no one like you, and there never will be.

From the producer of Bohemian Rhapsody.

There are many legends, but there is only one.

Michael in IMAX in Cinema's Wednesday, April 22.

With sirens echoing across town, Boulder pushed through the bushes, lining the small ranch house, and stared at the empty street in front of him.

He counted to 60, and when no cars passed, and he didn't hear the telltale sound of tires on asphalt coming from down the road, he made his move.

Come on, Rennie, Boulder whisper he made his move. Come on, Renny,

Boulder whispered over his shoulder. Got him a vast man. As Boulder crouched low and hurried out of the relative safety of the bushes. Behind him, Reni had to pause and take several shallow breaths,

his hand resting on the ranch house's faux wood siding.

His legs felt wobbly, and his head was a basket of wool.

Warmth pooled in his waistband, which he knew wasn't good.

Despite the t-shirt and duct tape they'd used to pack the wound,

it still bled like a damn spigot.

Rennie, Boulder whispered, halfway across the house's lawn.

Dude, move ass.

On it.

Rennie muttered and pushed off the house.

He wavered for a second, then caught his balance and hobbled forward.

Branches from the bushes snagged the edges of his black sweatshirt,

pulling the material tight across his abdomen, across

his wound. He gasped, then clamped his mouth shut, sure that his outburst would wake the owners

of the ranch house. But no lights came on, and he managed to stay upright enough to limp across

...