The underground blast hatch at the rear of the forward command stronghold groaned under huge internal crushing pressure.
Heavy grease bubbled from the three-inch steel hinges as a series of bone-shaking thuds hammered against the heavy iron barrier from within. The air in the courtyard, already thick with the smell of burning lime powder and boiled away cordite, was suddenly tainted by an overwhelming stench. A foul, burning mixture of man-made fight-or-flight rush. He scorched stone oil, and the rotting tang of decomposing reptilian flesh.
Arthur Vance stood thirty paces from the hatch, his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine leveled in a two-handed combat grip. Beside him, Grimm lowered his massive black head. His lips curled back over silver-steel-dense fangs as a deep, shaking snarl rumbled through his ribs. Pip hovered twenty feet above, his fiery golden crest shedding warning sparks into the drizzle. Meanwhile, Titus stood firmly beside Arthur’s left knee, his spade claws anchored into the concrete flat stone slabs.
SCREEEEEECH—BANG!
The high-pressure locking pins snapped with an ear-splitting metal report that echoed off the concrete bunker walls.
The eight-ton steel blast hatch was wildly blown outward, crashing onto the courtyard flat stone slabs in a skidding shower of orange sparks.
