The flooded sump beneath the storm-surge basin was an unmapped maze of pre-Cataclysm town overflow channels. There, three decades of heavy-duty runoff had congealed into a black, oily sludge that reached Arthur Vance’s mid-thigh.
The air inside the tunnels was so thick with methane and hydrogen sulfide that normal breathing was impossible. Arthur wore an airtight rubber breathing mask connected to an oxygen canister on his tactical harness, the rhythmic hiss-click of the breath in chest muscle echoing hollowly against the curved concrete walls.
Through the monocle’s green night-vision channel, the tunnel resolved into a claustrophobic tube of sweating iron rods and hanging hardened stalactites.
Twenty yards ahead, ripples disturbed the greasy surface of the water—uneven, desperate splashes moving toward the northern outflow grate.
“One surviving commando,” Arthur whispered into his throat-mic, his voice muffled by the rubber mask. “The one Grimm tossed into the sand filter. He regained mind while we were neutralizing the pool and slipped through the overflow drain.”
Beside him, Grimm was swimming with steady, silent strokes, his broad chest cutting through the black water like a black glass submarine hull. The hound’s nostrils were held an inch above the scum. His amber eyes glowed like twin coals in the gloom.
