The thunder of falling stonework died slowly, drowned by the deep, hollow roar of the sewer rapids fifty feet below.
A thick, choking fog of crushed lime mortar, shattered shale, and damp railway ballast hung suspended in the cold air of the channel. It coated Len’s eyelashes with white grit, stung the raw membranes of his nostrils, and tasted of ancient stone dampness, burnt sulfur, and skin-burning ash. Every time he drew air through his teeth, the dust settled on the back of his tongue like dry plaster, threatening to trigger a violent coughing fit that would shake his torn left forearm.
Len knelt on the eight-inch concrete footing along the south stone face. His sound right arm shook wildly from fight-or-flight rush, strain. The sheer blast wave of displaced air that had nearly swept him off his boots. The cold dampness of the stonework seeped through his soaked woolen trousers, chilling his knee caps down to the bone.
He couldn’t crawl. With his left forearm pinned across his ribs in Doma’s linen sling, he had only one hand to anchor himself to the weeping stonework wall. The narrow ledge was covered in a slick, inch-thick film of black algae and wet lime slurry, sloping three degrees toward the open void. If his right knee slipped six inches, there was nothing to catch him. The drop below was an upright chute into darkness.
