The impact shook the foundation wooden support posts of the entire Tram district.
When the eight-ton mass of oak stringers, iron balusters, and granite stone wall-brackets struck the floor of the cut, the water in the sump didn’t merely splash. It blew up. A geyser of boiling wastewater, gray heavy-duty sludge, and crushed mortar erupted thirty feet into the air. It slammed against the underside of the high narrow high walkway with the force of an ocean breaker.
The heat washed over Len Vey where he hung from the iron channel, soaking his wool waistcoat and scalding the back of his neck. Clouds of choking lime dust bloomed outward through the scalding mist. That turned the air into a white, choking paste that coated his eyelashes, filled his nostrils. Then it turned the spit in his mouth into bitter, bitter-salt grit.
Through the whiteout, the sound of tearing iron shrieked like an injured beast. The heavy forged handrail of the stairs, four inches of solid forged iron, buckled under the shock. It wrapped itself around the underwater granite pier with a high-pitched scream of shearing rivets. Two iron stringer brackets snapped with the sharp report of rifle fire, their snapped heads whistling through the fog to ricochet off the brick arches.
