The nixie tubes above the take-up reel flashed red against the ceiling steam.
582 SECONDS.
581 SECONDS.
580 SECONDS.
Under ten minutes remained before Extinction Roll #999 completed its web run and shot into the five thousand brass pneumatic distribution tubes.
Julian stood at the edge of the press control pulpit, his hands resting on the cold brass railing. The vibration of the four-story machine traveled straight through the soles of his shoes, a brutal, bone-shaking rhythm that made his vision blur at the edges.
“Can’t we sever the arterial hoses?” Mac yelled, leaning over the pulpit rail.
He tapped his iron ticket-punch against his hip, his eyes narrowed as he watched the thick red lines pulsing with fluid. “If I jump Kreutz from behind and take out those braided lines with my punch, the red ink cuts off at the source!”
