The smoke did not care about the Candlewake compact.
It came down the ventilation trunk in a rolling, oily black wave that tasted of raw kerosene, charred asphalt, and molten lead. Within thirty seconds, the fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling of Vault Wing 3 were swallowed by an impenetrable murk that turned the yellow beams of their flashlights into useless, floating circles of amber fog.
Mara dropped to her knees on the wet linoleum, her forehead pressing against the crook of her elbow as she tied a water-soaked canvas rag across her mouth and nose. The cold water stung her chapped lips, but the wet fibers filtered the worst of the caustic ash that was already searing the back of her throat.
Beside her, Gideon let out a violent, hacking cough that shook his entire frame. He had dropped his shotgun on the floor and was kneeling beside a heavy thirty-pound dry-chemical extinguisher, his sound left arm hauling at the rusted release pin while his injured right shoulder trembled with spasms of white-hot agony.
“The pin is seized!” Gideon choked through his bandana, his knuckles bloody where he had scraped them against the brass valve housing.
Mara crawled to his side, took the cold iron ring of the pin between her thumbs, and planted her heel against the side of the yellow cylinder. “Pull on three. One. Two. Three!”
