The mist tasted like sour lard and crushed zinc shavings.
It brushed against Lin Ke’s cheek. Then, the healing gash on his jaw flared with painful, chemical fire.
He whipped his wool blanket over his face, breathing through three layers of coarse cloth. But even through the weave, the greasy vapor burned his nostrils and coated his teeth with a slick, foul film.
On the walkway outside the bunker, an apprentice artisan took a single, full breath.
The boy dropped his wrench, clutched his throat with both hands, and fell forward into the stone gutter, vomiting a thick, frothing stream of black, melted lung tissue.
*
“Seal the air-flow chimney pipes!” Lin Ke shouted, his voice muffled by the wool.
He didn’t need to roll his chair. Meng Shan was behind him, shoving the iron frame through the bunker doors with wild, desperate speed.
