The longhouse door hadn't even finished groaning shut before the sound of the world ending hit Will like a physical weight.
It wasn't a clean explosion. It was the sound of a thousand iron teeth gnashing against the bedrock. The 200-foot-wide transit artery was a wind tunnel of filth—superheated air, thick with the stench of boiling oil and pulverized stone, roared down the corridor. It hit Will's face, hot and dry, stripping the moisture from his eyes until they burned in their sockets. He tried to squint, but the grit in the air felt like needles being driven into his tear ducts.
