When the glowing water was churned up and the bubbles rose to the top of it and the sirens screamed. Even as metal broke and bent and there was a great exhalation of corrosive steam and high above, control panels sat untouched. Even as the seats were empty and yet the office lights still hummed and a cursor blinked on one computer screen and the sirens screamed.
That rumble, that exhalation of corrosive gas that shreds the metal and opens to a sky that is the colour of infection. Glass breaks and the offices blink out of existence as they are plunged into sudden, obliterative darkness.
And the glowing water rises and spills and pours out of the building in every direction and with it the screams of the sirens. And the unknowing trees rock back and forth and a packet of crisps rolls across the road and the empty houses are silent as they suddenly blink out in one sudden, silent implosion of space and time.
Michael Scott Hand 