The Faded Chronicle
The water rose not with a roar, but with a slow, viscous sigh that swallowed the floor of the sub-basement until the ceiling was just a gray smear of dripping plaster above the churning brown current. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood on the last dry patch of concrete, a slab no wider than a dinner table, surrounded by the rising tide that had come from the storm drains, from the breached levees,...
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