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Page 226
the mud begins once again to settle. The rotting skeletal corpse of a once large Ling cod spins and spirals in the murk, shedding slivers and shreds of itself as though to bestow a deadly sustenance on the microscopic creatures of the cold inland sea.
The Device rolls into slightly deeper water and slowly comes to a stop. Inside the warhead, the faithful mission timer's digital readout records that the warhead is now seven days, ten hours, twenty-seven minutes, and eighteen seconds from detonation.
Snow and sleet lash the bay and the lonely shore. The Air Command aircraft, which has been searching the Hudson Bay coast hereabouts for a radiation source, are grounded and waiting for a break in the storm.

 
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