The half-mile march down the ruined interstate was an agonizing, horizontal barrage of frozen shrapnel.
The heavy, bruised purple clouds had completely ruptured, unleashing a violent torrent of freezing sleet that instantly transformed the cracked, overgrown asphalt of Interstate 95 into a treacherous sheet of black ice. The howling February wind whipped across the open, unprotected highway at forty miles per hour, driving the tiny, jagged shards of ice completely sideways. The air tasted sharply of ozone, frozen copper, and the bitter, metallic sting of a dying atmosphere.
For Ren, the catastrophic weather was nothing more than a minor atmospheric friction.
