An unnatural, damp wind blew in from beyond New York Port.
At first, this commonplace sight would not be taken by anyone as an omen: on the Brooklyn Bridge—that landmark that keeps getting destroyed in disaster flicks and monster movies—the morning rush-hour traffic was still crawling along, drivers leaning on their horns and cursing, the radio babbling about weather and traffic, and nobody noticed that the distant horizon of the sea had gone dark.
…No, not gone dark. It was rising.
A wall of water taller than any skyscraper was slowly—almost gently—rearing up beyond the horizon. It didn't thunder or roar, it simply pressed forward in silence, like the whole ocean was lifting itself up onto tiptoe.
