Somehow, in the midst of the ugly explosions outside, rain had decided to fall. But this did not stop lava from flowing. In fact, in some places, where rain met lava, fires started.
The world during the volcanic storm looked like a scene from a bad dream. It had only been a week so far, but the ground was buried under thick, heavy ash that looked like dirty, grey snow. It was hot to the touch and smelled like burnt rubber.
The air was a thick soup of toxic gasses and floating soot; without a mask, it felt like swallowing needles. The sky was no longer blue; it was a bruised grey that looked permanent. It was choked with ash that turned the sun into a pale, sickly ghost of its former self.
Somehow, some mutated vegetation was surviving. If not for the bubble, the Westbrook forest would also have been destroyed. But it was protected, and thriving, and overflowing with many animals, normal and mutated.
