The town of Sunnydale was in utter chaos. Cracks appeared in roadways and buildings were torn apart, a falling smokestack crushed a car that had braked to a halt on the Shore Road. The ground bucked and shook and people ran screaming for shelter beneath tables and beds and the narrow, presumed safety of doorways.
In the clock shop owned by Arthur Harris, all of the time pieces - new merchandise for sale and old clocks brought in for repair - had chimed in unison just before the ground began to shake. Now the walls split and the glass windows at the front of the shop shattered, clocks were shaken off shelves and crashed to the floor, exploding into pieces, and the terrified proprietor was thrown from his feet. He fell to the surging floor onto his knees and a grandfather clock tumbled over on top of him, pinning him there and breaking his right arm and three ribs.
China cabinets vomited their precious contents, now merely shards, school desks turned over, cars collided, telephone poles crashed down onto streets and homes and stores. Terror reigned.
In his quaking office inside City Hall, Mayor Richard Wilkins Sr. crouched under his desk, a deep and angry frown creasing his forehead. "I didn't authorise this," the Mayor muttered.
Back where it had all started, the Master roared in fury.
