The words echoed through the circular amphitheater like a cracked bronze bell.
Dr. Victor Tallow did not roar. He froze.
The seven-foot monstrosity stood trapped between the open stainless-steel cadaver tray of Drawer Thirteen and the central dissection table, his heavy rubber boots rooted in four inches of freezing grey brine. His tallow-coated fingers twitched violently around the knurled crossbar of the rib-spreader.
From deep inside his chest cavity, the magnetic tape drive began to shriek:
SQUEAL-HISS-CLICK.
The sound was high-pitched, ragged, and frantic. The old tape was catching on a rusted capstan, spinning out of alignment as the internal motor fought against its own gears.
High on the observation balcony, Director Evelyn Cross’s voice cut through the brass intercom, completely stripped of all its patronizing charm. Her porcelain teacup shattered onto the hardwood floor of the eighth-floor suite with a sharp, brittle crack that echoed through the speaker diaphragm.
“Kill them, Dr. Tallow!” Cross screamed, her voice vibrating with hysterical rage.
