The heavy iron rear door of Store Number Four had clicked shut at ten fifteen.
Behind those reinforced steel panels, Devon Wu sat on an upturned milk crate beside the Cooler #3 copper grounding relay. He kept an iron fire-axe across his knees and a mug of black coffee in his hand as he monitored the sanctuary anchor line.
In the insulated rear bay of Mac’s armored van, Clara Vance rested inside her mobile ICU gurney and transport incubator. She breathed clean air from the Hamilton ventilator on the twenty-four-volt battery bank while the braided copper ground strap linked her telemetry carrier back to Store #04.
Inside the register on the main sales counter of the store, Arthur Pendelton’s core terminal hummed with sixty-cycle power.
Now, at ten twenty-eight on Night Sixteen, Marcus Cole guided his ten-ton armored courier van up the switchbacks north of the canal, leaving the neon halo of Starlight Mart behind.
“Radio check,” Julian Vance said into his collar microphone.
He sat in the front passenger seat, wearing his dark gray clerk duster over clean scrubs. Pinned to his lapel was a stamped brass shield: RELIEF NIGHT DORMITORY SUPERVISOR -- BADGE #D-07.
Inside Julian’s vest pocket, Arthur’s portable Casio pocket-register buzzed against his ribs:
