The wet squeal of rubber caster-wheels cut through the low idle of the Detroit Diesel engine.
Outside Coach #404’s front windshield, the seven stainless-steel impound carts moved.
They did not roll fast. They moved with a slow, grinding creep, inching across the damp concrete apron toward the yellow hoist quarantine line. Their rubber tires left dark, oily tracks in the gray frost that coated the floor. Inside the vulcanized rubber shrouds, the seven parcels continued to rise and fall in that unnatural, synchronized rhythm:
Fssssst... hsssss.
Shift 08, 03:42:15 AM (Real-World Standard Time: 10:57:15 PM).
“Julian,” Elena Rostova said, her voice sharp with medical urgency. “The impound carts are rolling forward.”
Julian Vance stepped up to the front door, his hand resting on the rubber-wrapped door release handle. “I see them—the apron is sloped two degrees toward the central hoist shaft grate, and look at the caster forks.”
Through the windshield glass, Julian pointed his 365-nanometer UV pen at the wheel assemblies of Cart #01.
