The seven gurneys tore down the slope like runaway coal carts.
Hard rubber wheels screamed against wet porcelain. The three-degree wash-down grade pulled all twenty-eight casters forward, their ungreased steel forks rattling in violent, jolting wobbles.
Twelve feet. Ten feet.
The draft from the rolling steel frames pushed a rush of cold formalin fog straight toward the intake station.
Under The Shift Covenant, an unstaffed intake desk had no legal standing. It held zero authority to refuse a delivery.
If a shipment crossed a municipal threshold without a sworn clerk clocked in behind the counter, the delivery defaulted to accepted.
And once the morgue accepted those seven bags, the living names printed on those purple ankle tags would become permanent property of the cold-storage drawers.
“Clara’s wheel locks are slipping on the tallow!” Elena shouted.
