The high-pitched whine of the bone-saw tore through the mortuary corridor like a dental drill hitting dry enamel.
Elena Rostov didn’t flinch.
She had spent seven years in emergency trauma bays and four months surviving the night shift in St. Jude’s Ward 4B. She knew the exact acoustic pitch of a Stryker 810 autopsy saw.
At fourteen thousand revolutions per minute, its oscillating steel blade didn’t slice soft tissue. It vibrated through cortical bone without catching on surgical gauze.
At least whoever is holding that saw knows how to keep the motor bearings oiled, Elena thought grimly, her fingers automatically checking the silver bell of her stethoscope. In Ward 4B, Dr. Tallow’s orderlies always let the blades rust.
“Mac, brace Clara’s cot,” Elena ordered over her shoulder. “Keep her rear casters behind the intake podium until I clear the glass.”
Mac Cole had already locked the steel fingers of his prosthetic left arm around the chrome push-handle of the ICU gurney. The cable-actuated servos inside his forearm gave a low mechanical hum as he planted his boots wide on the nonslip mat behind Intake Register #0.
“Cot is pinned solid, Nurse,” Mac said. “Inverter pack is holding at seventy-nine minutes. Take your time.”
