The brass megaphone bolted to the headless torso shrieked with another blast of acoustic feedback.
SKREEEEEE!
The sodden yellow vinyl rain slicker slapped wetly against the porcelain floor as the headless mannequin floated in the rising white foam. The caustic pulp was already eight inches deep, swirling around the legs of the dissection tables and hissing furiously against the lower tile risers.
“EVACUATE TO THE SURFACE!” Gregor Vane’s amplified voice boomed from the brass horn, reverberating off the white tiled ceiling.
“UNDER WATERWORKS ORDINANCE NINE-FOUR, ALL OCCUPANTS MUST UNBOLT THE CORRIDOR FIRE-DOORS WITHIN FORTY SECONDS! FAILURE TO EVACUATE WILL RESULT IN TOTAL PULP SATURATION!”
Julian Vance stood on the rim of Table #1, his boots coated in protective yellow grease wax.
His right ear was pounding with a sickening four-hertz binaural thrum. His tinnitus had collapsed down to 4,196 Hz, and the taste of scorched copper pennies and burned receipt thermal coating was thick on the roof of his mouth.
A fake evacuation order.
