Six hundred volts of direct current did not hum like alternating line power; it buzzed with a flat, predatory hiss.
Blue-white electrical sparks leaped three inches from the polished stainless-steel tripod arms of the 1968 Perey turnstiles, snapping against the damp concrete floor with sharp, crackling pops: snap-crackle-crack. Every time a spark jumped, the smell of vaporized copper and scorched bakelite billowed outward, curling around the rubber wheels of Clara’s ICU gurney.
Julian Vance held his left hand flat across Clara’s blanket, his eyes sweeping the vaulted expanse of Morgue Siding Platform #00.
The platform was an architectural relic from another era. Carved directly from the subterranean bedrock of Manhattan schist eighty feet below the harbor waterline, it had been constructed in 1904 as a private mortuary siding for the municipal hospital system. Glazed white ceramic subway tiles lined the curved walls, their glossy glaze spiderwebbed with thirty years of mineral seepage and dark, weeping rust trails from overhead water mains.
High above, the vaulted ceiling was supported by massive, riveted iron arches painted in chipped hunter-green enamel, holding the structural load of Old Civic Hall and the municipal courthouse two hundred feet above.
At the far end of the platform, an abandoned wooden token booth stood behind heavy brass security bars. Its wire-reinforced glass windows were coated in a thick layer of grey river grime, but through the glass, Julian could see an antique Seth Thomas brass clock frozen at zero-two-fourteen in the morning alongside a yellowed paper schedule…
