The black ocean water touched the bottom of the red nineteen twenty-four line.
It didn’t pause. A dark, oily swell rolled across the basement floor, washing over the lead-oxide paint with the heavy slap of an incoming tide. The water crested four feet, creeping up the granite wall to four point one, then four point two feet.
Above the spiral staircase, the green sanctuary lamps gave a sharp, brittle pop.
The soft emerald glow that had covered Julian’s skin vanished. His St. Dymphna’s Night Orderly badge turned cold against his wool vest, its celluloid face dead and grey.
Down in the flooded vault, Captain Laminate let out a sound like an iron gate swinging shut on rusted hinges.
“FOUR POINT TWO FEET,” the diver’s chest speaker boomed, the words vibrating through the water with concussive force. “HIGH-WATER DATUM EXCEEDED.”
“HOSPITAL ORDERLY SANCTUARY NULL AND VOID. ALL PERSONS ABOARD THIS UNREGISTERED HULL ARE TRESPASSERS IN MARITIME JURISDICTION.”
The seven-foot liquidator stepped through the chest-deep brine, surging toward the catwalk like a breaking reef. Each stride displaced hundreds of gallons of freezing seawater, sending dark waves sloshing against the machine footings.
