Julian grabbed the thick vulcanized rubber behind Mac’s grip.
The cable weighed at least forty pounds, stiff and cold from the ocean crossing. Water sloshed over Julian’s boots as he braced his legs against the stone apron of the slipway.
“Lift on three,” Julian said. “Don’t let the brass drag through the salt grit.”
“Got it, Kid,” Mac grunted. His brass prosthetic arm locked onto the black sheath with hydraulic firmness. “Move!”
They hauled the heavy line toward the double steel blast-doors that led into the sanatorium’s lower refinery. The doors hung half off their hinges, blown inward by the pressure differential when the sea-lock opened.
Inside the threshold, the air changed from clean salt air to a bitter, chemical fog. It smelled of burnt transformer insulation, stale formaldehyde, and melting plastic.
From the freight elevator alcove twenty yards down the corridor came the squeak of hard rubber wheels on wet concrete.
Dr. Victor Corvo and Lin Mei emerged from the shadows, pushing six heavy chrome hospital transport chairs. Sitting in the lead chair, wrapped in wool emergency blankets, was Dr. Beatrice Hahn.
