The fourth lens threw a blinding cone of cold white light across the south crosswalk.
Forty terrified dockworkers pressed their backs against the damp brick wall of the cold-storage warehouse. Every man kept his rubber boots jammed onto the narrow dry granite curb, inches above the flooded gutter where Foreman Riggs had vanished.
Above their heads, the pedestrian signal box let out a dry mechanical clack.
CLACK.
The orange LEDs of the DON’T WALK hand stayed lit. Below the glowing hand, the two-digit numeric countdown timer flickered on.
It didn’t start at thirty seconds. It didn’t count down to zero.
The display showed a glowing red minus sign.
-01.
