Acid rain hissed as it struck the twelve-foot galvanized chain-link fence of the District 4 Central Power Substation.
Every drop of rainwater that touched the heavy steel mesh turned instantly to steam, sending tiny curls of acrid sulfur smoke into the freezing air. Beyond the fence, across three acres of crushed gray gravel, twelve massive oil-cooled step-down transformers hummed with a deep, tooth-rattling one-hundred-and-twenty-hertz roar.
The sound was so dense it vibrated the breastbones of everyone standing outside the main entrance. Overhead, thick aluminum conductors thick as a man’s bicep hung from towering steel lattice pylons, buzzing in the wet fog like thousands of angry hornets.
Marcus Cole cut the diesel engine of Bus #04, letting the air-brakes vent their final breath in a cloud of white vapor. Behind him, the convoy of thirty-eight buses and morgue vans fanned out across the flooded access road, their amber fog-beams trained on the substation gate.
Julian Vance stepped down from the bus’s center door.
Chained to Cash Drawer #2 by his left wrist, Julian pushed Mobile Register Annex #04-B down the steel hydraulic ramp. The heavy solid-rubber casters splashed into four inches of oily mud, rolling smooth and steady.
Above Julian’s head, the emerald-and-gold neon sign buzzed with defiant clarity:
