Mac Cole hauled thirty feet of heavy gauge-zero copper jumper cable across the red quarry tiles like a man dragging a dead sea serpent.
The rubber-insulated cable hissed as it snaked past the fallen iron conduit. Behind Mac, Lin Mei clamped the cart’s secondary terminals with two heavy bronze alligator clips, tightening the thumb-screws until the copper teeth bit deep into the brass lugs.
Above their heads, the cracked neon sign on Mobile Register Annex #04-B was in its death throes.
The letters O and P in OPEN 24 HOURS were entirely dark now, the fractured borosilicate glass weeping tiny wisps of gray gas into the cold draft. The amber letter E and the green N flickered like dying candles, pulsing in sickly spasms. On the cart’s vacuum gauge, the needle was trembling at sixty-two millitorr -- less than two minutes of ionization remained before the spherical sanctuary field dissolved completely.
Across the room, Chief Municipal Bailiff 108 took another thunderous stride forward.
Her railroad-tie claws tore deep grooves into the quarry tiles. The four glass dials on her head clattered with mechanical malice:
“TIME TO FIELD COLLAPSE: ONE HUNDRED SECONDS.
RETAIL CONCESSION BUFFER: FAILING.
