“My hair,” I whisper to my reflection in the dark monitor of a computer. “It’s happening. The collapse. The structural integrity is failing.”
“Stop looking at yourself, York,” Dr. Silva barks, walking past me with a stack of thermal blankets. “We need to clear the hallway. Triage is flooding.”
“Flooding?” I chase after him. “I’m wearing suede loafers, Luke. Suede is not hydrophobic. It spots.”
“Take them off,” Luke says without stopping. “Go barefoot. It’ll build your immune system.”
CRACK.
Thunder shakes the foundation of the building. It sounds like the sky just snapped a bone. The lights flicker—once, twice—and then die.
The ER plunges into absolute, heavy darkness.
For three seconds, there is silence. Then, the screaming starts.
“Stay calm!” Max’s voice booms from the centre of the room. “Generators kicking in in three… two…”
THRUM.
The emergency lights buzz to life. They are amber, dim, and flickering. They cast long, creepy shadows across the trauma bay, turning the hospital into a very expensive haunted house.
The low hum of the ventilation system dies. The silence where the AC used to be is deafening.
“Okay,” Max announces, climbing onto a chair. “We are on backup power. That means Life Support and ORs only. No AC. No elevators. No non-essential electronics.”
He looks around the room.
“If you are holding a coffee maker, unplug it. If you are charging your phone, stop. We need every volt.”
I look at the espresso machine I installed in the break room. I mourn it silently.
“It’s going to get hot,” Jax O’Connell adds, appearing from the shadows like a survivalist prepper who has been waiting for this exact moment. “And it’s going to get smelly. If you have peppermint oil, put it under your nose now. If you don't, godspeed.”
Luke turns to me. In the amber light, he looks tired and sharp.
“York,” he says. “We have to move the non-criticals to the third floor. The ground floor is a flood risk.”
“The elevators are down,” I point out.
“Yes.”
“And we are moving… people. Sick people. Who cannot walk.”
“Yes.”
“I need to call my lawyer,” I say. “This feels like a labour violation.”
“Grab the transport chair,” Luke orders, ignoring my legal counsel. “We’re starting with Bay 4. Mr. Bromley.”
“Bromley?” I groan. “The Magic 8-Ball guy? He’s back?”
“He fell on a candelabra,” Luke says grimly. “He says he was ‘dusting with passion.’ He has twelve stitches in his gluteus maximus and he refuses to walk because it ‘disrupts his chakras.’”
“Fantastic.”
We hustle to Bay 4. Mr. Bromley is sitting on the bed, clutching a new Magic 8-Ball like a holy relic.
“The lights went out!” Mr. Bromley cries when he sees us. “The ball saysOutlook Not So Good! We’re doomed!”
