Day Zero / Season 1, Episode 1
Lights Out, Life Hangs
Nina Reyes is elbow-deep in a gunshot wound when the lights die. The ER at Houston Methodist smells of bleach and copper, the air thick with the hum of overworked vents, and then—nothing. The fluorescent buzz cuts out at 2:47 PM, plunging the trauma bay into a gray haze. Her gloved hands freeze inside the patient’s abdomen, the slick heat of blood cooling against her fingers as the monitors flatline their alarms into silence. Someone gasps. A tray crashes. Her heart slams against her ribs, but her hands don’t shake. Not yet.
“Generator!” she barks, her voice slicing through the dark. “Where’s the damn generator?”
No answer, just the shuffle of sneakers on tile and the patient’s ragged breathing under her palms. She can’t see the bullet hole now, just feels the wet mess of it, the jagged tear in the man’s gut where she was fishing for fragments. Her eyes strain against the dimness, catching slivers of window light from the hallway, but it’s not enough. Sweat beads on her neck, sticking her scrubs to her skin. The room feels heavier, hotter, like the air itself is pressing down.
“Reyes, I got nothing!” That’s Jamal, the other nurse on shift, his voice frayed at the edges. She hears him slap at the wall, probably fumbling for the emergency panel. “Power’s out, all of it—ain’t no backup!”
“Get me a flashlight, then! Move!” She doesn’t look at him. Can’t. Her fingers are still inside this stranger, holding pressure on a bleeder she can’t see. The man groans, a low animal sound, and she leans closer, her breath hot against her own mask. “Stay with me,” she mutters, more to herself than him. “Just stay.”
Her mind isn’t here, though. It’s across the city, where the bayous are swelling from last night’s rain, where her daughter Mia is sitting in a third-grade classroom with a juice box and an insulin pump that needs a charge by tonight. Nina’s chest tightens, a vise of panic she can’t afford. Not now. She forces it down, focuses on the texture of torn muscle under her fingertips, the faint pulse she’s clinging to.
A beam of light cuts through—Jamal’s back with a handheld, the weak yellow glow trembling as he holds it over her. “Got it from the crash cart. What now?”
“Hold it steady. I’m not losing this guy to a blackout.” Her voice is steel, but her thoughts are water, slipping toward Mia again. School’s out at 3:15. If the power’s down citywide, if the roads are flooded worse than this morning, if—stop. She grits her teeth, digs deeper into the wound, feels the edge of something hard. Bullet fragment. Got you.
The ER doors slam open somewhere down the hall, a gust of humid air and shouting rolling in. More patients. Always more. Nina doesn’t look up. Can’t. Her world is this man’s blood, this fading pulse, and the clock in her head ticking down to when she has to get to Mia. Before the dark gets darker.
—
Marcus Cole’s hands are steady on the headset mic, but his gut is a knot of ice. O’Hare Tower smells like stale coffee and burnt wiring, the kind of scent that clings to a place run on stress and Red Bull. At 2:47 PM, the screens go black—radar, flight data, all of it—leaving him staring at a void where 47 planes should be. The chatter in his ears cuts to static, then nothing. Just the sound of his own breathing, too loud in the sudden quiet of the control room.
“Delta 214, this is Tower, do you read?” His voice doesn’t waver, even as his fingers grip the mic like it’s a lifeline. Silence. He tries again. “United 609, Tower, report position.” Nothing. The other controllers around him are frozen, half-standing, half-sitting, their faces pale in the dim emergency lighting that hasn’t kicked on yet. The room feels colder, or maybe that’s just the sweat drying on his neck.
“Power’s out,” someone mutters behind him—probably Lisa, the shift lead. Her chair scrapes as she stands. “Whole grid. Look outside.”
Marcus doesn’t look. Can’t. His eyes are locked on the empty screens, his mind racing through the last positions he remembers. Forty-seven planes in the air, some on approach, some climbing out, all blind now. No transponders, no comms, no way to know if they’re on collision paths. His throat burns with the urge to yell, to swear, to do anything but sit here, but he swallows it. Panic kills faster than altitude.
“Get the backup online!” he snaps, finally turning to Lisa. She’s at the window, staring down at the tarmac where planes are frozen mid-taxi, their engines still running but nowhere to go. Her face is a mask of disbelief, her hands pressed to the glass.
“Backup’s not coming,” she says, voice flat. “Nothing’s coming. It’s all down.”
“Then get me a damn radio that works!” Marcus is on his feet now, the headset ripped off, his boots heavy on the floor as he moves to the emergency kit stashed by the door. His hands shake as he digs through it—batteries, a handheld, something, anything. He’s thinking of the pilots up there, staring at dead instruments, of the passengers who don’t know yet that the world just broke. He’s thinking of his own daughter, somewhere in the suburbs, probably texting friends about the blackout like it’s a game. He pushes that away. Focus. Forty-seven planes. Hundreds of lives. His job.
The handheld crackles to life, faint but there, and he’s back at his station, dialing through frequencies. “This is O’Hare Tower, any aircraft, respond.” Static. His jaw clenches, the taste of coffee bitter on his tongue. Outside, the sky is a flat gray, the kind of Chicago afternoon that promises nothing good. He tries again. “Any aircraft, this is Tower, I’m here. Talk to me.”
A voice cuts through, garbled but real. “Tower, this is Southwest 112, we’re at 10,000, instruments are—shit, we got nothing. What’s happening?”
Relief hits Marcus like a punch, but it’s fleeting. One plane. Just one. “Southwest 112, hold position if you can, visual only. I’ve got no radar. Repeat, no radar. You’re flying blind down here.”
The pilot’s voice cracks. “Blind? Tower, I’ve got 180 souls on board. What the hell—”
“Stay calm, 112. I’m with you. Keep talking.” Marcus’s voice is steady, but his hands aren’t. They’re gripping the radio, knuckles white, as the weight of 46 other silent planes presses down. The control room is chaos now, voices overlapping, someone banging on a dead console like it’ll wake up. He blocks it out. Listens for the next crackle. Prays there’s a next.
—
Deshawn Watts is mid-stream when the world cuts out. His bedroom in the Atlanta high-rise smells like Doritos and energy drinks, the glow of his dual monitors painting his face blue as he trash-talks a squad on Twitch. “Y’all can’t touch me, I’m—” The screens go black. His headset dies. The hum of his PC fan stops like someone pulled the plug on reality itself. 2:47 PM, and the silence is louder than any explosion he’s ever gamed.
“Yo, what?” He yanks off the headset, tossing it onto the desk, the plastic clattering against empty cans. His heart’s racing, not from the game but from the weirdness of it all. No hum, no AC, no nothing. Just the faint sound of traffic outside, honking and grinding, like the city’s confused too. He stands, his chair rolling back on the hardwood, and crosses to the window. Fourteenth floor, view of downtown, and it’s… wrong. No lights in the buildings across the street. No billboards flashing. Just gray sky and a sea of brake lights below, cars stalled out like they forgot how to move.
“Mom?” he calls, stepping into the hallway, his sneakers scuffing on the carpet. The apartment’s dark, the kind of dark that feels heavy, like it’s pressing into your skin. No answer. She’s at work, probably stuck in that call center downtown, assuming the phones even work. His younger brother’s at after-school, and his dad—well, he’s been gone since Deshawn was ten. It’s just him, the empty rooms, and the weird quiet.
He fumbles for his phone, the screen a dim glow in the shadowed hall. No bars. No Wi-Fi. Just the time, ticking past 2:50 now, and a battery at 23%. “C’mon, man,” he mutters, tapping at it like that’ll fix the world. It doesn’t. His thumb hovers over the emergency call button, but what’s he gonna say? My lights went out? Nah. He shoves it in his pocket, the denim rough against his knuckles, and heads for the door. Maybe someone in the building knows what’s up.
The hallway’s darker than his apartment, the emergency lights dead too, and it smells like burnt toast from Mrs. Carter’s place down the way. He bangs on her door first, the sound echoing too loud in the stillness. “Mrs. C? You good?” No answer. He tries again, harder, the wood rattling under his fist. Nothing. His stomach twists, a cold little knot he can’t name. He’s about to move on when he hears it—a low moan, not from her door but from the stairwell at the end of the hall.
“Hey, who’s there?” His voice cracks a little, betraying the bravado he’s trying to hold onto. He steps closer, the air cooler near the stairwell, damp with the smell of concrete and metal. The moan comes again, weaker, and now he’s moving without thinking, pushing through the heavy door. The stairs are pitch black, but his phone’s flashlight cuts a shaky beam down the steps. There, on the landing below, is a shape—Mr. Thompson, the old guy from 12B, sprawled out, one leg twisted wrong, his face pale as paper.
“Man, you okay?” Deshawn’s down the steps in seconds, knees hitting the cold floor beside the guy. Thompson’s eyes flutter, his breathing shallow, and there’s a gash on his forehead, blood sticky and dark in the phone light. Deshawn’s hands hover, not touching, because what the hell does he do? Then he remembers—first aid, that dumb class he took for extra credit last year. Pressure. Stop the bleeding. He yanks off his hoodie, the fabric rough as he presses it to the wound, and Thompson groans again, softer.
“Hang on, I got you,” Deshawn says, though his voice shakes. His hands are steady, though, steadier than he feels. The stairwell echoes with their breathing, the air thick and stale, and he’s wondering how long it’ll take for help to come—if it’s coming at all.
—
Senator Catherine Bright’s fingers tighten around the briefing folder as the bunker’s lights flicker, then die. The air in the underground chamber beneath D.C. smells of recycled metal and old coffee, the kind of sterile cold that seeps into your bones. At 2:47 PM, the hum of the ventilation cuts out, and the emergency reds kick on, bathing the room in a bloody glow. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up from the table where maps and classified reports are spread like a losing hand of poker. She knew this was coming. Six months ago, her committee saw the projections—grid failure, cascading blackouts, no cause identified. They buried it. Too expensive, too messy, too much panic. Now it’s here.
“Senator, we’ve lost main power,” says Agent Kessler, her detail lead, his voice tight through the dimness. He’s at the comms panel, a shadow in the red light, his hand on a dead radio. “Backup’s running, but external feeds are down. No contact with the surface.”
“Expected,” she says, her tone clipped, almost bored. Her nails tap the folder, the sound sharp against the silence. Inside are the memos she signed off on, the ones that said wait, study further, don’t alarm. Her chest feels hollow, but her face is stone. Sixty years of politics taught her that—never show the cracks. Not even now, when the world above is unraveling faster than she predicted.
“Ma’am, we need to establish—” Kessler starts, but she cuts him off with a raised hand.
“We need nothing until I say so.” Her eyes meet his, sharp and unyielding, even in the half-dark. He’s younger, mid-forties, built like a wall, but he shifts under her gaze. Good. Fear keeps order. She stands, the chair scraping on the concrete floor, and moves to the wall map, her fingers tracing the grid lines of the eastern seaboard. Blackout zones marked in red ink, drawn from memory. She knew. They all did. And now it’s 2:51 PM, and the clock on the wall ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer in the quiet.
Her mind isn’t on the map, though. It’s on her son, out there in Baltimore, probably stuck in traffic or worse. She hasn’t spoken to him in months, not since the last argument over her “priorities.” The memory stings, but she locks it away. No room for that now. No room for anything but the next move. She turns back to Kessler, her voice low, deliberate.
“Get me a line to the Pentagon. Secure, analog if you have to. I want status reports from every sector by 3:30. And don’t tell me it’s impossible. Make it happen.”
He nods, already moving, but she sees the doubt in his shoulders, the way his hands hesitate over dead equipment. She doesn’t care. Doubt is his problem. Hers is bigger—knowing this isn’t random, isn’t temporary, and isn’t just the U.S. The report said global. Inevitable. Her fingers curl into a fist, hidden at her side, as the red light pulses like a heartbeat. Above them, the world burns out. Below, she waits. Plans. Survives.
—
Nina’s hands are still in the gunshot wound, the flashlight beam wavering as Jamal fights to keep it steady. The patient’s breathing is shallower now, a wet rasp she can feel more than hear, and the blood on her gloves is tacky, cooling too fast. The ER is louder, shouts and crashes echoing from the halls, but her focus narrows to this moment, this life slipping under her fingers. She’s got the fragment, metal sharp against her grip, but pulling it out blind is a gamble. Bleed out or save him. No time to think.
“Jamal, closer with that light,” she snaps, her voice raw. He shifts, the beam steadying, and she feels the heat of his breath nearby, the sour edge of his sweat. The hospital feels like a tomb now, the air stagnant, the walls pressing in with every tick of the unseen clock. Mia’s face flashes in her mind—small, serious, her pump beeping low this morning. Nina’s jaw locks. Not now. Not yet.
She eases the fragment out, slow, her fingers slick and trembling just enough to notice. Blood wells up, hot and fast, and she presses down harder, her other hand reaching for gauze she can’t see. “Got it,” she mutters, more to herself than Jamal. “Got you.”
But the monitors are still dead. The backup isn’t coming. And somewhere across the flooded city, Mia’s waiting. Nina’s breath catches, sharp and quick, as another shout rings from the hall—louder, closer, a new crisis rolling in. She doesn’t look up. Can’t. Not until this man breathes steady. Not until she knows she can move. Not until—
the shout splits the air again, a jagged edge of panic slicing through the ER’s suffocating quiet. Nina’s hands don’t falter, though her pulse spikes hard in her throat. She’s still pressing down on the man’s chest, the gauze soaking through under her fingers, warm and wet and too damn fast. “Jamal, check the hall,” she barks, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the haze of her own focus. He hesitates, the flashlight beam wavering for a split second before he nods, quick and jerky, and steps toward the double doors. The light swings away, leaving her in near-dark, just the faint glow of a dying exit sign above casting a sickly red over the gurney. Her eyes adjust, barely, catching the glint of blood on her gloves, the sheen of it pooling under the man’s shoulder. She leans harder, her forearms burning, the ache spreading up to her shoulders. He’s still breathing, shallow and ragged, but it’s something. It’s enough. For now.
The smell hits her then—coppery blood mixing with the stale antiseptic that clings to the walls, the faint tang of sweat from her own skin. The hospital’s air is thick, unmoving, like it’s holding its breath with her. No hum of vents, no beep of machines. Just the drip of something—water, blood, she can’t tell—hitting the floor somewhere to her left. Her knees press into the cold tile, the edge of it digging through her scrubs, and she shifts her weight, trying to ease the cramp threatening her calf. Mia’s face flickers again, unbidden, her small hands clutching that worn-out teddy, the one with the missing eye. Nina grits her teeth, pushes it down. Not now. She can’t fracture, not when this guy’s life is literally under her hands.
Jamal’s back in a heartbeat, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, the flashlight beam jittering as he swings it toward her. “It’s bad out there,” he mutters, his voice tight, higher than it should be for a guy his size. “Car wreck victims. Two, maybe three. They’re screamin’ for help, Nina. We got no docs, no—shit, no anything.” His words tumble over each other, and she feels the heat of his stare, the unspoken question: what the hell do we do?
Her gut twists, a cold knot forming under her ribs. She doesn’t look up, can’t afford to break focus. “Stabilize who you can. Triage. You know the drill. I’m tied here ‘til he’s steady.” Her tone is clipped, all edges, but inside her head’s a mess—numbers ticking down, Mia’s insulin pump beeping low at breakfast, the floodwaters rising outside, the grid dead since 2:47 PM. She knows the time because the clock on the break room wall froze there, hands stuck like a broken promise. Her fingers slip a little on the gauze, the blood too slick, and she curses under her breath, reaching for another strip from the cart beside her. The metal tray rattles as she grabs it, the sound too loud in the hollow room.
Jamal doesn’t move for a second, and she can feel his doubt, the way it hangs between them like damp air. Then he’s gone, the flashlight beam slicing away, leaving her in shadow again. The man under her hands groans, a low, wet sound that pulls her back. “Hey, stay with me,” she says, softer now, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw as she checks his pulse. It’s there, thready but stubborn, hammering under her touch. His skin’s clammy, cool despite the heat building in the room, and she wonders how long it’s been since the AC died. Hours? Less? Time’s a blur, a smeared line she can’t pin down.
Another shout from the hall, then a crash—glass, maybe, or metal on tile. Her head snaps up for half a second before she forces it back down. Focus, Nina. Focus. But her chest tightens, a vise squeezing her lungs. Mia’s school is across the city, past the bayou, past the underpasses that flood every damn time it rains. And it’s been pouring since dawn, sheets of it hammering the hospital roof, the sound a dull roar even through the walls. She left Mia with her teacher, Ms. Carter, promised she’d be back by six. But six is long gone, and the city’s a mess, and that pump only has so much juice left. Eight hours, maybe, if she’s lucky. Less if Mia’s stressed, if her levels spike. Nina’s jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache. She’s not a prayin’ woman, hasn’t been since her mama passed, but right now, something close to a plea scratches at the back of her mind.
The man’s breathing hitches, pulls her back to the now. She adjusts her grip, the gauze squelching under her palm, and feels the slow seep of blood slow, just a fraction. Good. Better. She risks a glance at his face—pale, waxy, a sheen of sweat on his brow reflecting the faint red light. Construction worker, she guesses, from the calluses on his hands, the dirt under his nails she noticed when she cut his shirt open. Probably caught in whatever mess took the grid down. A gas line? A collapse? Doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s still here, still fighting, and she’s not losing him on her watch.
Footsteps slap toward her, fast and uneven, and Jamal’s voice cuts in before she sees him. “Nina, we got a problem. Big one.” The flashlight swings back, blinding her for a split second before he angles it down. His face is tight, eyes wide, the kind of look that says he’s seen something he can’t unsee. “Kid out there, maybe ten. Head wound. Bleeding bad. I—I tried pressure, but it’s not enough. He’s fading.”
Her stomach drops, a cold stone sinking fast. She doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to know, but she has to. “How bad?”
“Bad. Like, minutes bad.” Jamal’s voice cracks on the last word, and she hears the shake in it, the way he’s holding it together by a thread. He’s not a nurse, not even close—just a tech who’s been here six months, barely trained for vitals let alone trauma. But he’s all she’s got right now, with the docs either stuck in traffic or gone when the lights died.
Nina’s hands are still on the construction guy, still pressing, still keeping him tethered to life. She can’t move, not yet, not until she’s sure he won’t crash the second she lets go. But a kid—ten, bleeding out, minutes left—that’s a clock she can’t ignore. Her mind races, splits in two, half here, half out there. “Get me a second set of hands,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “Anyone. Janitor, patient, I don’t care. Someone to hold this down while I check the kid.”
Jamal nods, already turning, the light bouncing as he bolts back to the hall. She hears his shout, muffled but urgent, calling for help. The construction guy groans again, softer this time, and she murmurs to him, “Hang tight. I’m not done with you.” Her fingers are numb now, the pressure a dull throb up her arms, but she doesn’t let up. Can’t. Not when she’s this close.
The air shifts, a faint draft from somewhere, carrying the smell of rain and something sharper—smoke, maybe, or exhaust from outside. The storm’s still raging, she can hear it, the wind rattling the windows in their frames, a low howl that’s been background noise for hours. But now it feels closer, like the world outside is pressing in, ready to spill through the cracks. Her scrubs stick to her back, sweat pooling at the base of her spine, and she blinks hard to clear the sting from her eyes. No sleep since yesterday, no food since a half-eaten granola bar at noon. Her body’s running on fumes, but adrenaline’s a hell of a fuel.
Footsteps again, heavier this time, and a new voice, rough and deep. “I can help. Tell me what to do.” She glances up, just long enough to see a man in a soaked hoodie, beard streaked with gray, hands big and scarred like he’s worked them hard his whole life. A patient? A visitor? Doesn’t matter. He’s here.
“Press here,” she says, nodding to the gauze on the construction guy’s chest. “Hard. Don’t let up, even if he moves. I’ll be back in two minutes.” She waits until his hands are in place, until she feels the weight shift, then slides her own away, flexing her fingers to shake the stiffness. Blood clings to her gloves, tacky and dark, and she wipes them on her scrubs without thinking, a streak of red blooming on the blue fabric. She’s on her feet in a heartbeat, moving toward the hall before the guy can say a word.
The ER corridor is a war zone, shadows and chaos under the flicker of emergency lights that are already dimming. Someone’s crying, a low, keening sound that cuts through the shouts and moans. The floor’s slick with something—water, blood, she doesn’t stop to check—and her sneakers skid as she rounds the corner. Jamal’s there, crouched over a small figure on a stretcher, his hands pressed to the kid’s head, a towel under them already soaked through. The sight hits her like a punch, steals the air from her lungs. He’s tiny, limbs thin under a torn T-shirt, face pale as paper, eyes half-open but unfocused. A gash runs from his temple to his ear, deep and jagged, blood pulsing out with every heartbeat.
“Move,” she snaps, dropping to her knees beside Jamal, her hands already reaching. He shifts, barely, giving her space but not letting go, his fingers trembling under the towel. “What happened?” she asks, not looking at him, her focus on the wound, on the way the skin’s split like it was carved.
“Car wreck, they said. Glass, maybe. I don’t know. Just—help him, Nina. Please.” Jamal’s voice is raw, pleading, and she feels it, the weight of his fear pressing against her own.
Her hands move on instinct, peeling back the towel, ignoring the fresh gush of blood that follows. It’s bad. Worse than bad. The skull’s exposed, a faint gleam of white under the red, and her heart stutters. She’s seen wounds like this before, in residency, in the kind of cases that don’t walk away. But she’s not thinking that, not letting herself. “I need suture kit, now. And light. Get me more light.” Her voice is steel, even as her insides churn. Jamal scrambles, the flashlight clattering as he grabs it, angling it over the kid’s face. The beam shakes, but it’s enough. She sees the damage clear now, the torn edges, the depth. Her fingers probe, gentle but fast, feeling for fragments, for anything she can’t see. The kid doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, and that’s worse than if he’d screamed.
The hall’s noise swells around her—someone yelling for a doctor, another voice begging for water, the distant thump of something heavy hitting the ground. She tunes it out, narrows the world to this stretcher, this boy, this wound. Her hands are steady, but her mind’s not. Mia’s there again, a ghost at the edge of her vision, small and scared and waiting. Nina blinks it away, hard, her teeth grinding. She can’t split herself, can’t be in two places. But the thought’s a splinter, digging deeper with every second. What if the school’s flooded? What if the pump’s already dead? What if—
“Kit’s here,” Jamal says, shoving a plastic tray into her peripheral. She grabs it without looking, tears the packaging with her teeth, the sharp taste of plastic lingering on her tongue. Needle, thread, forceps. Old-school, no machines to lean on now. Her hands thread the needle, the motion automatic, muscle memory from a hundred late-night shifts. The kid’s chest rises, falls, too slow, too shallow. She’s racing a clock she can’t see, and it’s winning.
First stitch goes in, then the second, her fingers slick with blood but sure, pulling the edges together, slowing the bleed. It’s not enough, not by half, but it’s something. “Keep that light steady,” she mutters, her voice tight, and Jamal grunts, his arm shaking but holding. The smell of blood is thicker now, metallic and sharp, mixing with the damp reek of the hospital, the faint mildew creeping in from somewhere. Her knees ache against the floor, the cold seeping through, and sweat drips into her eyes, stinging. She blinks it away, keeps going. Third stitch. Fourth. The kid’s pulse is under her fingers, faint, fluttering like a trapped bird.
Then it stops.
She freezes, just for a fraction of a second, her hand hovering with the needle. No. No, no, no. “Jamal, check his chest,” she snaps, already shifting, dropping the kit to press both hands over his sternum. Compressions, hard and fast, her shoulders screaming with the effort. His ribs creak under her weight, a sickening give, but she doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. “Breathe for him,” she orders, and Jamal’s there, tilting the kid’s head back, blowing into his mouth, his own face pale and slick with sweat. One, two, three, count it out. Her arms are fire, her breath ragged, but she keeps the rhythm, keeps pushing life back into him.
Nothing. No flutter, no gasp. Her vision blurs, not from sweat this time, but something hotter, sharper, threatening to spill over. She bites it back, hard, her lip splitting under her teeth, the copper taste grounding her. “Come on, kid,” she mutters, barely a whisper, her hands still moving, still fighting. But the seconds stretch, endless, and the truth creeps in, cold and heavy. He’s gone. She knows it before she stops, before her hands slow, before she sits back on her heels, chest heaving. Jamal’s staring at her, eyes wide, waiting for something she can’t give. A miracle. A lie.
“I’m sorry,” she says, the words scraping out, rough and useless. Her hands fall to her lap, blood-streaked and trembling, and for a moment, the hall’s noise fades, just a dull roar in her ears. She can’t look at the kid’s face, can’t see those half-open eyes. So she stares at the floor, at the smear of red under her knees, until her breath steadies, until she can stand.
Jamal doesn’t speak, just nods, slow, like he’s carrying something too heavy to name. She wants to say more, wants to fix it, but there’s nothing left. Not for this boy. Not right now. She’s on her feet, swaying a little, the exhaustion slamming into her like a wave. But there’s no time to sink. The construction guy’s still back there, still needing her, and the hall’s still a mess of cries and chaos. And Mia—God, Mia—she’s still out there, still waiting, still running out of time.
Her hand finds the wall, steadying her as she moves back toward the trauma bay, each step heavier than the last. The gray-bearded man’s still there, still pressing down, his face grim but focused. “He’s holding,” he grunts as she approaches, and she nods, sliding in beside him, her hands taking over without a word. The gauze is soaked again, but the bleed’s slower, the man’s chest rising steadier now. Small win. Tiny. But it’s not enough to dull the ache in her chest, the weight of the kid’s stillness behind her.
Another shout from the hall, closer now, and a new sound—glass shattering, sharp and sudden, followed by a scream that’s pure terror. Her head snaps up, her pulse spiking again, and she meets the bearded man’s eyes for a split second. Something’s wrong. Worse than wrong. The scream cuts off, abrupt, and the silence that follows is worse, heavy with threat. Her fingers tighten on the gauze, her breath shallow, as the hospital’s walls seem to close in tighter, the air electric with something she can’t name but feels in her bones. Whatever’s coming, it’s not a patient. It’s not a wound she can stitch. And she’s not ready.
Her fingers dig into the gauze, the damp fibers sticking to her skin, the coppery tang of blood sharp in her nose. Nina’s chest tightens as the silence stretches, broken only by the ragged breathing of the man under her hands. The bearded guy—did he say his name?—shifts beside her, his knuckles white where they grip the stretcher’s edge. “You hear that?” he mutters, voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the stalled generator outside the trauma bay. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. Her ears strain, catching the faint scuff of boots on tile from the hallway, deliberate and slow, not the frantic shuffle of someone hurt or helping. Her stomach twists. It’s not a patient. It’s not a doctor. It’s something else.
“Keep pressure,” she whispers, her voice a thread, barely there, as she eases her hands off the gauze. The bearded man nods, his jaw tight, taking over without question. Her sneakers squeak softly on the linoleum as she edges toward the bay’s entrance, her back brushing the wall, the plaster cool and rough against her scrubs. The hallway beyond is dim, the emergency lights flickering like a dying pulse, casting long shadows that twist and jerk with every stutter. She squints, her breath shallow, catching the glint of something moving—metal, maybe, or glass—near the nurses’ station. A shape, broad-shouldered, hunched, stepping over a scatter of dropped charts. Not running. Not helping. Hunting.
Her hand finds the doorframe, nails scraping wood, and she freezes. Another scream rips through the air, raw and desperate, from deeper in the hospital, maybe the pediatric wing. Her heart stumbles. Marisol. Her daughter’s across the city, not here, but the sound hooks into her anyway, claws at the part of her that’s been counting minutes since the grid dropped at 2:47. She can’t think about that now, can’t let herself picture Marisol alone at school, her insulin pen running low, the flooded streets between them. She blinks hard, forces her focus back to the shadow in the hall. It’s closer now, the boots louder, a steady tap-tap that echoes off the walls like a countdown.
“Nina,” the bearded man hisses behind her, his voice sharp enough to cut through her haze. She glances back—he’s still pressing down on the gauze, but his eyes are on her, wide, urgent. “Don’t. Whatever’s out there, you don’t wanna know.” His tone’s not pleading; it’s a warning, heavy with something he’s not saying. She hesitates, her fingers twitching against the frame, the air in the bay thick with the stink of antiseptic and sweat. He’s right. She’s not armed, not trained for this. She’s a nurse, not a cop. But the scream echoes in her skull, and she can’t unhear it, can’t shake the feeling that if she doesn’t move, whatever’s coming will find them anyway.
“Stay with him,” she breathes, barely audible, and slips into the hall before she can second-guess it. The tiles are slick underfoot, wet with something—water, blood, she doesn’t look down to check. Her pulse hammers in her throat as she presses against the wall, moving toward the nurses’ station, her shoulder brushing a corkboard where pinned schedules flutter in the stale air. The flickering light strobes across the corridor, turning every corner into a trap, every shadow into a threat. She hears it again, the boots, closer now, around the bend past the station. A low murmur follows, a voice, male, rough, saying something she can’t make out, then a grunt, like someone being shoved. Her skin prickles. There’s more than one.
She ducks behind the station’s counter, her knees hitting the floor hard, the cold seeping through her scrubs. Her hands shake as she grips the edge, peering over just enough to see. Two figures, both men, one in a dark hoodie, the other in a stained Carhartt jacket, stand near the pharmacy door. The hoodie guy’s got a crowbar, the metal glinting as he swings it lazily against his palm. The jacket guy’s holding something smaller, sharper—a knife, maybe, hard to tell in the half-light. They’re not hospital staff. Not patients. They’re scavenging, or worse. Her breath catches as the hoodie guy turns his head, his profile sharp under the hood, scanning the hall. She drops lower, her cheek pressed to the gritty floor, the smell of dust and spilled coffee filling her nose. Her mind races. The pharmacy’s locked, always is, but if they’ve got a crowbar, that won’t hold long. And if they get in—morphine, fentanyl, anything they can carry—it’s not just theft. It’s a disaster. The hospital’s already on fumes, generators coughing, supplies rationed. They can’t lose more.
A clatter from behind her, back toward the trauma bay, makes her flinch. The bearded man, maybe, or someone else. The hoodie guy’s head snaps toward the sound, his grip tightening on the crowbar. “Check it,” he growls to the other, who nods and starts down the hall, knife out, steps quick now. Nina’s chest burns. She’s got seconds, maybe, before they’re on her. She scrambles back, staying low, her hands scraping the floor, until she’s tucked behind a cart of discarded linens. The fabric smells sour, like vomit, but she buries her face in it anyway, muffling her breathing. The jacket guy passes, close enough she can smell the cigarette smoke on him, the leather of his boots creaking as he moves. He doesn’t see her, not yet, but he’s heading straight for the bay. Straight for the bearded man and the patient she fought to stabilize.
Her nails dig into her palms. She can’t let this happen. Can’t let them tear through what’s left of this place. But she’s got nothing—no weapon, no plan, just a pounding heart and a body that’s already screaming from hours on her feet. She shifts, slow, reaching for the cart’s lower shelf, her fingers closing on a metal clipboard, heavy enough to hurt if she swings it right. It’s not much, but it’s something. She eases to her knees, peering through the linens, watching the jacket guy disappear around the corner. The hoodie guy’s still at the pharmacy door, prying at the lock, the crowbar screeching against metal. She’s got a window, small, shrinking by the second.
She moves before she can think better of it, clipboard clutched to her chest, creeping along the wall toward the pharmacy. Her sneakers stick to the floor, the sound muted but not silent, and every step feels like a gunshot in the quiet. The air’s heavy, humid, the hospital’s ventilation long dead, and sweat beads on her neck, trickling under her collar. She’s ten feet away when the hoodie guy grunts, the crowbar slipping, and he curses under his breath, low and vicious. She freezes, her back flat against the wall, the clipboard slick in her grip. He hasn’t seen her, not yet, but if he turns—if he just glances left—she’s done. Her eyes dart to the pharmacy door, the lock already dented, hanging by a thread. If he gets in, it’s over. If she doesn’t stop him, it’s over.
A shout from the trauma bay, sharp and pained—the bearded man, or maybe the patient—snaps the hoodie guy’s attention. He straightens, crowbar still in hand, and starts toward the sound, his boots heavy on the tile. Nina’s window slams shut, but another opens. She lunges, not thinking, just moving, the clipboard raised as she closes the gap. He’s halfway turned when she swings, the metal cracking against his shoulder, not his head like she aimed, but hard enough to stagger him. He stumbles, the crowbar clattering to the floor, and his eyes—dark, wide with shock—lock on hers. “Bitch,” he snarls, lurching forward, his hand grabbing for her arm. She twists, the clipboard slipping from her fingers, and drives her knee up, aiming for anything soft. It connects, barely, grazing his thigh, but it’s enough to make him grunt, to buy her a second.
She bolts, not looking back, her sneakers slipping as she rounds the corner toward the bay. Her lungs burn, the hall blurring as she runs, the sound of his boots thundering behind her. She doesn’t know if the jacket guy’s still in the bay, doesn’t know if the bearded man’s okay, doesn’t know anything except the panic clawing up her spine. She bursts through the doorway, nearly crashing into the stretcher, and the bearded man’s there, still pressing gauze, his face pale but fierce. “What the hell—” he starts, but she cuts him off, gasping, “They’re coming. Two of ‘em. We gotta move.”
His eyes narrow, flicking to the hall, then back to her. “Move where? He can’t—” He nods at the patient, whose chest is still rising, slow but steady. She knows he’s right. Moving him risks everything, risks the bleed opening again, risks losing him after all that work. But staying risks worse. The boots are closer now, the hoodie guy’s voice barking something she can’t make out, and her skin crawls with the certainty of what happens if they’re caught. She scans the bay, desperate, her gaze landing on a supply closet in the corner, the door half-open, a gurney blocking it from view. It’s tight, barely big enough, but it’s something.
“There,” she says, pointing, already moving to the stretcher’s side. “Help me. Now.” The bearded man hesitates, just a beat, then nods, his hands shifting to the stretcher’s rails. Together, they roll it, the wheels squealing, the patient groaning softly as they shove it toward the closet. Her arms shake with the effort, the metal cold under her palms, the air thick with the metallic bite of blood and the sour edge of fear. They’re halfway there when the boots hit the bay’s threshold, the hoodie guy’s shadow filling the doorway. “Hey!” he yells, voice raw, and she doesn’t look, can’t look, just pushes harder, the stretcher slamming against the closet frame as they wedge it in.
“Get down,” she hisses, dropping to the floor behind the gurney, pulling the bearded man with her. He grunts as his knee hits tile, but he’s quiet after, both of them crouched low, the patient above them, hidden by the angle. Her heart’s a jackhammer, her breath hot and ragged against her sleeve as she presses against the wall, the closet’s darkness swallowing them. The boots stop, then start again, slower, searching. She can hear him breathing, heavy, irritated, the crowbar scraping the floor as he drags it. “Come on out,” he calls, voice mock-sweet, edged with menace. “We just wanna talk.”
Her fingers curl into the bearded man’s arm, a silent plea to stay still, to not make a sound. He’s tense under her grip, his own breath shallow, but he doesn’t move. The patient above them shifts, a faint moan escaping, and her stomach drops. The boots pause, then turn, heading their way. She closes her eyes, not praying, not hoping, just waiting, the clipboard’s weight still ghosting her hand, useless now. The shadow looms closer, the crowbar’s scrape louder, and she braces for it, for the end of this tiny, fragile hiding.
But then—a crash, glass shattering somewhere down the hall, followed by a shout, not the hoodie guy’s voice, someone new. The boots hesitate, then pivot, moving away, the sound fading as he mutters something and heads toward the noise. Nina doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, not until the silence settles again, heavy and uncertain. Her eyes open, meeting the bearded man’s, his face slick with sweat, his expression unreadable but alive. “That was close,” he whispers, barely a sound, and she nods, her throat too tight to speak.
They stay there, crouched in the dark, the closet’s walls pressing in, the smell of bleach and old bandages thick around them. Minutes crawl by, or maybe hours—she can’t tell, time’s a blur since the lights died. The patient’s breathing stays steady, a small anchor, but her mind’s already racing ahead, past this moment, past the hospital’s crumbling edges. Marisol. The school. The floodwater rising in Houston’s streets, the grid down, no way to call, no way to know if her daughter’s okay, if the teachers have her insulin, if anyone’s even there to help. Her chest aches with it, a physical weight, heavier than the stretcher, heavier than the fear of the men with the crowbar.
“We can’t stay here,” she says finally, her voice raw, almost breaking. The bearded man looks at her, his gray eyes sharp in the dimness. “Where you gonna go?” he asks, not challenging, just asking, like he knows there’s no good answer. She swallows, her hands still trembling, the memory of the clipboard’s swing replaying in her muscles. “My kid,” she says, simple, final. “She’s out there. I gotta get to her.”
He nods, slow, like he gets it, like he’s got someone out there too, or did once. “Then you better move fast,” he says, glancing at the hall, the quiet still holding, fragile as glass. “Before they come back. Before it gets worse.” He doesn’t say what worse means, doesn’t need to. She feels it, in the hospital’s suffocating air, in the screams that still echo in her head, in the dark that’s only going to deepen as the hours drag on. Six hours since the grid failed, and already the world’s unraveling, thread by thread.
She stands, slow, her legs shaky but holding, and checks the patient one last time. Chest rising, pulse weak but there. “You got him?” she asks, looking at the bearded man, who’s already shifting to take her spot by the stretcher. “Yeah,” he grunts. “Go.” There’s no goodbye, no good luck, just that single word, heavy with everything unspoken. She nods, turns, and steps into the hall, the tiles cold under her feet, the flickering light casting her shadow long and thin ahead of her.
The hospital’s quieter now, unnaturally so, the distant shouts muted, the boots gone for the moment. But she knows it won’t last. She moves quick, sticking to the walls, her hands empty but ready, her mind mapping the route out—through the ER doors, past the flooded parking lot, into a city that’s already drowning in more than water. Marisol’s out there, somewhere, waiting, and Nina’s got no phone, no car, no plan, just a need that burns hotter than the fear. She reaches the ER exit, the glass doors smudged and cracked, the outside world a gray smear of rain and chaos beyond. Her hand presses to the frame, hesitating just a second, and she looks back, one last time, at the hospital’s gutted heart.
In the dimness, past the nurses’ station, a new shadow moves—not the hoodie guy, not the jacket guy, but someone else, smaller, quicker, slipping through the wreckage with purpose. A kid, maybe, or a woman, hard to tell, but they’re holding something, a bag, stuffed full, and they’re heading for the pharmacy, the lock still broken, the door hanging open. Nina’s breath catches, not with fear this time, but with something colder, sharper—a realization that cuts deeper than any blade. It’s not just looters. It’s not just chaos. It’s everyone, now, grabbing what they can, while they can, because they know, somehow, in their bones, that no one’s coming to fix this. No power, no help, no tomorrow. Just now, just this, just the scramble to survive until the next hour.
She pushes through the door, the humid air hitting her like a slap, the rain stinging her skin, and steps into the dark, the city’s silhouette jagged and silent ahead. Whatever’s coming, whatever broke at 2:47, it’s not stopping. It’s spreading. And she’s got thirty miles of hell to cross before she finds out if her daughter’s still on the other side.