Day Zero / Season 1, Episode 3
Blood Under Pressure
Nina’s hands are slick with sweat under the nitrile gloves, the air in the ER at Houston Methodist thick with the copper tang of blood and the sharp sting of antiseptic. The battery-powered lantern on the crash cart throws jagged shadows across the bay, turning the gurney into a stark island of white sheets and red smears. She’s pressing down on a teenage boy’s abdomen, her palms firm against the gauze, trying to staunch the flow from a knife wound that’s deeper than it looked at first glance. His skin is clammy, pale under the dim light, and his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a little weaker than the last.
“Stay with me, kid,” she mutters, her voice low, almost lost under the shouts echoing through the ward. “Don’t you dare check out on me now.” Her forearms burn from the pressure, the ache creeping up to her shoulders, but she doesn’t let up. Can’t. Not with the generators stuttering every few minutes, the backup lights flickering like they’re deciding whether to give up too. It’s been—what, three hours since the grid died? Four? Time’s a blur, just a series of heartbeats and crises piling up like wrecked cars on the I-45.
Jamal skids into the bay, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, a fresh pack of gauze in one hand and a wild look in his eyes. “Nina, they’re saying the floods are worse—downtown’s underwater, and they got people coming in off boats now. Boats, man! And the pharmacy—” He cuts off, glances at the kid on the gurney, then back to her. “It’s bad down there. They’re looting what’s left of the insulin, the pain meds, all of it.”
Her stomach twists, sharp and cold, at the mention of insulin. Mia’s face flashes in her mind—those big, trusting eyes, the way she clutches her teddy bear when her blood sugar dips too low. Her daughter’s across the city, at school, or at least she was when the power cut out at 2:47. No phone signal, no way to know if she’s safe, if the school nurse has enough supplies. Nina grits her teeth, forces the thought down. Focus. This kid’s bleeding out under her hands. “Get me more saline,” she snaps at Jamal. “And find Dr. Patel. We need to get him to surgery before he crashes.”
Jamal nods, already turning, but his shoulders slump like he’s carrying the weight of the whole damn hospital. “Patel’s got three criticals in the next bay. I’ll try, but—” He doesn’t finish, just bolts back into the chaos of the hallway, where screams and barked orders mix with the distant sound of glass shattering somewhere downstairs.
Nina leans harder into the compress, her boots planted firm against the floor, the ache in her back screaming now. The kid’s eyes flutter, half-open, unfocused. “Hey,” she says, sharper this time, trying to pull him back. “What’s your name? Talk to me.” No answer, just a weak wheeze. She glances at the monitor—one of the few still running off a portable battery pack—and sees his pulse dipping into the low sixties. Too low. Her own heart hammers against her ribs, a drumbeat she can’t ignore. The air’s heavy, humid, like breathing through a wet cloth, and the smell of blood is everywhere, sticking to the back of her throat.
A crash from the hallway yanks her head up—a metal tray hitting the ground, followed by a woman’s shrill cry. “My baby! Where’s my baby?” Nina’s jaw tightens. She can’t look away from this kid, not for a second, but the noise burrows into her, piling on the dread. The ER’s a pressure cooker, every bay overflowing, patients on stretchers in the halls, staff running on fumes and fear. No power means no ventilators, no imaging, no way to stabilize half the cases coming through the doors. And now looters in the pharmacy, floods cutting off the city, Mia out there somewhere—she cuts the thought off again, brutal, like slamming a door.
Footsteps slap closer, and Dr. Patel appears at the edge of the bay, her scrubs dark with sweat and blood, her face a mask of exhaustion. Her hair’s coming loose from its bun, strands sticking to her neck in the stifling heat. “Nina, what’ve we got?” Her voice is clipped, all business, but there’s a tremor under it, like she’s one bad case from cracking.
“Knife wound, abdominal, deep. Lost a lot of blood, BP’s tanking. Needs surgery now or we’re done.” Nina doesn’t look up, keeps her hands steady, but her words come fast, urgent. “Can you take him?”
Patel’s eyes flick to the kid, then back to Nina, and for a split second, there’s something raw there—defeat, maybe, or just the weight of too many calls like this. “OR’s a mess. Generators are barely holding, and we’ve got no anesthesiologist since Carter didn’t show. I can try, but—” She stops, rubs a hand over her face, leaving a smear of blood on her cheek without noticing. “I’ll get him prepped. Keep him stable for ten. Can you do that?”
Nina nods, short and sharp, even as doubt gnaws at her. Ten minutes feels like ten hours in this hell. “Got it.” Patel turns to go, barking for a stretcher team, and Nina’s left alone again with the kid, the lantern light wavering like it’s mocking her. Her fingers are numb now, the pressure unrelenting, and she can feel the gauze soaking through again, warm and wet against her gloves. “Come on,” she whispers, more to herself than to him. “Just hold on.”
The hallway noise swells—more shouting, a man’s voice growling something about needing meds, a woman sobbing. Nina’s ears prick at the sound of boots stomping closer, heavy, not the hurried shuffle of hospital staff. Her spine stiffens, a prickle of unease cutting through the focus. She risks a glance over her shoulder, just long enough to see two men at the far end of the ward, both in soaked jackets, one with a crowbar dangling from his hand. They’re scanning the bays, eyes hard, purposeful. Not patients. Not staff. Her gut clenches. Looters, or worse. She ducks her head back down, keeps her body between them and the kid, as if that’ll do anything if they decide to come this way.
Her mind races, splitting in two—one half on the kid, counting his breaths, the other on Mia, on those men, on the hospital turning into a war zone. She can’t leave this gurney, not with his life leaking out under her hands, but every instinct screams to run, to find a way out, to get to her daughter before the city drowns or burns or whatever the hell comes next. The heat presses in, sweat dripping down her temple, and the air feels thinner, like she’s suffocating under the weight of it all.
A nurse—Clara, maybe—rushes past, her voice high and tight. “Security’s down, Nina! They can’t hold the doors!” The words hit like a punch, and Nina’s grip on the gauze tightens, her knuckles whitening. No security. No power. No way out. The kid’s pulse monitor beeps, erratic now, and her eyes snap back to it—fifty-eight. Dropping. Her chest tightens, a vise around her lungs. “Damn it,” she hisses, leaning harder, willing the bleeding to stop, willing time to stretch just a little longer.
The boots get louder, closer, and she hears a low grunt, a muttered “Check over there.” Her head stays down, but her peripheral catches movement—those men, weaving through the chaos, heading this way. Her free hand twitches toward the trauma shears in her pocket, useless against a crowbar but better than nothing. The kid’s breath hitches, a wet, desperate sound, and she’s torn, split open between saving him and saving herself, between staying and running, between this stranger’s life and Mia’s. The lantern flickers again, casting the bay into half-darkness, and the shadows of those boots stretch long across the floor.
—
Marcus Cole’s hands are steady on the binoculars, but his jaw is locked so tight his teeth ache. From the control tower at O’Hare, the tarmac below is a mess of grounded planes, their wings glinting dully in the late afternoon haze, and beyond them, the horizon’s a smear of gray where the city should be. No lights, no hum of engines, just an eerie quiet that’s worse than any storm he’s worked through in twenty years on the job. The tower’s backup radio crackles in his earpiece, spitting static and fragments of voices—pilots, ground crew, someone begging for fuel stats—but it’s useless without radar, without power, without anything to tell him where the hell the last of those forty-seven planes are.
He lowers the binoculars, rubs a hand over his face, feeling the grit of sweat and stubble under his palm. The tower room stinks of stale coffee and desperation, the air still and hot, windows fogged from too many bodies crammed in here. His team’s down to six now—half the shift didn’t make it in before the grid cut out, and he hasn’t heard from them since. Tanya, his lead coordinator, is hunched over a paper map at the desk, marking last-known positions with a red pen, her fingers shaking every time she lifts it. “Marcus,” she says, not looking up, her voice raw from shouting into the void of the radio. “Southwest 112’s still out there. Last contact said they were circling at 10,000, but that was twenty minutes ago. Fuel’s gotta be critical.”
“I know,” he snaps, harsher than he means to, then catches himself, exhales through his nose. The weight of it sits on his chest—forty-seven planes when the power died, most diverted or landed blind with his voice guiding them, but a handful are still unaccounted for. Southwest 112’s the one that keeps him up, the one he talked to last, the captain’s voice calm but tight, saying they’d hold pattern until fuel forced a call. He can still hear it, looping in his head: “Tower, we’ve got two hours max. Tell me where to put her down.” Marcus hadn’t had an answer then, doesn’t have one now, and the silence from their end is a knife twisting deeper every minute.
He lifts the binoculars again, scans the sky, squinting against the glare. Nothing but clouds, thick and heavy, rolling in from the west like they’re bringing more bad news. The tarmac’s chaos doesn’t help—passengers milling around grounded jets, some dragging luggage, others just sitting on the asphalt, heads in hands. No terminal power means no gates, no baggage claim, no way to process anyone, and the airport police are stretched thin, their radios as dead as everything else. He caught sight of a fight breaking out near Terminal 3 an hour ago, fists and shouting over a water bottle, of all things. It’s unraveling faster than he thought it would.
“Marcus!” Tanya’s voice cuts through, sharp now, and he turns to see her holding the handheld radio, her face pale under the emergency lantern’s glow. “Got a signal—weak, but it’s 112. They’re descending, no visual on the field, requesting vectors.” Her eyes meet his, wide, urgent, and he feels the room shrink, the air sucked out of it.
He grabs the radio, thumb jabbing the button, his voice steady even as his gut churns. “Southwest 112, this is O’Hare Tower, Marcus Cole. I’ve got no radar, no visuals, but I’ll talk you in. What’s your position, over?” Static crackles, long enough that he thinks it’s lost, then a voice breaks through, strained, cutting in and out. “Tower, this—112, we’re at 6,000, heading—west, fuel critical, maybe ten minutes. Need a runway now, over.”
Marcus’s mind races, mapping it blind, picturing the field from memory. Runway 28L’s clear—last he checked, no debris, no stranded jets—but without eyes on the sky, it’s a gamble. Wind’s picking up too, gusting hard from the northwest, and those clouds look like they’re spitting rain soon. He glances at Tanya, who’s already scribbling numbers, her pen scratching loud in the quiet. “28L,” she mouths, nodding, like she’s read his mind.
“112, turn to heading 280, descend to 3,000, prepare for 28L. Winds northwest at 15, gusting to 25. I’ve got no traffic data, so you’re blind except for my voice. Acknowledge, over.” His throat’s dry, the words sticking, but he forces them out. The static drags again, then the captain’s back, voice tighter. “Copy, Tower, heading 280, descending. We’re—trusting you on this. Out.”
Marcus lowers the radio, his hand trembling just enough that he clenches it into a fist to hide it. The tower feels smaller, the walls closing in, the heat of the room pressing against his skin. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to get a jet down blind, with no instruments, no backup, just his gut and a paper map. He looks out the window again, at the empty sky, at the tarmac turning into a refugee camp below, and feels the weight of every soul on that plane, every soul down there, piling onto his shoulders. The first raindrops hit the glass, fat and heavy, smearing the view, and he knows it’s only going to get harder from here.
—
Deshawn Watts fumbles with the flashlight, the beam jittery as it cuts through the dark of his apartment hallway in Atlanta. The air’s thick, stale, smelling of burnt popcorn from the microwave that died mid-pop when the power cut out. His sneakers scuff against the cheap carpet, each step cautious, like the floor might drop out from under him. He’s been holed up in his room for hours, since the Twitch stream crashed and his phone turned into a brick, but the banging on his door won’t stop, hasn’t stopped, and now it’s louder, more desperate. “Yo, Deshawn! Open up, man, it’s bad out here!” It’s Miss Linda from 4C, her voice hoarse, cracking on the edges, and he can hear her kid whimpering behind her, a high, scared sound that cuts right through him.
He stops at the door, flashlight beam shaking as he aims it at the peephole, his other hand hovering over the deadbolt. His heart’s thumping hard, too hard, and the sweat on his neck feels cold despite the muggy heat seeping through the walls. He doesn’t want to open it—every instinct says keep it locked, keep himself safe, wait for his mom to get home from the diner—but that whimpering, man, it’s like a hook in his chest. He knows Miss Linda’s kid, little Jayden, barely five, always dragging that ratty Spider-Man backpack around. And he knows Miss Linda’s got no one else in the building, not since her brother got locked up last year.
“Deshawn, please!” Her fist hits the door again, weaker this time, like she’s running out of steam. “Jayden’s hurt, I don’t—I can’t stop the bleeding, and there’s no one else. You know first aid, right? From that class?”
He flinches, the memory of that CPR cert class last summer flashing up—boring as hell, but he’d passed, got the card to prove it. Doesn’t feel like enough now, not with the city gone dark, no ambulances, no 911, just the distant sound of sirens and shouting drifting up from the street. He presses his forehead against the door, the wood cool against his skin, and mutters to himself, “Man, I ain’t no doctor.” But that whimpering doesn’t stop, and he can’t shake the image of Jayden, tiny and scared, bleeding out while he hides like a coward.
His fingers fumble with the deadbolt, the click loud in the quiet, and he swings the door open just enough to see Miss Linda’s face, pale and streaked with tears, her hair a mess. Jayden’s in her arms, his head lolling against her shoulder, a dish towel wrapped around his forearm, dark with blood. “Oh, thank God,” she breathes, stepping forward before he can say anything, and he stumbles back, flashlight beam swinging wild across the hall.
“What happened?” His voice comes out rough, higher than he wants, and he clears his throat, trying to sound like he’s got this. Miss Linda’s shaking, her words tumbling out too fast. “He—he fell, broke a window trying to see outside, cut his arm real bad. I tried to stop it, but it keeps—” She chokes, looks down at Jayden, whose eyes are half-closed, his breathing shallow.
Deshawn’s stomach drops, a cold sweat breaking out across his back. He’s seen blood before—hell, he grew up in this neighborhood, seen worse—but not like this, not up close, not with a kid looking like he might not make it. “Okay, okay, put him on the couch,” he says, pointing with the flashlight, his apartment a mess of shadows and half-eaten snacks from before the blackout. Miss Linda moves fast, laying Jayden down, and Deshawn kneels beside him, hands hovering, unsure where to start. The towel’s soaked, sticking to the kid’s skin, and when he peels it back, the gash is deep, jagged, still oozing. His throat tightens. “Damn,” he whispers, then catches Miss Linda’s panicked look and forces his face neutral. “I got this. Just… gimme a sec.”
He scrambles to his room, flashlight beam bouncing, grabbing the first-aid kit his mom keeps under the sink—a cheap plastic thing, half the bandages missing, but it’s got gauze, tape, some antiseptic wipes. Back at the couch, Jayden’s whimpering again, softer now, and Miss Linda’s murmuring to him, her hands trembling as she strokes his hair. Deshawn’s own hands aren’t much steadier, but he rips open a wipe, the sharp alcohol smell cutting through the stale air, and starts cleaning around the cut, wincing as Jayden flinches under his touch. “Sorry, lil’ man,” he mutters. “Gotta do this.”
Outside, a scream rips through the night, distant but sharp, followed by the crunch of glass breaking somewhere down the block. Deshawn’s head jerks up, flashlight beam swinging to the window, where the blinds are half-open, showing nothing but black. His pulse spikes, the darkness outside feeling alive, hungry, like it’s pressing against the glass. Miss Linda freezes, her breath catching, and for a second, they’re both just listening, waiting for whatever’s next. Another shout, closer this time, and the faint pop-pop of what might be gunshots. Deshawn’s grip on the gauze tightens, his mind splitting—focus on Jayden, or focus on whatever’s coming for them. The kid’s blood is warm under his fingers, the room too hot, too close, and he knows he can’t lock the door again, not now, not with them here. But that scream echoes in his head, and the shadows at the window seem to shift, like something’s watching, waiting for the right moment to break through.
Deshawn forces his eyes back to Jayden, the kid’s face pale under the flashlight’s harsh glare, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. The cut on his arm isn’t deep, but it’s jagged, a tear from broken glass, and the blood keeps seeping, slow and stubborn, staining the towel Deshawn pressed against it. His hands move on autopilot, wrapping the gauze tight, but his ears are still tuned to the outside, to the jagged rhythm of shouts and the distant crackle of something burning. The air in Miss Linda’s apartment smells of old coffee and antiseptic now, mixing with the metallic tang of blood, and it sticks to the back of his throat. He swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady for the kid. “You’re good, alright? Just a scratch. You tougher than this.”
Jayden nods, but his bottom lip quivers, and his eyes dart to the window every time a noise cuts through the dark. Miss Linda’s still frozen by the couch, her hands clutching the edge of her housedress, the fabric wrinkled where she’s been twisting it. Her breathing’s shallow, too fast, and Deshawn can feel her fear radiating, filling the cramped living room like heat off asphalt. “Deshawn,” she whispers, barely audible over the hum of his own pulse in his ears. “You hear that? They gettin’ closer.”
“I hear it,” he says, sharper than he means to, his fingers fumbling with the last strip of gauze. He secures it, rougher than he wants, and Jayden lets out a small whimper. Deshawn grimaces, mutters, “My bad,” and pats the kid’s shoulder, but his focus is slipping. Another yell outside, raw and panicked, followed by the unmistakable clatter of metal on pavement—something heavy dropping, maybe a trash can, maybe worse. His stomach twists, the weight of the dark outside pressing harder against the thin glass of the window. He can’t see anything past the blinds, just slivers of black, but he imagines shapes moving out there, people desperate, people who don’t care who’s in their way.
He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, the denim rough against his sweaty palms, and grabs the flashlight from the coffee table. The beam shakes as he swings it toward the window again, catching the edge of Miss Linda’s face—her eyes wide, glassy, reflecting the light like she’s already seeing ghosts. “Stay here,” he tells her, voice low, trying to sound like he’s got a grip. “I’m just checkin’.”
“No, Deshawn, don’t—” she starts, reaching for his arm, but he’s already moving, the floor creaking under his sneakers. His heart’s hammering, each step feeling like it’s louder than it should be, like it’s broadcasting to whatever’s out there. He stops a foot from the window, close enough to feel the faint draft seeping through the cracked frame, cold against the sweat on his neck. He angles the flashlight down, not wanting the beam to spill out, and nudges the blind aside with one finger, just enough to peek through.
The street below is a void, swallowed by the outage, but his eyes catch flickers—movement in the alley across the way, shadows darting between the brick walls of the row houses. A streetlight that should be glowing is dead, its pole a skeletal outline against the deeper black. Then, a flash of orange, faint but growing, at the end of the block. Fire. Not big, not yet, but the glow pulses, licking at something he can’t make out. His breath catches, the glass fogging under his nose, and he pulls back quick, letting the blind snap shut. His mind races—fire means trouble, means people losing it, means it could spread. Their building’s old, wood and brick, no sprinklers, no nothing. If that fire jumps…
“Deshawn?” Miss Linda’s voice cuts through, shaky but insistent. He turns, sees her clutching Jayden now, the kid half-buried in her side, his bandaged arm pressed against her. “What you see?”
“Nothin’ good,” he mutters, clicking the flashlight off to save the battery. The room plunges back into near-dark, just the faint gray seep from the window outlining their shapes. “There’s a fire down the street. Small, I think, but—” He stops, not wanting to say it, not wanting to scare them more, but the words hang anyway. It ain’t stayin’ small.
Miss Linda’s face crumples for a second, then hardens, her jaw setting like she’s forcing herself to hold it together. “We gotta get outta here, then. If it spreads—”
“We can’t,” Deshawn cuts in, harsher than he means. “Not yet. Jayden’s hurt, and outside’s worse. You heard them screams. People out there ain’t thinkin’ straight.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he hates it, hates how young he sounds, how scared. He’s supposed to be the one with the answers, the one who knows first aid from those YouTube vids, the one who’s got a plan. But right now, his head’s a mess, split between keeping them safe here and the gnawing thought that staying might trap them if that fire grows.
Jayden’s voice, small and muffled against Miss Linda’s side, breaks the silence. “I wanna go home.”
Deshawn’s chest tightens, a sharp ache under his ribs. He kneels quick, getting eye-level with the kid, forcing a half-smile he doesn’t feel. “Hey, we gonna get you home, alright? But we gotta be smart. Gotta wait ‘til it’s safe.” The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, because he doesn’t know if safe is even a thing anymore, not with the power gone, not with the city unraveling outside. But Jayden nods, slow, his eyes still wet, and Deshawn claps his good shoulder gently, standing back up.
Miss Linda’s watching him, her gaze heavy, like she’s seeing right through the front he’s putting up. “You don’t gotta do this alone, Deshawn,” she says, quieter now, almost pleading. “We can figure it together.”
He wants to believe her, wants to let someone else take the weight for once, but the truth is, he doesn’t trust anyone else to. Not now. Not when every sound outside feels like a threat, when every minute feels like it’s shrinking their chances. He’s been on his own since the stream cut out, since his phone died and his mom didn’t answer, since the whole world went dark. He’s not about to lean on Miss Linda, not when she’s barely holding it together herself.
“I’m good,” he lies, turning away, busying himself with the med kit, zipping it shut with too much force. The plastic catches his thumb, a quick sting, and he curses under his breath, shaking his hand out. The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in, the heat of their bodies and the stale air making his skin itch. Outside, another shout, closer, followed by a thud—something slamming into a wall, maybe a door. His head snaps up, every muscle tensing, and he grabs the flashlight again, flicking it on low, pointing it at the apartment door.
Miss Linda’s breath hitches. “That’s in the building,” she whispers, pulling Jayden tighter.
Deshawn doesn’t answer, just moves to the door, his sneakers silent on the worn carpet. The chain lock’s still on, the deadbolt turned, but the door feels flimsy under his hand, the wood chipped at the edges, the frame loose from years of neglect. He presses his ear to it, holding his breath, listening. Footsteps, heavy and uneven, echo in the hallway outside, then a voice—low, angry, slurring words he can’t make out. A second voice answers, sharper, cutting off mid-sentence with a grunt. Then a crash, loud, like something breaking, a chair maybe, or a table, coming from the apartment two doors down.
His heart’s in his throat now, pounding so hard he’s sure they can hear it. He steps back, slow, keeping the flashlight aimed low, not wanting any light to leak under the door. “Someone’s out there,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Miss Linda to hear. “They’re messin’ with stuff. Not ours, not yet.”
Her face goes ashen, even in the dim, and she mouths something he can’t catch, maybe a prayer. Jayden’s eyes are huge, locked on the door, and Deshawn sees the kid’s hands start to shake again. He wants to say something, anything, to keep them calm, but his own fear’s clawing up his spine, cold and sharp, making his thoughts scatter. What if they come here? What if they kick the door in? He’s got nothing to fight with, just a flashlight and a half-empty med kit. His streaming setup, his whole life, is useless now—no webcam, no mic, no followers to hype him up. Just this tiny, suffocating room and the chaos creeping closer.
He glances around, desperate, taking stock. The couch could block the door, maybe, if he drags it over, but it’s heavy, and the noise might draw attention. The window’s no good—second floor, no fire escape, and that fire down the street is still glowing, brighter now, smoke starting to haze the air outside. He can smell it, faint but acrid, seeping through the cracks, mixing with the sweat and fear inside. They’re trapped, and he knows it, even if he won’t say it out loud.
“Deshawn,” Miss Linda hisses, urgent now, pointing to the hallway noise. It’s louder, a scuffle, boots stomping, then a woman’s voice, shrill and panicked, yelling, “Get off me!” A man’s laugh follows, low and ugly, and something heavy hits the wall hard enough to make the pictures on Miss Linda’s shelf rattle. Deshawn flinches, the sound vibrating through him, and he’s back at the door before he can think, pressing against it like he can hold it shut with his body alone.
His mind’s racing, flipping through options, all of them bad. Open the door, check if someone needs help, risk getting jumped. Stay quiet, hope they pass, risk them busting in anyway. He thinks of his mom, stuck at her shift at the warehouse when the lights went out, no way to reach her, no way to know if she’s okay. He thinks of his little sister, probably with their aunt across town, scared out of her mind. He’s supposed to be the big brother, the one who fixes things, but he’s failing, stuck here, shaking like a kid himself.
The noise in the hall spikes—a scream, cut off fast, then silence, heavy and wrong. Deshawn’s breath stops, his hand flat against the door, feeling the faint tremor of whatever’s happening out there. Miss Linda’s whispering something now, over and over, her voice a tight thread of sound, and Jayden’s starting to cry again, soft but building. Deshawn turns, sees the kid’s face buried in Miss Linda’s dress, and something in him snaps—not anger, not fear, but a raw, desperate need to keep them from breaking completely.
“Shh, y’all, shh,” he says, crossing the room in two strides, kneeling again, his voice low and rough but steady. “We’re good, okay? They ain’t comin’ for us. We’re quiet, we’re cool. Just breathe.” He’s lying again, and he knows Miss Linda knows it, but she nods anyway, her hand smoothing Jayden’s hair, her eyes meeting Deshawn’s with something like gratitude, even if it’s fragile.
But the silence outside doesn’t last. A new sound starts, closer, a slow scrape, like metal dragging on wood, right outside their door. Deshawn’s blood turns to ice, his body locking up, every nerve screaming to move, to do something, but he can’t. The flashlight’s still in his hand, heavy, useless unless he swings it like a club, and he grips it tighter, the plastic slick with his sweat. Miss Linda’s eyes dart to the door, her mouth opening in a silent gasp, and Jayden’s sobs hitch, louder now, impossible to muffle.
The scrape stops, and for a heartbeat, there’s nothing. Then a knock, slow and deliberate, three hard taps that echo through the room like gunshots. Deshawn’s vision tunnels, the door the only thing he can see, the only thing that matters. His pulse roars in his ears, drowning out everything else, and he’s on his feet before he can think, stepping between them and whatever’s on the other side, the flashlight raised like a weapon, his other hand clenched into a fist. The air’s thick, tasting of smoke and fear, and he knows, deep in his gut, that whatever’s knocking isn’t friendly, isn’t help, isn’t anything good. The next knock comes harder, rattling the frame, and a voice, low and rough, seeps through the wood, chilling him to the bone.
“Open up. I know you in there.”
Deshawn’s breath catches, a sharp snag in his chest, as the voice slithers through the door again, thicker this time, like it’s pressed right up against the wood. “I ain’t askin’ twice. Open it, or I come in myself.” The words drag, heavy with intent, and the air in the apartment seems to shrink, pressing down on him until his ribs ache. His grip on the flashlight tightens, the plastic edges biting into his palm, slick with sweat that stinks of salt and panic. Behind him, Miss Linda’s breathing is ragged, a wheeze that cuts through the dark, and Jayden’s little hiccups turn into a muffled whimper, like he’s trying to swallow his fear but can’t. Deshawn’s eyes lock on the door, the cheap plywood trembling under another knock, harder this time, a fist or maybe a boot testing the frame. The chain lock looks flimsy as hell, a thin thread of metal between them and whatever’s out there.
He steps closer, his sneakers scuffing against the worn carpet, the sound too loud in the suffocating quiet. His free hand hovers near the chain, not to undo it, but to feel the vibration of the next hit. He can smell the stale smoke clinging to the walls, the faint tang of burnt wiring from somewhere deeper in the building, and it mixes with the sour edge of his own fear. “Who’s there?” His voice cracks on the way out, betraying him, sounding younger than he means it to. He winces, hating how it hangs in the air, weak and shaky.
A chuckle, low and wet, seeps through the door. “Don’t matter who I am. Matters what I got. And what you got in there.” The voice pauses, letting the words sink in, and Deshawn’s stomach twists, a cold knot forming as he pictures hands rifling through shelves, eyes scanning for anything worth taking. “Heard the kid cryin’. I know you got people. Food. Water, maybe. Let’s make this easy.”
Deshawn’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard a dull ache spreads to his temple. He glances back at Miss Linda, her silhouette barely visible in the dim glow of a dying candle on the coffee table. Her hands are pressed over Jayden’s mouth now, her knuckles pale even in the dark, her eyes wide and glassy, pleading with him not to do anything stupid. But what’s stupid? Opening the door? Keeping it shut? He doesn’t have answers, just the pounding in his chest and the weight of the flashlight, useless unless he’s close enough to swing it. He turns back to the door, his voice dropping low, forcing steadiness into it. “We ain’t got nothin’. Just us. Walk away, man.”
Another laugh, sharper this time, like the guy’s enjoying this. “Walk away? Nah, bruh. Power’s out, city’s done. Ain’t nowhere to walk to. You got somethin’, I know it. I been hearin’ y’all move around in there for hours.” A pause, then a scrape, metal on wood, like a blade or a tool dragging across the door. Deshawn’s skin prickles, every hair on his arms standing up. “Last chance. Open it, or I open it for you.”
His mind races, flickering through options like a bad stream buffering in and out. Fight? Hide? There’s nowhere to go—Miss Linda’s apartment is a shoebox, one bedroom, one tiny bathroom, windows that don’t open more than a crack since the bars were bolted on years ago. The fire escape’s rusted out, a death trap even if they could reach it. And Jayden, barely five, ain’t climbing nowhere fast. Deshawn’s eyes dart to the kitchenette, the counter cluttered with empty cans and a half-eaten bag of chips, the sink piled with dishes crusted over from yesterday. Nothing to use, nothing to fight with except the flashlight and maybe a butter knife if he’s lucky. His throat tightens, the taste of bile creeping up as he realizes how trapped they are, how the walls aren’t just walls anymore—they’re a cage.
“Deshawn,” Miss Linda whispers, her voice a hiss barely louder than the flicker of the candle. “Don’t—don’t let him in. Please.” Her words tremble, and he can hear the weight of her fear, the way it’s not just for her but for Jayden, her grandson, curled into her side like he’s trying to disappear into her faded housedress.
“I ain’t,” he mutters back, not turning around, not taking his eyes off the door as another thud rattles the frame. But he doesn’t know how to stop it. He’s seventeen, not some action hero, not even close. He’s the kid who spent hours streaming games, cracking jokes to a chatroom of randos, not the guy who knows how to handle this. But he’s all they’ve got right now, and that thought burns worse than the sweat stinging his eyes.
The voice outside shifts, softer now, almost coaxing. “Look, I don’t wanna hurt nobody. Just hungry, man. Thirsty. Y’all got somethin’ to spare, right? Share a little, I’m gone. Promise.” But the softness feels like a lie, a trap wrapped in velvet, and Deshawn’s gut churns, telling him not to trust a single word. He’s heard voices like that before, on the street, in the hallways late at night—guys who smile while they size you up, figuring out how much they can take.
He leans closer to the door, his ear almost brushing the wood, listening for movement, for a clue. There’s a shuffle, heavy boots on the tiled hallway floor, and a faint clink, metal on metal, like keys or a chain. One guy, maybe two. He can’t tell. His hand tightens on the flashlight, the beam long dead but the weight still solid, still something. “We ain’t got extra,” he says, louder this time, forcing his voice to hold. “Barely got enough for us. Try somewhere else.”
A long silence stretches, so thick it feels like it’s pressing against his eardrums. Then a grunt, sharp and annoyed. “Aight. Have it your way.” The footsteps retreat, slow at first, then faster, fading down the hall until there’s nothing but the hum of his own pulse and the distant drip of a leak somewhere in the building. Deshawn doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, waiting for the sound to come back, for a trick, for anything. Minutes drag, each one heavier than the last, until Miss Linda lets out a shaky sigh behind him, her hands finally easing off Jayden’s mouth.
“Is he gone?” Jayden’s voice is tiny, wet with tears, and Deshawn turns, catching the glint of the kid’s eyes in the candlelight, wide and searching for an answer Deshawn doesn’t have.
“Dunno,” he says, honest because he can’t lie to that face, not now. “Maybe. Gotta stay quiet, though. Real quiet.” He lowers the flashlight, his arm aching from holding it up so long, and sinks onto the arm of the sagging couch, his legs suddenly rubbery. The air smells of wax and dust, the candle’s weak flame throwing shadows that dance like ghosts on the peeling walls. His heart’s still hammering, but slower now, a dull thud instead of a sprint. He wipes his palm on his jeans, the denim rough against his skin, and tries to think, to plan, but his head’s a mess, thoughts scattering like static.
Miss Linda shifts, her bony hand reaching for his, squeezing too tight, her skin cool and papery. “You did good, boy. Real good.” Her voice cracks, and he can hear the gratitude in it, but also the fear that hasn’t left, the kind that lingers like smoke after a fire. He nods, not trusting himself to speak, not sure he did anything good at all. He just stood there, holding a dead flashlight, hoping the door would hold. That ain’t courage. That’s just not dying yet.
They sit like that for a while, the three of them huddled in the dark, listening to the building groan around them, the occasional shout or crash echoing from other floors. Atlanta’s out there, beyond the grimy window, a city turned silent and wrong, no hum of traffic, no glow of streetlights, just black stretching forever. Deshawn’s phone sits on the table, screen dark, battery long gone, a useless brick that can’t call his mom, can’t check if she’s okay at the diner across town, can’t do anything but remind him how cut off they are. He thinks of her hands, always moving, wiping counters, pouring coffee, and wonders if she’s stuck there, if she’s safe, if she’s even thinking of him right now. The ache in his chest sharpens, and he pushes it down, focusing on the weight of Miss Linda’s hand still gripping his.
“We can’t stay here,” he says finally, the words slipping out before he’s ready, rough and raw. “Not if they come back. Not if there’s more of ‘em.” He doesn’t look at her, can’t, because he knows what she’ll say—where else they gonna go? But he feels it, the truth of it, like a stone in his gut. This apartment, this building, it’s not safe anymore. Not with voices like that sniffing around, not with the power gone and the city unraveling outside.
Miss Linda’s grip tightens, then loosens, her hand falling away. “Boy, I can’t—” She stops, her voice catching, and he knows she’s thinking of her bad hip, the way she leans on the wall just to get to the bathroom, the way Jayden clings to her every step. “I can’t run. And Jayden… he’s just a baby. We gotta wait. Help’s gotta come. Police, somebody.”
Deshawn shakes his head, even though she can’t see it in the dark. “Ain’t nobody comin’. You heard the radio before it died—whole city’s down. Maybe more. Ain’t no cops, no ambulances, nothin’.” His voice hardens, not because he’s sure, but because he has to be, for them. “We wait, we’re just sittin’ ducks. Gotta move, find somewhere safer. Somewhere with people who ain’t tryin’ to take what we got.”
“Where?” Her question hangs there, sharp and heavy, and he doesn’t have an answer, not a real one. Just a feeling, a need to move, to do something before the next knock comes, before the door gives way. He thinks of the community center down on Peachtree, the one his mom used to drag him to for after-school stuff, the big brick building with gates and a basement full of canned food for emergencies. It’s a long shot, a mile or two through streets he doesn’t know in the dark, but it’s something, a place that might still have people holding it together.
“I got an idea,” he says, quieter now, testing the words. “But we gotta pack what we can. Water, food, whatever’s left. And we move slow, stay outta sight.” He turns to her, catching the faint outline of her face, the worry etched into every line. “I’ll carry Jayden if I gotta. I ain’t leavin’ y’all behind.”
She doesn’t say yes, not right away, just stares at him, her eyes searching his like she’s trying to see if he means it, if he can do it. Then a nod, slow and reluctant, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay. Okay, Deshawn. But if—if it’s too much, we stop. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” he says, and there’s a shift in him, small but real, a hardening of something he didn’t know was there. Not bravery, not yet, but responsibility, heavy as the flashlight still in his hand. He stands, his knees creaking from sitting too long, and moves to the kitchenette, feeling his way through the dark, fingers brushing over empty shelves until they close around a plastic jug of water, half-full and warm. He grabs it, then the last sleeve of crackers from the counter, the edges crushed but still something. Every sound feels amplified—the crinkle of the wrapper, the slosh of the water, the faint drip still leaking somewhere in the pipes. His skin prickles again, waiting for that knock to come back, waiting for the voice, but there’s nothing, just the weight of what they’re about to do.
They pack in silence, Miss Linda stuffing a worn backpack with a blanket and a few cans, her hands shaking as she fumbles with the zipper. Jayden clings to her leg, his small fingers digging into her dress, and Deshawn kneels, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel. “Hey, lil’ man. We’re goin’ on a trip, aight? Gonna stick close to me. I got you.” Jayden nods, eyes still wet, but he doesn’t argue, just buries his face in Deshawn’s hoodie as Deshawn lifts him, the kid’s weight heavier than he expected, all bony limbs and heat.
The candle’s almost gone now, a puddle of wax on the table, the flame a tiny flicker that barely reaches the walls. Deshawn takes a breath, tasting the stale air, the smoke, the fear that hasn’t left, and moves to the door, his free hand on the chain. He listens, ear pressed to the wood again, waiting for any sound, any hint of movement. Nothing. Just the building’s creaks, the distant echo of chaos outside. He slides the chain free, the metal scraping loud in the quiet, and eases the door open, just a crack, the hallway beyond a void of black, smelling of mildew and something sharper, like spilled beer or worse.
“Stay behind me,” he whispers, not looking back, not needing to see Miss Linda’s face to know she’s scared, to know she’s trusting him even if she doesn’t want to. He steps out, Jayden’s small body pressed against his chest, the kid’s heartbeat thumping against his own, and the hallway swallows them, cold and endless. The door clicks shut behind them, a final sound, cutting off the last shred of safety they had, and Deshawn feels it like a punch—the weight of leaving, of moving into the unknown, of being the one who has to lead when he’s never led anything before.