Chapter 9 #2
Then red exit signs pulsed on, dim as embers. My pulse thumped in my ears, heavy and fast. Someone swore behind me. Power failure? Backup generator kicking in, critical infrastructure only? Must be. Fuck.
I fumbled for my phone’s flashlight. The faint glow forced back some of the shadows, other phones coming on like the glint of fireflies to illuminate the meds room.
“Whole hospital?” Dr. Carter’s calm tone couldn’t quite mask a glimmer of something unsteady.
“Looks that way.” A flashlight caught Nurse Smith’s worried face and the reflective strips on her shoes. “They just sent the alert—no external power.”
As if to back her up, the intercom croaked to life, cool as a guided meditation. “Attention all units. External power failure, backup systems engaged. Please initiate emergency protocols.”
Okay, right. Calm and steady. Except something was beeping like it knew this was a countdown.
My brain grappled for the instructions that we’d reviewed during orientation.
Infrastructure loss or failure, right. No external power, backup generator engaged.
Which meant… Jesus. Critical infrastructure only.
Reduced lighting, no automated doors, no functioning monitors in some rooms unless they were on emergency circuits.
No coffee. Which—God, really not the issue.
ORs? Intensive care units? Critical. Right, okay.
Okay. How long would the ventilators last on battery?
No, they’d be on backup power. Yeah. Of course.
Just—I couldn’t fucking remember what the stupid instructions had said.
“Hayes.” Carter shifted a little closer, his flashlight steady, voice low. “Breathe. We’ve got protocols in place for this exact thing, backup generators.” Quiet, almost like he was talking to himself. “Everything important will hold up.”
Facts—solid, familiar. They snagged my spiral, slowed it. I inhaled deeply through my nose and counted to four, then nodded. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Don’t mention it.”
Someone called from the hallway, firm and urgent. “Pediatric team—Dr. Carter, I need you with the review board. They’re coordinating cases in case surgeries have to be rescheduled.”
Carter was already moving. “On it.”
“We need runners,” Smith’s voice rang out, clipped, her finger running down the laminated page of an open binder. “Only two elevators are functioning, critical patient transport only. Anyone who can run supplies between units, manual relay? We need bodies.”
Yes. Something I could do.
“Put me on the list,” I said immediately. “I’m fast.”
“Good.” She made a note just as something buzzed—her pager. A glance before she nodded at me. “You’re up, Hayes. PICU needs blood. A-negative, newborn crashing.”
PICU. They’d called Jesse up just minutes ago. My stomach cramped.
Keep it cool.
I stepped forward as she grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled hurried information onto a tag, then thrust a clip-on light and a hard-shelled cooler into my hands—white and insulated, empty. “Basement, blood bank. Show them this tag and they’ll load it. Go.”
I bolted.
The stairwell had turned into a chimney, the air dry and thick with trapped daytime heat.
Sixth floor, all the way down to the basement.
I clattered down in the shaky glow of my light, one hand on the railing, feet barely touching half the steps.
Newborn crashing. Third floor, second, down, down, down.
Somewhere above me, another person was pounding upward, their flashlight bobbing.
Basement landing—the concrete walls echoed. I pulled a left and found the blood bank doors propped open with a toolbox, two techs working in the dim glow of a camping lantern, sweat gleaming on their foreheads.
“Baby Sloan.” I slapped the cooler on the counter. “A-negative, PICU—stat!”
They jumped into action. One cracked the big refrigerator, the other noted unit numbers. Seconds stretched like minutes, urgency pulling on me. I shifted from foot to foot until one of the guys handed me two palm-sized bags—tiny, each of them just enough to fill a shot glass. Jesus.
“Double-checked,” he said. “A-neg, irradiated. Sign here.”
I scrawled my initials and thanked them. Then I latched the cooler, slung it over my shoulder, turned for the stairs.
Up now. Basement to first, to second. By the third, the scrubs top stuck to my spine, and an emergency alert lit up my phone to warn of a partial power outage in Manhattan, avoid elevators. Yeah, on it.
Fourth landing. Faster, legs wobbling a little. Good thing I’d skipped the morning run to grasp for forty additional minutes of sleep. I passed another resident carrying a case of portable monitors. We exchanged a tight nod, no words.
Fifth. Sixth—my ward, the door propped open. Smith, passing by in the hallway, caught a glimpse of me and cheered like it was a race. “Keep going, Hayes!”
Seven. My lungs burned more than my legs, the air scraping hot and dry against my throat. Should’ve taken water. I counted the last twelve steps to eight out loud, each one a breath and a curse.
Eight North glowed with battery lights. I flashed my badge at the security volunteer who saw the cooler and waved me through.
Inside, the unit was bathed in strange twilight—monitors on backup power, ventilators beeping.
A nurse spotted me and pointed the way, her face drawn tight with worry. Please don’t let me be too late.
The baby’s bed was half-ringed by flashlights clamped to IV poles.
God. Baby Sloan wore tiny pink hospital socks, not sure why my attention immediately snagged on that.
Deep breath. I looked up. And—oh. Jesse.
He stood over the warmer, one gloved hand bracing the baby’s abdomen, blood staining his surgical gown. Sweat darkened his hairline.
Something in my chest snapped open.
I slid in next to him, the cooler strap cutting into my shoulder. “A-negative,” I managed, voice thin, breath coming harsh and fast. “For Sloan.”
Jesse inhaled, his eyes on the baby. “Label?”
I angled my clip light so he could confirm the match, and he nodded once, quick and sharp.
“Good. Get it out.”
I cracked the cooler seal, fingers fumbling just slightly from the adrenaline.
He yanked out a blood bag the color of dark cherries, checked the label against the baby’s wristband, and passed it on to a nurse.
“Start slow to confirm the line,” he told her—calm and steady if not for the way I’d seen his hand shake for half a second. “Then wide open. Watch her pressure.”
He turned the tiniest fraction toward me, flashlights catching the green of his eyes. They were too bright, pupils blown wide. “Good timing, Dr. Hayes,” he said, rushed and sincere.
And… fuck. Something about his tone, the weight he’d packed into the words—it felt like that stair run all over again, barreling down six floors and praying that I wouldn’t trip.
I swallowed hard, lungs still on fire, and straightened. “What can I do?”
That’s when the ventilator beeped a warning.