Chapter 7
Hurricane Scarlett
PRESTON
The humidity in New York City is usually offensive. Today, it is a personal attack.
Hurricane Scarlett is currently battering the glass facade of St. Jude’s with the enthusiasm of a drunk drummer.
The sky outside is a bruised, sickly purple.
Inside, the air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the atmospheric pressure, and the entire ER smells like wet wool and impending doom.
“My hair,” I whisper to my reflection in the dark monitor of a computer. “It’s happening. The collapse. The structural integrity is failing.”
“Stop looking at yourself, York,” Dr. Silva barks, walking past me with a stack of thermal blankets. “We need to clear the hallway. Triage is flooding.”
“Flooding?” I chase after him. “I’m wearing suede loafers, Luke. Suede is not hydrophobic. It spots.”
“Take them off,” Luke says without stopping. “Go barefoot. It’ll build your immune system.”
CRACK.
Thunder shakes the foundation of the building. It sounds like the sky just snapped a bone. The lights flicker—once, twice—and then die.
The ER plunges into absolute, heavy darkness.
For three seconds, there is silence. Then, the screaming starts.
“Stay calm!” Max’s voice booms from the centre of the room. “Generators kicking in in three… two…”
THRUM.
The emergency lights buzz to life. They are amber, dim, and flickering. They cast long, creepy shadows across the trauma bay, turning the hospital into a very expensive haunted house.
The low hum of the ventilation system dies. The silence where the AC used to be is deafening.
“Okay,” Max announces, climbing onto a chair. “We are on backup power. That means Life Support and ORs only. No AC. No elevators. No non-essential electronics.”
He looks around the room.
“If you are holding a coffee maker, unplug it. If you are charging your phone, stop. We need every volt.”
I look at the espresso machine I installed in the break room. I mourn it silently.
“It’s going to get hot,” Jax O’Connell adds, appearing from the shadows like a survivalist prepper who has been waiting for this exact moment. “And it’s going to get smelly. If you have peppermint oil, put it under your nose now. If you don't, godspeed.”
Luke turns to me. In the amber light, he looks tired and sharp.
“York,” he says. “We have to move the non-criticals to the third floor. The ground floor is a flood risk.”
“The elevators are down,” I point out.
“Yes.”
“And we are moving… people. Sick people. Who cannot walk.”
“Yes.”
“I need to call my lawyer,” I say. “This feels like a labour violation.”
“Grab the transport chair,” Luke orders, ignoring my legal counsel. “We’re starting with Bay 4. Mr. Bromley.”
“Bromley?” I groan. “The Magic 8-Ball guy? He’s back?”
“He fell on a candelabra,” Luke says grimly. “He says he was ‘dusting with passion.’ He has twelve stitches in his gluteus maximus and he refuses to walk because it ‘disrupts his chakras.’”
“Fantastic.”
We hustle to Bay 4. Mr. Bromley is sitting on the bed, clutching a new Magic 8-Ball like a holy relic.
“The lights went out!” Mr. Bromley cries when he sees us. “The ball says Outlook Not So Good! We’re doomed!”
“The ball is dramatic, Mr. Bromley,” I say, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair. “We are going on an adventure. To the third floor. It has a view. And dry floors.”
We transfer him to the chair. He is heavy. He is dense.
We reach the stairwell.
I push the door open. A wall of heat hits us. It is narrow, concrete, and somehow twenty degrees hotter than the hallway. It smells of wet dust and industrial cleaner.
“Okay,” Luke says, grabbing the front frame of the wheelchair. “I pull, you push. On three.”
We start the climb.
By the first landing, I am sweating. Not a polite, “I’ve been playing tennis” glow. I am sweating like a sinner in church. My scrubs are sticking to my back.
“Pivot!” Luke yells as we hit the turn.
“I am pivoting!” I gasp, heaving the chair up. “Do not quote Friends at me, Silva. I am not in the mood.”
“He’s slipping!” Luke grunts, his biceps straining under the weight. “Push harder!”
“I am pushing! He has the density of a collapsed star!”
“My chakras!” Mr. Bromley wails, shaking the 8-Ball. “They are misaligned!”
“Your chakras are fine!” I yell back. “My lumbar support, however, is destroyed!”
We hit the second floor landing. My lungs are burning. My legs are shaking.
Luke stops. He wipes sweat from his eyes. He looks down at me.
“York,” he pants. “Switch out. Go find an orderly. I can hold him.”
“No,” I wheeze.
“Don't be a hero. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I am not passing out,” I say, gripping the rubber handles until my knuckles turn white. “I am persisting. It is a York trait. We are stubborn. And spiteful.”
“It’s just stairs, Preston. It’s not a character test.”
“Everything is a character test with you!” I snap. “Move your ass, Silva. Unless you want Bromley to roll backward.”
Luke stares at me for a second. A small, begrudging smile touches his lips.
“Okay,” he says. “One more flight. Let’s go.”
We heave him up the last flight. My arms are screaming. I am mentally drafting my resignation letter.
We burst onto the third floor. The air is stagnant, but at least we aren’t climbing anymore.
We wheel Mr. Bromley into an open room. A nurse takes over, checking his vitals and reassuring him that the Magic 8-Ball is not a licensed meteorologist.
As soon as he’s settled, Luke and I collapse against the wall in the corridor. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, head back against the cool plaster. Luke mirrors me, sliding down right next to me.
He looks wrecked. His curls are plastered to his forehead. There’s a smear of grease on his cheek. His chest is heaving, rising and falling in a rhythm that matches mine.
“I think,” I pant, closing my eyes, “that I am going to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Luke manages, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You just did manual labour. It’s called work, Preston.”
I crack one eye open. “I prefer the kind of work where I sign things. Or tell people what to do. Or sit in chairs that roll.”
“You did good,” Luke says.
The words slip out quietly. I freeze. I turn my head to look at him.
“Did I?”
“Yeah. You didn’t drop him. And you didn’t cry.”
I huff a laugh, pushing my wet hair back from my face. My hand comes away slick with sweat. I must look hideous. “The night is young, Chief. The crying might still happen.”
Luke stares at me. In the dim amber light, his dark eyes are intense. He isn't looking at my ruined hair or my sweating face with his usual disdain. He’s looking at me like… like he’s actually seeing me.
It makes my heart hammer against my ribs harder than the stairs did.
“Lucas! Preston!” Max’s voice bellows from down the hall. “Stop lounging! The generators are fluctuating. We need manual ventilation in the ICU. Get up there!”
I groan, letting my head thunk back against the wall. “Does it ever end?”
Luke pushes himself up, his legs protesting. He extends a hand toward me.
I look at his hand. Then I look up at him. I take it. His grip is warm, firm, and calloused. He pulls me to my feet, and for a split second, we are standing too close. The heat radiating off him has nothing to do with the broken AC.
“No,” Luke says, his voice a little rougher than usual. “It never ends. Welcome to medicine, Dr. York.”
He doesn't let go of my hand immediately. I don't pull away.
“Lead the way, Dr. Silva,” I say softly.
We start running toward the ICU, the darkness of the hospital closing in around us.