Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Chloe
Alarms shriek around me—deep and pulsing, not the usual hospital beeps. People are shouting over each other, rapid footsteps pounding past me, and all I can think is: this is not a drill.
I barely make it three steps out of the on-call room before a nurse barrels past me, eyes wide, pushing a patient on a bed. I call out, “What’s happening?” but she’s gone before the words leave my mouth, swallowed up by the storm of people racing in every direction.
Zac’s nowhere in sight. He’s disappeared into the swarm. Just gone.
What the hell is happening?
I stumble forward, trying to get my bearings, trying to think, but every corridor is the same, a blur of motion and noise. My sneakers slap against the floor, and I’m swimming against a current of bodies and rolling beds and clipped commands being barked into the air.
Then I catch sight of Hannah. Thank God. She’s halfway down the corridor with a clipboard clenched between her teeth, pushing a bed with one hand, adjusting the IV pole with the other. Calm and efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times.
“Hannah!” I sprint toward her, heart jackhammering in my chest. “What the hell is going on?”
She doesn’t stop. She whips the chart out of her mouth just long enough to say, “There’s an active threat in the department. The hospital is evacuating.”
“What?!”
She shoves the clipboard between her teeth again, leans into the bed like a linebacker, and pushes it toward another nurse, who seamlessly takes over.
“Tunnels,” she calls over her shoulder, already turning away. “Take them to the private hospital. There are nurses waiting.”
Tunnels. Right. The underground hallway that connects our hospital with the private one across the block. Five-minute walk on a good day. Less if you’re sprinting.
“Where’s Clarke?” I ask. “And Kensington?”
“No idea.” She shrugs. “Get as many patients as you can—we need to clear the department now.”
“On it.” I pivot, scanning for the nearest bed.
My hands are shaking. I don’t notice until I reach for a woman’s IV line and knock it sideways. The saline bag wobbles as I fumble to unclip it from its hook and transfer it to the bed pole. The heart-rate monitor gives a protesting beep-beep as I tangle the cords.
My first day. My first goddamn day.
When I bend too fast, a sharp pain flares in my lower abdomen. It blooms like fire, nausea bubbling at the back of my throat. A dizzy edge creeps into my vision.
I don’t have time for this.
I don’t have time to be sick.
My body, clearly, disagrees. I briefly press a hand to my stomach, clenching my teeth. I still move, still work as fast as I can. But I can feel the pressure ratcheting up with every second. It’s like my intestines are folding themselves into origami.
The adrenaline buys me a little time—fight or flight overrides pain. It always does. But I can’t outrun my body forever.
I grit my teeth and keep moving.
The patient’s name—Mrs. Parker—is written neatly on the whiteboard above her bed.
She’s in a deep sleep, blissfully unaware of the panic exploding around her.
Lucky her. I finally get the drip secured, tug the monitor’s plug free, and wheel it with the bed as best I can.
My arms are too short, the angle awkward.
Another bed zooms past me, nearly clipping the end of my bed.
“Shit.” I dig my feet in, halting the momentum, my stomach protesting the sudden move. I shove forward again and take off down the corridor.
The red emergency lights have been activated. My feet slide on a wet patch. I don’t look down, I don’t want to know what it is. There are too many voices yelling at once—some calm, most not.
Overhead, the PA system comes to life again: Repeat: Code Black. Code Purple. Emergency Department.
Even though everything feels like a disaster movie, there’s a rhythm within the chaos.
The nurses and senior staff are a well-oiled machine—fast with no time to waste.
They must have done drills for this. I remember a slide from induction, a passing mention of lockdown procedures, but I’d quickly flicked through it.
I should have paid attention.
But I’m not the only one. Jax runs past me, white-knuckled, pushing a bed with one hand and supporting a panicking family member with the other, his brows drawn in full-blown panic.
Sienna’s wrestling a gurney, two IV poles wobbling violently.
She swears under her breath as one of the wheels catches on a stray power cord, jerking the entire rig sideways.
“Fuck,” she mutters, eyes wild. “Fucking—” She cuts off when she sees me watching. Her mask slips. And underneath all that steel and smugness is a scared woman barely holding it together.
I rush toward her. “Here,” I offer, grabbing one of the poles and stabilizing the IV lines. “You’ve got the gurney—I’ll handle the meds.”
Her lips part like she might argue, but she doesn’t. She exhales sharply, relief flickering across her face.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
“No problem,” I say. “Let’s get them to evac.”
Moving in sync, we guide her patient, the mess of equipment, and Mrs. Parker through the corridor.
We push through two sets of double doors to the tunnel. A nurse I don’t recognize is already there, clipboard in hand. She grabs the side of Mrs. Parker’s bed as I roll it toward her.
“Got it,” she says briskly.
“Thanks.” I turn and run.
I need to find Zac.
Where is he?
I scan every corridor as I rush through the ER. The adrenaline makes everything sharp and hyperreal—every beep, every shout, every face. But not his face. Not anywhere.
I swing back to Central. It’s a mess of scattered equipment, unplugged monitors, and empty supply carts. The ER is starting to empty out, but the panic? Still thick in the air.
I make eye contact with Olivia. She’s shouting orders, voice clear and sharp.
I jog over. “Have you seen Zac?”
“Yes,” she says, barely sparing me a glance. “He’s in Triage, finding out what’s going on.”
The phone rings, and she snatches it up.
“Zac? What’s happening?”
I resist the urge to grab the phone from her hand. Instead, I listen to her side of the conversation, my heart lodged in my throat.
“Jesus.” Her face tightens as she listens. “You sure you want him in here?”
What does that mean?
“Okay,” she tells him. “We’re almost clear. Chloe and I are taking the last two through now.”
She hangs up and finally meets my eyes, her expression grim.
“There’s a guy with a knife and a homemade vest—Zac thinks it could be a bomb.”
My jaw drops open.
“He’s bringing him back here to talk until police arrive.”
He’s out there? Alone? With a bomb?
“Why would he do that?!”
She shrugs, grim. “Because he’s either brave or insane.”
A chill threads down my spine.
“Miller! Final sweep—get everyone out, now!” she barks at a nurse, pointing toward the tunnels. Miller snaps into motion, moving to usher the last of the ER staff through the exit.
She turns to me. “Let’s go.” We run toward the trauma rooms. There are two patients left—one thrashing, awake and panicking. The other unconscious, monitors bleeping softly.
“You take the left bed,” Olivia instructs, “I’ll take the right.”
I nod, hands already gripping the rails. I start to move, steering the bed to the tunnel exit.
“Come on,” Olivia urges, already pushing her bed ahead.
And then—
The double doors to Triage swing open behind me.