Chapter 9
At first, she thought she was dreaming. The sound that woke her wasn’t a noise but the absence of one.
No hum from the refrigerator or ticking from the bathroom pipes.
Not even the low vibration from the ceiling fan that usually filled the apartment’s nights.
Mary Anne opened her eyes. The faint green numbers on the digital clock by her bed were gone.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, but its screen stayed black when she pressed it.
She held the button longer, willing it to wake.
She pushed the covers aside and sat up. The air felt heavier than before, humid in a way the desert never was. Her ears strained for anything, but there was only stillness.
She whispered to herself that the power was out, and the words steadied her, but then her eyes adjusted and the window came into view with no glimmer from the streetlight outside.
Rosewood’s streets were never bright, but there was always something.
A porch light or the faint orange halo of the gas station sign down the block.
Her fingers found the edge of the quilt.
She pulled it tighter, hesitating before swinging her feet onto the cold floor.
She reached for the flashlight in the drawer beside the bed.
When she clicked it, there was a soft pop and then silence.
Mary Anne frowned and smacked it against her palm.
She unscrewed the top, shook the batteries, replaced them, and tried again.
Still nothing. She went to the window and pushed the curtain aside.
The sky was deeper than black, starless.
Usually, the night carried a faint wash of light from Tucson, a soft dome on the far edge of the desert.
A shout echoed from somewhere down the street. “Anybody got power?”
Another voice answered. “My car won’t start. What the hell’s going on?”
Mary Anne’s breath fogged against the glass.
She threw on jeans, a hoodie, and her clinic jacket, then laced her boots from memory.
The flashlight went into her pocket out of habit, useless weight.
The hallway lights were out. Her neighbor’s door hung open a few inches.
A candle flickered weakly from inside, throwing jittery shadows across the walls.
“Mrs. Callahan?” Mary Anne called.
A small sound answered, like glass clinking. “Mary Anne, is that you? The lights…”
“I know. Stay inside. I’ll check what’s going on.”
“It’s not just the lights. My phone, my radio…everything’s dead.”
Mary Anne hesitated. “Could be a surge. Don’t use the outlets until?—”
“It’s not a surge.” The woman’s whisper cracked. “My hearing aid stopped, too.”
“Stopped?”
“Like someone turned it off. It was working fine yesterday.”
“Keep your candles low,” she said. “I’ll come back when I know more.”
Outside, the air carried that metallic tang again. Her breath tasted like old coins. The street stretched before her, darker than she’d ever seen it. People were stepping out of their houses, silhouettes lit only by flashlights that flickered and died within seconds.
Someone tried a car ignition. A man down the block yelled in frustration, pounding his steering wheel. “What the hell? It was fine yesterday.”
Mary Anne moved quickly, scanning the driveways.
Every car she passed was dead, headlights dim, alarms silent, not even the faint glow of a dashboard clock.
She tried her own. The key turned easily, as smoothly as always, but nothing happened.
No click or attempt at a spark. The steering wheel felt limp in her hands.
She leaned back in the seat, exhaled, and looked at the sky.
The aurora was gone. The world above her was black and empty.
Another voice cut through the night. “My kid’s diabetic. His monitor’s out. Somebody…please!”
Her instinct pulled her forward before her mind caught up. She climbed out of the car and ran toward the sound. A woman stood near the corner, cradling a small child, sobbing into his hair. The boy was awake, breathing shallowly but steadily.
Mary Anne crouched beside them. “I’m a nurse. It’s okay.”
The woman’s eyes darted up. “Nothing works. I can’t read his levels. His pump…”
“Do you have insulin pens?”
“Yes, yes…but the fridge…”
“Then keep them cool in the bathtub with water. Don’t open them unless you have to. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded rapidly.
“I’ll check the clinic. They’ll have storage, maybe backup.”
“Do you hear that?”
Mary Anne paused. Nothing. No insect or distant hum of power lines. The silence was so thick it made her jaw ache. “I’ll be back,” she said.
Her boots struck pavement that felt colder than usual, like the heat had drained out overnight. A wind had picked up, carrying grit and the faint smell of burning plastic from somewhere unseen. Halfway to the clinic, she saw the first stalled truck in the middle of the intersection.
A man stood beside it, flashlight dead in his hand. “Battery’s gone,” he said when she approached. “Like it was drained.”
She looked at the hood. “Did you try jumping it?”
“Can’t. My wife’s car’s dead, too.”
A siren wailed faintly in the distance, rose for two seconds, then choked off mid-sound. The man flinched.
“Stay put. Keep your family inside.”
He started to reply, but the wind swallowed his words.
The clinic sat three blocks up, its white fa?ade barely visible in the dark.
As she neared, the reality hit her in layers.
The parking lot lights were dead, the automatic doors hung half-open, and the faint hum of generators she always heard from the side building was gone.
Someone was outside, an orderly from the night shift, holding a useless radio in one hand. His face caught the faint moonlight, pale and drawn. “Mary Anne?” he said. “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
She shook her head. “Power?”
“Nothing. Not even the emergency line. The generators didn’t start.”
“Patients?”
“Stable for now, but the monitors are dead. Ventilators, too. We’re moving everyone we can off machines, but…” He stopped himself, jaw trembling.
Mary Anne looked past him through the glass doors.
The lobby was lit only by candles, dozens of them, tiny circles of light moving through the gloom like fireflies.
Nurses whispered orders, voices echoing strangely in the silence.
The automatic door didn’t respond, and she had to pull it open manually, the rubber seal groaning.
The floor was cold beneath her boots. Inside, the usually steady beeps and hums that marked life in the ward were gone. No machines, no oxygen hiss.
“Did anyone reach Tucson?” she asked.
“No phones. Landlines are dead, too.”
She glanced down the hallway leading to the ICU and saw it was completely black. She could barely make out shapes moving in the dark. Someone cried softly near the reception desk.
“Roger?” she asked.
“Haven’t seen him,” the orderly said. “He was supposed to be on-call tonight.”
Mary Anne’s throat tightened. She tried not to picture his truck stalled somewhere out there, radio silent, headlights cold.
The chief nurse, Dawn, appeared from a side corridor, face slick with sweat. “Mary Anne. Thank God. We’ve got newborns in there with no heat…and the vents…Jesus.”
“We’ll triage manually. Focus on anyone who can breathe unassisted. Blankets, hot water if you can get it. Don’t waste candles near oxygen tanks.”
Dawn nodded and moved, barking quiet orders.
The staff fell into rhythm quickly, old habits overriding panic.
Someone handed Mary Anne a clipboard. She shoved it aside and began checking rooms by touch and candlelight.
In the maternity wing, a baby wailed in the dark, the sound sharp and small.
A mother’s voice soothed it, broken but steady.
“Keep her close to your chest,” Mary Anne whispered. “Your body heat will help.”
The woman nodded, tears shining. Outside, someone shouted for a doctor, voice echoing through the empty corridors. Mary Anne turned, following the sound, but the hallway was darker, the candles guttering one by one. A draft moved through, carrying the smell of melted wax and cold metal.
She glanced toward the east windows. Through the glass, the town stretched silently, every building dark, the horizon a flat line of nothing. If it were local, the sky should show light from Tucson, maybe Phoenix farther off, but the horizon was absolutely black.
Dawn joined her at the window. “It’s not just us, is it?”
Mary Anne shook her head slowly. The glass was cold under her palm.
The town looked dead. No headlights moved, no signal towers blinked, and no power lines hummed.
Even the stars seemed dimmer, swallowed by whatever had taken the light.
Behind her, the clinic fell quiet again.
Candles burned low, their flames barely holding.
She turned once more toward the dark horizon, her reflection ghosted faintly in the glass. It wasn’t just Rosewood. It wasn’t just Arizona. The thought settled heavily in her chest, impossible and certain. The world had gone dark.