The Hospital That Still Remembers
The group approaches the old hospital at dusk — a concrete husk half-swallowed by vines and moss. Windows shattered. Silence thick as dust.
Inside, the air is cool and metallic, like old breath trapped in the walls.
Ivy feels it first — a hum under her skin, like a nervous pulse. Something waking.
They step into the darkened hallway lined with abandoned wheelchairs, overturned carts, and faded signs pointing toward Imaging, ICU, Labour & Delivery. A few brittle papers still cling to the walls, curled like dead leaves.
Then it happens.
A sharp pop, like a static shock, ricochets through the corridor.
Lights don’t turn on, but a lone monitor — ancient, square, probably forgotten during updates — flickers to life.
Blue light spills into the hall.
The group freezes.
The screen glitches, lines tearing across it like lightning.
Then a video starts playing — not from a live feed, but from some long-frozen emergency recording.
A hospital worker appears, filmed on a handheld device. Her face is pale, frantic, streaked with sweat. The background alarm blares with that flat-line monotone.
Nurse on the screen (breathless, trembling):
“If… if anyone finds this — the system is collapsing. The grid went down forty minutes ago. The backup generator’s failing. It wasn’t built for this kind of surge.”
Sparks flash behind her. The image jitters.
“We lost the electronic charts first — everything. Patient histories, med lists, blood types… gone. The ventilators shut off next. Dialysis machines. Infusion pumps. We’re trying to hand-bag patients but…”
Her voice breaks.
The hallway lights flicker — not fully on, just twitching like dying insects.
“…we can’t do it manually for everyone.”
She looks over her shoulder.
“The water pressure’s dropping. Taps are dry. Toilets won’t flush. Something’s wrong with the pumps across the city. Please — if you’re watching this — don’t stay in the cities. Get to higher ground. Find springs. Rivers.”
A violent surge of static.
She comes back into focus for only a second — closer now, desperate, whispering:
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t prepared. None of us were prepared.”
Another surge — the screen turns white, then cuts to black with a soft electronic sigh.
The hallway plunges back into silence.
Only Ivy is still staring at where the woman’s face had been, the afterimage burning in her mind. She whispers:
“The hospital remembered.”
Someone behind her mutters:
“No… it warned us.”
Outside, the wind picks up, carrying the metallic smell of a world still smoldering from the sun’s anger.