REDLINE: 2004

August 28th, 2004

Liz Reed had a lung in a cooler and a patient who was running out of time.

The day was much hotter than usual in Brooklyn. There were no clouds, and the sun was bright enough that if you looked at it for a few seconds, you would feel blind.

It was Saturday at 2:10 p.m. The streets were almost filled with people spending time with their families, playing sports with friends, or lining up at an ice cream truck.

But Liz Reed had no time for any of that. She sat in the ambulance with the engine running, about to leave for Blackridge.

“You have to hurry,” a man said at the window. Dr. White sounded urgent. Almost worried.

“Of course, Dr. White,” Liz said.

“At this temperature, the lung won’t remain viable for much longer,” he added.

“Then, I’d better get going,” Liz said. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Dr. White.”

“See you soon, Reed.”

---

Blackridge — 3:10 p.m.

Liz arrived at the central hospital.

It was a modern building of glass and steel, and the afternoon sun bounced off every window.

The heat was worse here. It rose off the street in waves, and the ambulance door burned her fingers when she reached for the handle.

Liz checked the cooler twice before she let herself breathe.

Then she lifted the small navy cooler by its handle and held it as tight as she could. The label on the lid was the only thing that said what was inside.

When she entered, the cold hit her like a freezer door opening, and for a second, the heat on her skin felt like a bad dream.

The lobby was bright and quiet, with polished white floors and the faint smell of disinfectant. A logo on the reception counter read:

“Blackridge Central Hospital”.

Liz walked up to the reception counter. “Hi, I’m here to deliver a lung for a patient.”

“Are you Liz Reed?” the nurse asked, her voice tight.

Liz nodded and handed over the cooler. “I hope I didn’t arrive late.”

“No, you’re right on time,” the nurse said. She passed it to an orderly, who hurried down the hall.

“Before you leave, we’re going to need you to sign some paperwork. Mara can help you with it. She’ll be back in a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

“Not at all,” Liz said, glancing at the clock. It was 3:18 p.m.

---

The waiting area was quiet. Almost empty. Liz had chosen a chair by the window and tried not to look at the clock. She looked at it anyway. 3:33 p.m.

She had a magazine in hand, but she couldn’t focus. She kept thinking about the cooler and the orderly hurrying down the hallway.

On the wall, a small TV muttered about the weather.

“…a record-breaking heat wave, with strong winds expected this evening and tonight. Power companies are asking citizens to limit their air conditioning…”

At the end of the corridor, on the left, stood a steel door with a keypad and a sign:

Section X—restricted access.

A security guard stood beside it, with a serious look on his face.

When Liz caught his eye, he rolled his eyes. His hand, though, never left the keypad.

A janitor pushed a mop bucket past her.

“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s usually that mean.”

Liz nodded with a puzzled look. But not because of the guard. It was because of the sign and the door. She turned back to her magazine.

A woman in scrubs approached Liz.

“Hi, I’m Mara,” she said. “Thank you for your patience. Today has been an extremely busy shift.”

“It’s alright,” Liz said as she stood up.

They walked toward the reception counter, and Mara pointed at the paperwork.

“Sign here and right here.”

“Alright,” Liz said as she signed. “How’s the patient?”

“The patient is in surgery,” Mara said.

Liz’s shoulders loosened for the first time since Brooklyn.

“Would it be okay if I stayed until the surgery’s over?” Liz asked. She had noticed that the waiting room had been almost empty since she arrived and decided someone should be there when the patient woke up.

“Of course. After all, you were the one who brought the cooler,” Mara said. “I’ll let you know once the patient’s surgery is over, but it’s going to take at least four to six hours.”

“Alrighty, thank you,” Liz said.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s the least I can do,” Mara said.

Liz nodded. She glanced at the clock. 4:01 p.m.

As she went to buy something from the vending machine, her phone rang.

The screen read: Dr. White.

When she answered the call, she heard a familiar voice.

“Reed! Hi, how are you?” Dr. White asked, his voice calm.

“Hi, Dr. White. I’m fine,” Liz said.

“Great. How’s the patient? Did you deliver the lung?”

“Yes, I made it on time. The patient is currently in surgery, but it’s going to take at least four to six hours,” Liz said, letting out a breath.

“That’s excellent news! I hope the surgery goes fine,” Dr. White said.

“By the way, could I stay until the surgery is over?”

“Wow. Liz Reed wants to skip a workday.” Dr. White said with a sarcastic tone.

“I’m not skipping. I’m working.”

“It’s alright. After all, it’s Saturday. Just don’t take the interstate back tonight. They’re saying it’s a parking lot.”

“Noted. Thanks, Dr. White.”

The line clicked off. Liz slid her phone into her pocket and fed a dollar into the vending machine.

It swallowed the bill, paused as if thinking about it, and finally dropped a bottle of water.

She had just taken a sip when the lights dimmed, flickered, and came back.

“Heat,” a nurse sighed from across the lobby, as if that explained everything.

---

Liz drifted to the window. The sky had gone a flat, strange grey, and the wind was pushing the trees sideways. A leaf tumbled across the parking lot, and nothing stopped it.

On the wall, the TV was still muttering about the heat wave. She checked the clock. 4:22 p.m.

---

4:24 p.m.

The lights died.

It happened all at once: the hum of the air conditioning, the buzz of the vending machine, the TV—all of it gone, as if someone had pulled the plug on the whole building. Somebody groaned. Somebody laughed.

“Told you,” the nurse said. “Everyone’s running their AC.”

A few seconds later, the generators rumbled awake, and pale emergency lights flickered on. The hum came back.

But not everywhere.

Down the corridor, the left hallway stayed dark. The keypad beside the section X door had gone pitch black, and the guard stood in front of it with his radio at his ear.

“Say that again?” he whispered.

Liz didn’t move toward it. Whatever was behind that door was none of her business, and she meant to keep it that way.

Then, from behind the steel door, came one slow, patient knock.

The guard took one careful step back. The dead keypad gave a soft click, the sound of a lock letting go.

On the other side, the handle began to turn.