Reborn Before the Apocalypse: The Last Medic System

2. Forty-five Days

Caleb jerked upright with a gasp, and the rough couch cushion scratched his cheek. Rain tapped on a tin roof above him, and the smell of burnt coffee filled his nose.

He slapped a hand to his shoulder and pressed down hard. 'The teeth went in right here, and now there is nothing but skin.'

"Twenty-two," Caleb whispered, and his voice came out dry and thin.

Nobody answered him. A fan hummed in the corner, and a wall clock ticked beside a paper calendar.

He held up both hands and began to count his fingers out loud. "One, two, three, four, five," Caleb muttered, and each number shook in his throat.

"Six, seven, eight, nine, ten," he continued, and then he let out a long breath. The latch on the break room door clicked in the draft, and he flinched at the sound.

"Your hands are real, Caleb Rourke, and so is this room," a calm voice said inside his head.

Caleb froze and stared at the empty room. "You are still here," he breathed.

"I am always here, because I am made for you alone," Triage replied.

Caleb swung his boots to the floor and rubbed his face with both palms. "Then prove it, because I think I am losing my mind," he demanded.

"Ask me something only you would know," Triage offered.

Caleb swallowed and thought of the steps, the rain, and the heavy door. "How many people did I save at the door?" he challenged.

"Twenty-two," Triage answered gently. "You counted them yourself, and you were right."

Caleb pressed his fist against his mouth, and his eyes stung. "That is not a trick, so I believe you," he admitted.

A thin blue panel flickered into the air in front of him. It showed one word and one number, and both glowed softly in the dim room.

Caleb leaned toward it and read it aloud. "Credits, zero," he said slowly.

"That is where we begin," Triage explained. "You have earned nothing yet in this life."

Caleb waved his hand through the panel, and the light rippled like water. "Can you scan me, or scan the room, or show me anything else?" he asked.

"Not yet," Triage replied. "I show only what is plain until you give me a reason to show more."

Caleb stood up on shaky legs and steadied himself on the arm of the couch. "Then I will start with what I can see," he muttered.

He walked to the wall clock and studied it. Then he looked at the calendar, where a coffee ring stained one square and a shift note was scribbled in blue pen.

"It is an ordinary day," he murmured to nobody. "It is a normal, boring, ordinary day."

"That is the gift," Triage said quietly. "Very few people ever get one before the worst one comes."

Caleb nodded slowly and crossed to the row of gray lockers along the wall. He knew his own by the dent in the door, and he pulled it open with a squeal of metal.

A trauma kit sat on the shelf, and the zipper hung half open. Caleb lifted it out and set it on the bench with careful hands.

"Let me see what I have," he whispered, and he began to sort through it out loud. "Two rolls of gauze, three alcohol pads, one tourniquet, one pair of gloves, and a pair of scissors with a loose screw."

He frowned and turned the scissors over in his fingers. "This is half of what I carried on the night of the door," he grumbled.

"That night, you had already spent most of it," Triage replied. "Today, you only forgot to restock."

Caleb gave a short, tired laugh. "Fair enough, and I will not argue with a voice in my own head," he conceded.

The door of the break room banged open, and a gust of damp air rolled in. Caleb spun around with the scissors raised, and his heart hammered against his ribs.

"Whoa, big brother, it is only me, and I come in peace with coffee," a bright voice announced.

Caleb lowered the scissors, and the whole room seemed to tilt. Lily stood in the doorway in navy student scrubs with a badge clipped to her pocket, and she held two paper cups in her hands.

She wore her hair in the same messy knot she always wore, and a small smile tugged at her mouth. She was alive, and she was warm, and she was rolling her eyes at him.

"Lily," Caleb said hoarsely, and the name felt heavy on his tongue.

Lily raised an eyebrow and stepped inside. "Yes, that is my name, and you are ten minutes late for your shift," she teased.

Caleb opened his mouth, but no words came out. He only stood there and looked at her.

Lily kicked the door shut with her heel and held out a cup. "Dr. Brooks asked where you were, so I told her you were sleeping on the couch again," she scolded lightly.

"You told Dr. Brooks that?" Caleb croaked, and he took the cup with both hands.

"I told her you were doing a very important inventory with your eyes closed," Lily countered, and she grinned. "She did not believe me, though."

Caleb sipped the coffee, and it was bitter and scalding and wonderful. The taste of it was so ordinary that his chest ached.

Lily tilted her head and studied him. "Why are you staring at me like I am a ghost?" she asked.

Caleb set the cup on the bench and crossed the room in two steps. He wrapped both arms around her, and her hair smelled of cheap shampoo and hospital soap.

Lily stiffened in surprise, and then she laughed against his shoulder. "Okay, this is weird, so tell me what is wrong with you," she mumbled.

Caleb held on a moment longer and closed his eyes. "Nothing is wrong, Lily, because I just had a very long dream," he lied softly.

Lily pulled back and searched his face with narrowed eyes. "You are shaking, and your eyes are all red," she observed.

Caleb wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and forced a crooked smile. "It was a bad dream, and I am tired, and the coffee is very strong," he explained.

Lily snorted and punched his arm lightly. "You are a terrible liar, but I will let it go because I am late for my own rounds," she announced.

Caleb caught her wrist before she turned. "Lily, will you do something for me today?" he asked.

Lily paused and gave him a curious look. "That depends on what it is," she warned.

Caleb swallowed hard and searched for a small request that would not scare her. "Wash your hands often, and keep your mask on around the coughing patients," he said at last.

Lily blinked and then laughed again. "You sound like Dr. Brooks, and you are scaring me a little," she admitted.

"Good, because I mean it," Caleb insisted, and he squeezed her wrist before he let go.

Lily backed toward the door and pointed at him with her free hand. "Fine, I will wash my hands like a good student, and you will go to the bay like a good medic," she ordered.

Caleb raised his cup in a small salute. "Yes, ma'am," he replied.

Lily grinned over her shoulder. "Do not be late again, or I will tell the whole floor about the couch," she threatened, and then she was gone.

The latch clicked behind her, and the room felt very quiet again. Caleb stood with the cup in his hand and listened to the rain.

"She is alive," he whispered.

"She is," Triage agreed softly. "That is the first thing worth protecting."

Caleb zipped the half-empty trauma kit and slung it over his shoulder. "Then I need to see how bad things are, and I need to see it with my own eyes," he decided.

He stepped into the hall, and the smell of floor cleaner and old paper rose around him. The corridor was bright and busy, and nurses hurried past with charts and quick nods.

Nobody looked frightened. Nobody looked like they knew anything at all.

Caleb turned the corner toward the pharmacy window and slowed his steps. A man in a white coat stood on a stool behind the glass and taped a long paper list to the wall.

The man looked tired, and his gray hair stuck up in the back. His name tag read Gerald Finch, and the shelves behind him were thin and gapped like missing teeth.

Caleb rapped lightly on the counter. "Morning, Gerald, are you having a rough one?" he asked.

Gerald glanced down and sighed through his nose. "Rough is the new normal, Caleb, because my delivery is late again," he replied.

Caleb leaned closer and scanned the empty rows. "How late is it this time?" he pressed.

Gerald pressed the last piece of tape onto the list and stepped off the stool. "The supplier keeps pushing the date, and nobody will tell me why," he grumbled.

Caleb's mouth went dry. He remembered the supply room on the night of the door, and he remembered Marcy whispering that it was empty.

"What are you short on?" he asked carefully.

Gerald waved a hand at the shelves. "Antibiotics are low, bandages are low, and the good painkillers are almost gone," he listed wearily.

"Has anyone asked the administration for more?" Caleb wondered aloud.

Gerald gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "They told me to stretch what I have and stop making noise," he muttered.

Caleb tapped the counter twice and nodded. "Keep a careful list, Gerald, and write down every single count," he advised.

Gerald squinted at him over his glasses. "That is an odd thing to say, but I suppose it never hurts," he conceded.

"It might hurt a lot less than not doing it," Caleb replied quietly. He stepped away from the window and walked on with his heart pounding.

'This is how it began, with a late truck and a thin shelf and nobody asking why.'

The ambulance bay doors stood open at the end of the hall, and the wet air carried the smell of diesel and rain. Two rigs sat parked inside, and their lights were dark and still.

Caleb stopped beside the nearest one and set his hand on its cold, damp side. He took a slow breath and spoke in a low voice.

"Triage, how long do I have?" he asked.

The blue panel flickered into the air beside him, and a pale number glowed in the gloom. Triage waited a moment before it answered, and the silence felt heavy.

"The Grey Fever will reach Harlow Bay in forty-five days," Triage said.

Caleb stared at the glowing number, and the rain drummed on the roof above him. The panel did not blink, and it did not change, and it began to count down.