Reborn Before the Apocalypse: The Last Medic System

3. Sealed Cabinet

The blue number kept counting beside Caleb's shoulder, and the cold side of the ambulance chilled his palm. Rain drummed on the bay roof, and the smell of diesel hung thick in the damp air.

"Triage, I need to know what we are working with," Caleb murmured.

"Tell me what you want to see," Triage replied inside his head.

Caleb tapped the rig twice and looked up at the dim ceiling. "I want to see what this hospital has in its rooms, because I cannot save anyone with empty shelves," he explained.

"I can give you one sweep to begin with," Triage offered. "It reads stock and storage, and it does not read people."

Caleb nodded slowly and let out a breath. "One sweep is enough, so start it," he urged.

A pale blue pulse rolled out from his chest and slid across the floor. It climbed the walls like water, and a low hum buzzed against his back teeth.

Caleb gripped the rig and whispered, "That tingles like cold metal on my tongue." The light passed through the brick, the pipes, and the doors, and the whole building seemed to glow from the inside.

"Is it supposed to feel this strange?" he asked, and he wiped his damp palm on his trouser leg.

"It is the first time, so every part of it is new," Triage answered. "The strangeness will fade, and the numbers will stay."

Numbers bloomed in the air above the walls where shelves stood behind them. Caleb turned in a slow circle and read them out loud as they appeared.

"Linen closet, forty sheets," he counted. "Oxygen room, six tanks, and two of them are half full."

"Keep going," Triage encouraged. "The emergency room is next."

The pulse rolled through the long hall and lit a row of curtained bays in soft white. Caleb squinted at the glowing figures and shook his head.

"Twelve beds, and not one isolation room," he read. "One ventilator, and it is older than I am."

"Is there a second one anywhere in the building?" he asked.

"None that the sweep can find," Triage replied. "That one machine is all the hospital has."

Caleb swallowed, and the picture of a crowded ER flashed through his mind with a hard pang. "Then what about the generator, because I cannot run one machine on a dead line?" he pressed.

"One unit in the basement, and the fuel tank is a quarter full," Triage told him. "It will serve a normal week, and it will not serve a crisis."

Caleb nodded and kept his voice low. "Then I need to count fuel too, and I need to count it soon," he muttered.

"Follow the pulse," Triage urged. "The pharmacy is next."

The pulse slid down the hall and stopped at a block of pale shelves behind a glass window. Rows of boxes lit up in white, and then one row after another turned a dull red.

Caleb stepped closer to the glow and stared. "Why are they red?" he asked.

"Red marks a date that is close," Triage answered. "These boxes are the hospital's antibiotics, and they are close to the end of their life."

Caleb felt his stomach drop, and he spoke each number as it showed. "Amoxicillin, expires in nineteen days," he read. "Cephalexin, twenty-three days, and the big box of doxycycline, twenty-six."

"There is a little more in the back room," Triage added. "It will last a few weeks at the usual pace, and no longer."

Caleb pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "A few weeks is nothing, because the fever is forty-five days away," he muttered.

"That is the gap you must close," Triage said gently.

Caleb swallowed and tried to memorize the dates. "Amoxicillin, nineteen. Cephalexin, twenty-three. Doxycycline, twenty-six," he whispered again, and the numbers burned into his mind.

"How many patients use these every day?" he asked.

"More than the shelves can bear for long," Triage replied. "The hospital burns through them at a steady pace, and nobody is counting how fast."

Caleb let out a slow, unsteady breath. "Then I will count for them, because somebody has to," he said.

Boots squeaked on the wet floor behind him, and a bright voice rang through the bay. "Hey, Rourke, you look like you saw a ghost in my sandwich," it called.

Caleb spun around, and the blue light snapped out as if a switch had flipped. A tall man in a paramedic jacket stood in the doorway with a paper bag in one hand and a ring of keys in the other.

Owen Pratt grinned, and the lines around his eyes crinkled the way they always did. Caleb's throat closed, and his chest filled with a rush of warmth that he could not hide.

"Owen," Caleb croaked, and he crossed the floor in three steps.

Owen raised an eyebrow as Caleb gripped his shoulder hard. "Easy, buddy, you are crushing my good jacket, and I only have one," he joked.

Caleb laughed in a shaky way and let go. "I am sorry, it is only that I am glad to see you," he admitted.

"You grabbed me like I was a lifeboat, and I have been standing here for ten seconds," Owen teased, and he smoothed his sleeve. "Are you sure you are not sick?"

"I am sure, and I am only tired," Caleb replied.

Owen held out the bag and shook it. "Then you will be thrilled to hear I brought turkey and Swiss on rye, because you skipped breakfast again," he announced.

Caleb took the bag, and the smell of fresh bread made his stomach growl. "How do you always know when I skip a meal?" he asked.

Owen tapped his own temple and smirked. "I am a trained observer, and you have a look like a sad dog when you are hungry," he teased.

Caleb unwrapped half the sandwich and took a bite, and the salty turkey tasted like a small miracle. He chewed slowly and savored it with his eyes closed.

Owen tilted his head and watched him with a puzzled frown. "Are you okay, because you are acting like a man who just got out of jail," he observed.

Caleb swallowed and shook his head with a soft smile. "I had a long night in my head, and I am only tired," he replied.

"You were in the break room, so you were not even on a real shift," Owen countered, and he laughed. "Were the coffee fumes that strong?"

"They were stronger than the coffee itself," Caleb joked, and he took another bite.

Owen leaned against the rig and stretched his back until it popped. "Be nice to me today, because I am pulling a double, and I am running on spite and bad coffee," he groaned.

"I will be very nice, and I will even refill your cup," Caleb promised.

Caleb set the sandwich on the bumper of the rig and brushed crumbs from his hands. "Owen, I need a favor, and I need you to not ask me why," he said.

Owen's smile faded a little, and he folded his arms. "That is a big way to start a favor, but go on," he allowed.

Caleb took a breath and chose his words carefully. "I want to walk through the supply rooms today, and I want to see every shelf and every locked door," he explained.

Owen squinted at him for a moment. Then he held up the ring of keys and let them jingle in the quiet air.

"Brother, I have keys to everything in this building," Owen boasted, and he spun the ring on one finger. "Name a door, and I will open it."

Caleb chuckled and eyed the heavy ring. "Everything, really?" he asked.

"Everything except the lab and the director's safe, because those two keys live with people who sleep with one eye open," Owen admitted with a wink. "The supply rooms, the boiler room, and the linen closets are all mine."

Caleb shook his head and laughed. "What about the director's office?" he teased.

"Especially the director's office, because he keeps better snacks than the break room," Owen replied, and he grinned.

Caleb picked up the sandwich again and shook his head. "I will remember that when I get hungry on a night shift," he promised.

"Do that," Owen urged, and he clapped Caleb on the arm. "Now why do you need the supply rooms, and do not say it is for fun?"

Caleb hesitated, and the truth sat heavy on his tongue. 'I cannot tell him the world ends in forty-five days, because he would think I broke my head.'

"I think we are running low on things that matter," he said at last. "I want to count them before somebody has to ask me for them."

Owen's face softened, and he nodded slowly. "That sounds like you, always the one who worries about the next patient before the first one," he murmured.

A burst of static crackled from the radio on Owen's belt, and a flat voice cut across it. "Unit Four, we have a fall at the corner of Marsh and Eleventh, possible hip," the dispatcher announced.

Owen groaned and unclipped the radio. "That is me, and it is always a hip at the worst time," he grumbled.

He pressed the button and spoke into it. "Dispatch, Unit Four copies, and I am on my way," he answered.

Caleb stepped back and gave him a small wave. "Go, because somebody needs you more than I do," he urged.

Owen slid the radio onto his belt and jabbed a finger at Caleb. "Do not skip the other half of that sandwich, and I will find you after my run," he warned.

"I will eat every crumb, and I will wait for you," Caleb promised.

Owen jogged toward the far rig, and the keys jingled with every step. At the door he turned and shouted back through the echo of the bay.

"Ask me nicely, and I will open anything, Rourke," he called, and then the door banged behind him.

The bay fell quiet again, and the rain filled the space where his voice had been. Caleb stood for a moment with the sandwich in his hand and a lump in his throat.

'He was my friend before, and he is my friend now, and that has to be worth something.'

"Triage, can you finish the sweep?" Caleb asked softly.

"I can," Triage answered. "You only need to ask."

Caleb set the sandwich down, closed his eyes, and spoke in a steady voice. "Then go deeper, and show me everything the building is hiding," he said.

The blue pulse rolled out again from his chest, slower this time and colder. It sank through the floor, and Caleb felt the tingle in his teeth spread down his arms.

The hum changed to a lower note as the light passed down through the old pipes. The air smelled of damp stone, and a faint drip echoed somewhere beneath him.

"What is below the lobby?" Caleb whispered.

"A storage level, then a boiler room, then the sub-basement," Triage replied. "The sweep is almost there."

Caleb opened his eyes and watched the glow slide down through the concrete. It passed a rusted pipe, and it passed a stack of old beds, and it stopped at the far edge of the lowest floor.

A small square of white light flickered on in the dark. Around it, a ring of red pulsed once, and then twice, and then held steady.

Caleb stepped closer to the glow and lowered his voice. "What is that, Triage?" he asked.

"A sealed cabinet," Triage answered slowly. "It holds vials, and none of them appear on any hospital list."

Caleb leaned in until the red light washed over his face. "Is there a label on the outside, or a name, or anything to tell me who owns it?" he asked.

"The door is plain, and the lock plate is the only mark," Triage replied. "The sweep can read what is inside, and it cannot read who put it there."

Caleb rubbed his jaw and glanced toward the empty doorway where Owen had gone. "Owen would open that door in a heartbeat, and then he would ask me how I knew it was there," he whispered.

"That is a question you cannot answer yet," Triage said.

"No, I cannot, and that is the whole trouble," Caleb admitted, and he pressed his palm flat against the cold rig.

Caleb stared at the pulsing red ring, and his skin prickled in the cold. The drip below echoed again, and the light did not fade.

"Whose are they?" he whispered.

Triage did not answer, and the flag kept glowing in the dark.