out?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll go across to the mall, call someone.’
‘Who? You’re not even from here.’
‘Haven’t you got any friends? Someone who’ll give us a lift?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Let’s just play it by ear. After what we saw… back there, you
really want to stay here any longer?’
He shrugs.
We’ve reached the lift. I press the button, and the doors slide open with a clank. The interior is clad in stainless steel and I can’t avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection. A
tall skinny woman with a dressing over her nose and lank blonde hair drooping over her shoulders stares back at me. I don’t recognise myself. I look older, haggard, tired. I look like a
stranger.
‘What floor did he say?’
‘Three,’ Farrell snaps, folding his arms and moving away from me. I can feel tears pricking my eyes again and I will them not to fall. I know he’s worried and probably as
freaked out as I am, but…
Please don’t hate me
.
I press the button and the lift shudders upwards. My stomach drops and I’m hit with another wave of wooziness.
The lift grumbles to a stop.
I swallow the tears back and do my best to sound normal. ‘When we get out we just have to—’
The doors slide open onto pure chaos.
‘Where the
fuck
are we?’ Farrell asks.
But it’s obvious where we are. We’re at ground zero. Casualty. After the near silence of the morgue, the noise is overwhelming. Screams, howls, shouting, and above it all
someone’s yelling, ‘I shouldn’t be here! I’ve got medical aid! Listen to me!’
The corridor in front of us is stacked with hospital beds and gurneys and, although I’m trying not to look too closely at the patients lying on them, I can’t help it: a half-naked
woman, her thighs covered in seeping blisters; a sobbing boy, his knees drawn up to his chest; a nurse frantically trying to jab a drip into the arm of an emaci ated teenage girl whose face is a
mask of blood. Nurses run up and down the corridor, shouting instructions at each other and a doctor in a bloodstained white coat hurries past us, screaming into a cellphone, ‘Don’t you
understand? There are no more fucking beds!’
I grab Farrell’s arm to hold him back as a pair of grim-faced paramedics dressed in soot-smeared overalls speed past us clutching a defibrillator. They disappear into a curtained-off
area.
‘Which way?’ Farrell asks.
I rip my eyes away from the sight of a nurse pulling a shard of glass out of the arm of a screaming boy, a woman with gore-soaked blonde hair bawling next to them, and search for the signs.
The right-hand corridor leads to Maternity, the left to casualty and admissions. There has to be an exit through there.
‘Left,’ I say. ‘Stay close.’
No one tries to stop us as we weave our way through the chaos. We edge past a man lying on a filthy sheet. His right arm ends in a bandaged stump and he stares up at us blankly. A small child
sits huddled next to a woman wrapped in a blanket; neither looks up as we pass.
The noise intensifies as we head further into the casualty ward, and I realise that the patients we’ve already passed are the ones who are going to make it; the ones who aren’t going
to end up in the black bags, stored in the refrigerated truck.
‘Triage,’ I mumble. ‘That’s what they’re probably doing.’
‘What?’ Even though I know he can’t see clearly, Farrell’s eyes are glassy with horror.
‘They’re prioritising the injured. Sorting them into the ones that are the most critical.’
‘Jesus, Lisa.’
A harried nurse pushes out of a curtained-off area, and for a split second I get a glimpse of a woman whose face is nothing but a mass of raw flesh. We stumble through what was once the
waiting-room area. The plastic chairs have been shoved aside to make room for more makeshift beds and drip stands, and another pair of paramedics, their faces scored with exhaustion, race past us,
pushing a twitching body on a gurney.
‘I don’t know. We’ll go across to the mall, call someone.’
‘Who? You’re not even from here.’
‘Haven’t you got any friends? Someone who’ll give us a lift?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Let’s just play it by ear. After what we saw… back there, you
really want to stay here any longer?’
He shrugs.
We’ve reached the lift. I press the button, and the doors slide open with a clank. The interior is clad in stainless steel and I can’t avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection. A
tall skinny woman with a dressing over her nose and lank blonde hair drooping over her shoulders stares back at me. I don’t recognise myself. I look older, haggard, tired. I look like a
stranger.
‘What floor did he say?’
‘Three,’ Farrell snaps, folding his arms and moving away from me. I can feel tears pricking my eyes again and I will them not to fall. I know he’s worried and probably as
freaked out as I am, but…
Please don’t hate me
.
I press the button and the lift shudders upwards. My stomach drops and I’m hit with another wave of wooziness.
The lift grumbles to a stop.
I swallow the tears back and do my best to sound normal. ‘When we get out we just have to—’
The doors slide open onto pure chaos.
‘Where the
fuck
are we?’ Farrell asks.
But it’s obvious where we are. We’re at ground zero. Casualty. After the near silence of the morgue, the noise is overwhelming. Screams, howls, shouting, and above it all
someone’s yelling, ‘I shouldn’t be here! I’ve got medical aid! Listen to me!’
The corridor in front of us is stacked with hospital beds and gurneys and, although I’m trying not to look too closely at the patients lying on them, I can’t help it: a half-naked
woman, her thighs covered in seeping blisters; a sobbing boy, his knees drawn up to his chest; a nurse frantically trying to jab a drip into the arm of an emaci ated teenage girl whose face is a
mask of blood. Nurses run up and down the corridor, shouting instructions at each other and a doctor in a bloodstained white coat hurries past us, screaming into a cellphone, ‘Don’t you
understand? There are no more fucking beds!’
I grab Farrell’s arm to hold him back as a pair of grim-faced paramedics dressed in soot-smeared overalls speed past us clutching a defibrillator. They disappear into a curtained-off
area.
‘Which way?’ Farrell asks.
I rip my eyes away from the sight of a nurse pulling a shard of glass out of the arm of a screaming boy, a woman with gore-soaked blonde hair bawling next to them, and search for the signs.
The right-hand corridor leads to Maternity, the left to casualty and admissions. There has to be an exit through there.
‘Left,’ I say. ‘Stay close.’
No one tries to stop us as we weave our way through the chaos. We edge past a man lying on a filthy sheet. His right arm ends in a bandaged stump and he stares up at us blankly. A small child
sits huddled next to a woman wrapped in a blanket; neither looks up as we pass.
The noise intensifies as we head further into the casualty ward, and I realise that the patients we’ve already passed are the ones who are going to make it; the ones who aren’t going
to end up in the black bags, stored in the refrigerated truck.
‘Triage,’ I mumble. ‘That’s what they’re probably doing.’
‘What?’ Even though I know he can’t see clearly, Farrell’s eyes are glassy with horror.
‘They’re prioritising the injured. Sorting them into the ones that are the most critical.’
‘Jesus, Lisa.’
A harried nurse pushes out of a curtained-off area, and for a split second I get a glimpse of a woman whose face is nothing but a mass of raw flesh. We stumble through what was once the
waiting-room area. The plastic chairs have been shoved aside to make room for more makeshift beds and drip stands, and another pair of paramedics, their faces scored with exhaustion, race past us,
pushing a twitching body on a gurney.
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