Chapter 008: Chaos at the HospitalOperating Room
The surgical lights blazed white, flooding the operating table where the patient lay supine. Around the table, six medical professionals moved swiftly yet calmly, checking instruments and confirming readiness with practiced efficiency.
The heart monitor pulsed in a steady rhythm—beep… beep… beep…—a mechanical heartbeat affirming the patient was still alive. Blood pressure gauges and the pulse oximeter worked in tandem, their green and blue displays translating every breath and pulse into data.
The lead surgeon stood at the patient's side, gloved hands poised over a sterile scalpel. His eyes remained locked on the wounded abdomen as he issued short, precise instructions.
"Are the instruments ready?" he asked—calm, controlled, but firm.
"Ready, Doctor," the scrub nurse replied, extending forceps and surgical scissors.
"Ventilation and anesthesia status?" the surgeon turned to the anesthesiologist.
"Stable, Doctor," came the answer, eyes never leaving the monitors.
The surgeon took a measured breath, focused, then carefully touched the blade to the patient's skin—initiating the first incision.
A soft skriiit sound followed as the scalpel parted flesh. The faint scent of antiseptic and metal filled the air. Under the surgical lights, each movement was magnified; shadows of the surgeon's hands danced across the sterile white walls.
The team moved in disciplined synchronization. A nurse held the incision open with clamps. The anesthesiologist monitored respiration. A surgical assistant prepared backup instruments.
The surgeon gently lifted tissue, eyes scanning the patient's exposed organs. His breathing stayed steady; his hands never wavered. He began a rapid internal assessment, determining the next steps to address the damaged organs.
The heart monitor continued its rhythm—an ever-present reminder: every second mattered. Every motion had to be exact. Every decision could mean life or death.
Suddenly—
POP.
Pitch-black darkness.
Eyes widened. Hearts slammed. Skin prickled. Pupils that had adjusted to the intense surgical lighting were forced into total, merciless darkness.
The patient still lay open on the operating table—abdomen freshly cut to assess a shattered kidney caused by the accident.
Six medical professionals froze.
"THE PATIENT!" the surgeon shouted, his voice tearing through the blackness, snapping everyone out of shock.
"T-The… lights!" a junior doctor cried, voice trembling.
CRASH— medical instruments clattered loudly to the floor, knocked over by invisible hands in the dark.
"Isn't anyone turning the power back on?!" the surgeon yelled, fury and desperation bleeding into his voice.
"I—I can't see anything," a nurse whispered, panic thick in her tone.
"What are those hospital technicians doing?! Have they lost their minds?!" the surgeon roared. His breathing grew heavy. "I just opened this patient's abdomen—damn it! Get some light, NOW!"
"I still can't see anything…" another nurse added, hands shaking as she fumbled for tools.
"Doctor!" the anesthesiologist called out. Since the blackout, he had been feeling around the patient's head, maintaining contact. "The patient's crashing! The patient's crashing!"
"What? Can you see it?!" the surgeon demanded.
"No—but I can feel it. The patient is dropping!" the anesthesiologist replied.
"Damn it! Nurse—out! Find anything that can be used as a light source!" the surgeon ordered, his voice slicing through the suffocating panic.
Those seconds stretched into eternity. Every touch, every movement, became a gamble between life and death. The darkness wasn't just physical—it was psychological, forcing the team to rely solely on instinct, training, and muscle memory.
Hallway Between Operating Rooms
A nurse burst out of the first operating room, breath hitching, hands clutching whatever instruments she could grab.
BANG.
The door to the neighboring operating room flew open. Another nurse emerged, her expression nearly identical—wide eyes, sweat-slicked forehead, hurried steps.
They locked eyes. Panic flickered beneath the thin mask of professionalism.
The corridor was almost completely dark. Only faint lines of natural light filtered in through a high window at the far end, barely reflecting off the sterile floor.
"It's dark…" one muttered, her voice barely steady.
"Dead… everything's dead…" the other replied, almost whispering, trembling.
"Flashlight—there must be a flashlight!" they exclaimed nearly in unison, voices overlapping in the oppressive silence.
They paused, staring at each other, bodies tense. The narrow hallway seemed to close in. Every sound—their breathing, shoe soles scraping the floor, the faint clink of equipment—felt unnaturally loud.
Confusion engulfed them. Patients were still open on operating tables, lives hanging on, yet there was no power, no monitors, no signals—only darkness and uncertainty.
They began moving slowly, hands sliding along walls and railings, searching for light or usable tools, exchanging quiet, clipped instructions.
Despite the panic, professional instincts endured. Hands moved automatically. Procedures replayed in their minds—even when their eyes could see nothing.
ICU
Inside the narrow ICU corridor, the nurses' station sat at the center—normally surrounded by glowing green and blue monitors tracking heart rates, blood pressure, and oxygen levels. Intercom phones, computers, and call buttons were neatly arranged across the desk.
Two nurses chatted lightly—one smiling as she gave a reminder, "Make sure patient 204's IV remains stable before the shift ends." The other laughed softly while checking electronic charts.
Suddenly—
POP.
Total darkness swallowed the space. Monitors went black. Ceiling lights died. Intercoms and phones fell silent.
Natural light couldn't reach this deep into the building.
The nurse who had just been smiling jolted back, eyes wide, heart racing.
"What—what's happening?!" she yelled, voice cracking.
In the ICU ward itself, panic erupted violently.
Nurses saw ventilators stop. IV pumps freeze. Monitors die.
Pitch-black darkness filled the ICU. No lights. No alarms. No indicators. Visibility was almost nonexistent.
A nurse immediately reached for a patient, pressing fingers to pulse, listening for breath.
"AMBU!" one shouted, grabbing a manual resuscitation bag and squeezing it rhythmically for a ventilator-dependent patient.
Another nurse placed both hands on a patient's chest, initiating external chest compressions—CPR—following ACLS protocol.
"Manual IV—hurry!" another barked, grabbing a syringe and gravity drip to keep fluids and medication flowing.
"Manual blood pressure! Get the cuff!" a senior nurse ordered, switching to mechanical measurement.
"Patient 204—secure the airway!" an anesthesia nurse called, adjusting head position and airflow for ambu ventilation.
The movements were fast and instinctive:
One nurse pumping the ambu bag.
One performing chest compressions.
One managing fluids and medications manually.
One tracking vital signs with stethoscope and pressure cuff.
They worked seamlessly—trained, disciplined—despite the awkwardness. None of their training scenarios had taken place in total darkness.
The ICU was filled with nothing but human sounds: breathing, rubber compressions, the rhythmic thump of CPR hands. No monitors. No alarms. Everything depended on skill, touch, and instinct.
Hospital Lobby
The lobby—normally bright and bustling—was now eerily quiet, drowned in darkness. Lights were out. Information screens dead. Automatic doors frozen. Self check-in machines useless.
Visitors stood frozen, devices clutched in their hands—none functioning. Some tapped phone screens repeatedly. Others wiped tablets in vain.
"Why is everything dead…?" a mother murmured, scanning the dark.
"Is there a blackout?" a young man whispered to his friend, looking around for answers.
Visitors exchanged hushed questions, holding children's hands, steadying themselves, or simply standing rigid in the silent crowd.
Elsewhere, staff moved urgently:
Nurses rushed toward wards to secure patients.
Security began organizing visitors near emergency exits.
Administrative staff whispered rapidly near their stations.
"Are all systems down?" one staff member asked, staring at a black computer screen.
"The generator—has no one turned it on?" another snapped.
"Any instructions from above?" a third asked, controlled but fast.
"No idea. Communications are completely offline," came the reply.
"This feels—dead. Broken. Everything's down," someone muttered.
"Phones—use phones!" a staffer suggested, pulling one out.
"Doesn't work! It's dead too!" someone replied.
"Mine as well," another whispered, fingers trembling over a black screen.
"How… how can this even happen?" one staff member said quietly, then looked up.
"What is actually going on?" another demanded in a low voice.
"This is a hospital… how can everything fail? Why is nothing working…?" someone murmured, near despair.
Footsteps echoed. Panicked murmurs blended into a tense, muffled symphony.
No sirens.
No alarms.
No automated announcements.
Only people—trying to grasp the shape of a disaster they could not yet understand.