Free Dead Highways: Origins by Richard Brown

was broadcasting white snow.
    “They have power,” Peaches said.
    I nodded. “Probably a backup generator.”
    “How long will that last?”
    “Don’t know. Not forever.”
    It was naptime at the neighborhood hospital. Every chair in the waiting room had a body in it; some slumped forward, others slumped backward. Old. Young. Black. White. Every color of the rainbow. They had all come for help and were still waiting. At their feet were more bodies, many of them children.
    We walked up to the front desk. Aside from the white noise emitted by the television, the hospital was soundless. Not a ding of the elevators. Not a ring of the phone. Not a Dr. Doug Ross to the emergency room. Nothing. I’d never seen a place look so busy, yet feel so empty. It was haunting. I kept looking around, thinking someone was watching us. Every breath we took. Every move we made. The receptionist behind the front desk, however, wasn’t watching anything but the tile floor. She was face down. Looked like she’d slipped off her chair in a desperate fight to stay awake.
    “Well, should we split up?”
    Peaches shrugged.
    Naima was eyeing every person, looking for her parents. I don’t think she’d heard a word I’d said since we entered the building.
    “It’s a big hospital,” I continued. “What is there . . . six floors? I’m not so good at math, but I think that’s two a piece.”
    Naima focused back on us for a moment and said, “That’s fine.”
    I guess she had been listening.
    “Why don’t you cover the first two, Naima? Peaches . . . you get three and four, and I’ll take the top two.”
    “You sure?” Peaches asked.
    “Unless you want to climb two extra flights of stairs.”
    “But . . . there’s a generator. The elevators won’t work?”
    “They might, but I ain’t taking the chance getting stuck in one. My luck ain’t that good.”
    Peaches smirked. “Look around. Your luck ain’t that bad.”
    “Hmm. Good point,” I replied. “How ‘bout we meet back here in, say, thirty minutes? That should be plenty of time. Sound good?”
    “I don’t have a watch,” Peaches said.
    “Neither do I,” Naima said.
    “Then make an educated guess. This isn’t a science project. Just sweep the floor the best you can and head back. If no one else is here when you get back, then wait. Okay?”
    They both nodded, and then we headed off. Peaches and I went toward the elevators, thinking the stairs were probably close by. Naima went the other direction.
    “I didn’t want to say anything in front of her,” Peaches said. “But I really don’t think we’re gonna find them. I mean . . . look at this place.”
    “I agree. And if we do find them, I bet they’ll blend right in with the others.”
    “I feel so bad for her. And for you, too, Jimmy.”
    To this, I said nothing.
    The door to the stairwell was just past the elevators, where I had imagined it being. Sometimes I amazed myself.
    We headed up the stairs, passing more bodies along the way, many of them dressed in various colors of medical scrubs. Given the number of bruised and bleeding heads, the stairs did not appear to be a safe place to fall asleep.
    I left Peaches at the entrance to the third floor and then continued up. I was already getting tired. You always think you’re in good physical shape, and then a bunch of stairs kick your lazy ass.
    From what I could tell, the fifth floor was for post-operative patients. I walked the halls briskly, checking every unlocked room, even one with a mop and bucket. All the while, I called out, saying hello , asking if anyone was there. Nobody called back. Nobody said . . . yes, I’m here. I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time. Disappointed because it would have given me great pleasure to be able to find Naima’s parents—to put a big smile on her face. And yet I was relieved, because odds are if I found someone they wouldn’t be her parents, they’d be someone totally crazy. Just like the rest of