Adam walked down the dim hallway, his footfalls somehow both too loud and oddly muffled in the strange atmosphere. After a minute of wandering, he noticed the darkness wasn't complete. Occasionally, an overhead light flickered weakly to life, its illumination never quite reaching the floor. It reminded him of a streetlight on a humid summer night, but without the circling moths.

  A map of the hospital came into view on the wall, housed beneath a thin sheet of plastic. Adam breathed a sigh of relief. His heart was still pounding, but it had slowed enough he could think clearly again. Every minute wasted was a minute Samantha might not have, and wandering aimlessly through the hospital while he tried to find his bearings wasn't a delay he could afford.

  He paused to study the map. The hospital was large, larger than he remembered from the few visits he'd made over the years. Absently, Adam rubbed at the scar on his left hand, a souvenir from his only trip to this ER. The crescent-shaped scar ran across the webbing between his index finger and thumb, a pale curve like a waning moon against his slightly darker skin.

  It healed our bodies, but left our scars, Adam thought.

  Adam stared at the scar, his mind beginning to drift. The memory of slicing his hand open on a broken bottle surfaced from the depths of his mind. He'd needed several stitches and sat for two hours in the hospital waiting room, a bloody towel wrapped around his hand.

  The memory clung like warm honey, slow and sticky, and he struggled to pull himself back to the present. Something inside him resisted, and he fought to resurface. The reverie dissolved until finally the hospital map swam back into view.

  He clapped his cheeks, trying to rouse himself. The sensation was dull, distant and disconnected, like it was happening to someone else. The map blurred again. He found himself thinking about curling up right there on the tile, sleeping until anything and everyone was someone else's problem.

  "No... can't lay down,” he slurred, voice thick with exhaustion. A distant part of himself thought he should be panicking, but the panic was nowhere to be found. Just the slow, steady pull of warm, smothering oblivion. The terrifying part was how badly he wanted to just give in, lay down, and let it happen.

  He bit down on his tongue, driving a canine deep into the meat. His eyes snapped open as the pain flared, and his hand flew reflexively to his mouth.

  "Yeah, nice try asshole," he muttered to the dark, spitting blood onto the floor. Adam grabbed the thermos of coffee out of his pack and spun it open. The earthy aroma momentarily cleared the fog pressing at the edges of his consciousness. His eyes watered as he chugged the still-steaming liquid, his tongue sparking with fresh pain while his stomach lurched in protest.

  By the time he’d finished, the hallway had sharpened into focus. He wiped his mouth and stowed the thermos, hoping the caffeine would keep the unnatural exhaustion at bay.

  He pulled the map from behind the plastic sheeting and squinted in the dim light. Of course he didn't think to bring a flashlight. After a few moments of digging through his pack's various pockets, he retrieved a lighter. He flicked it on, and the tiny flame pushed back the gloom like a physical force. The flickering light made everything around him feel just a little more real.

  "So that's how we're playing it," Adam said, holding the small flame in front of him and splitting the darkness. He studied the map, searching for the route to the operating rooms. Satisfied, he snapped the lighter off, immediately missing its glow as he stowed the map. The darkness hesitated, as if wary of the light, before seeping back around him.

  He reignited the flame experimentally, watching the shadows slither backward once more, a little too slowly for his tastes. Nodding to himself, he held the light ahead as he turned the corner and pressed deeper into the hospital. Most of the doors were shut and locked as he moved cautiously down the hallway. Finally, he spotted a door marked in bold letters: SUPPLY.

  "Jackpot."

  Adam tried the handle, and to his relief, it was unlocked. He took a deep breath and yanked the door open. The supply closet was small, just enough room for one person, and thankfully devoid of anything hungry. The lighter was growing uncomfortably warm in his hand, so he propped the door open with a mop bucket and quickly began searching, pulling boxes from the shelves.

  He found what he was looking for almost immediately, dragging a towel off a high shelf. Tossing it over his shoulder, Adam continued searching. Bottles of cleaner sat on a higher shelf, and he pulled them down one by one, inspecting the labels before tossing each aside. A small bottle of rubbing alcohol rolled off and, to his surprise, he caught it in midair.

  Barely an inch of fluid remained in the bottle.

  Adam had never made a torch before, but he figured it was simple enough. He snapped the folded towel into a mop with a metal clip, and carefully doused the end with the last of the alcohol.

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  "Here goes," he said, stepping out of the closet and lighting his makeshift torch. It flared momentarily, almost causing him to drop it, banishing the unnatural darkness further. The lighter abruptly burned his thumb, and he dropped it, cursing.

  The urge to quote a popular childhood movie nearly overwhelmed him, the one where a man stranded in the wilderness had to learn to make fire from primitive tools. He'd watched it at least a dozen times growing up with his father, who loved the film.

  "FIRE!" Adam growled, swinging the torch in front of him and grinning like an idiot. He thought of his father, and the fact he would probably never see him again. The smile faded and his mouth settling into a hard line. He ducked back into the supply closet for one last look before spotting his prize.

  You can never have enough duct tape.

  He pocked the silver roll and stepped back into the hall.

  Footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned toward the sound, peering into the darkness beyond his small circle of light.

  "Hector?" he called, suddenly conscious of how loud he had been. The footsteps quickened before fading away into silence.

  Adam tightened his grip on the mop-torch. That wasn't a good sign.

  No more sounds followed as he crept through the deserted halls. The torched burned lower, his sphere of protective light slowly shrinking. After what felt like forever, a sign came into view: SURGERY, printed in large block letters with an arrow pointing to the right.

  The surgical ward lay near the heart of the hospital, and Adam suddenly noticed the darkness had deepened to a thick murk. Nothing was visible beyond the edge of the firelight. It wasn't a gradual fade, the light simply stopped after a few feet.

  He paused and pulled out the shopping list Natalie had written. The words shifted in the flickering torchlight as he read aloud.

  "Saline. IV tubing. Cit..." He gave up on the long word. "What the fuck is a cannula?"

  A flash of annoyance gave way to guilt as he continued reading.

  Adam, if you feel overwhelmed, just find what you can. Anything will help. Thank you - Nat.

  He folded the note and tucked it back into his wallet. He wasn't sure why, but reading her words gave him comfort, and he held onto that flicker of hope. He moved on, continuing down the hall.

  The fluorescent overhead lights flickered to life for a moment as he pushed into the surgical ward. The heavy doors opened slowly, releasing a sharp antiseptic smell with a faint coppery tang.

  He shivered. The air was noticeably colder past the ward's boundary, and his breath smoked faintly in the air. A soft click sounded behind him, and Adam whirled, nearly dropping the torch for the second time. He grabbed the door, pulling hard, but it didn't budge.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned back to the hallway. The flame flickered, casting irregular pulses at the edge of the darkness, making him feel like it was flowing around him. He was certain now, there was an intelligence behind it, and he was getting sick of its shit.

  "One problem at a time." He pushed forward, painfully aware that two timers were running, and they were both running out. He did not want to be here when the torch died.

  The hallway branched in three directions, signs pointing to separate surgical theaters. Adam turned left on impulse, heading toward a single door with a narrow window above the handles. He peered through it, but the darkness inside was absolute.

  He suppressed a nervous giggle, admitting to himself he might just be developing a phobia of doors, and what could lurk behind them. Pushing down the giggle and taking a breath to steel himself, he opened the door.

  When nothing jumped out to attack him, Adam pushed the torch into the room, relieved to find a distinct lack of claws or teeth. He stepped inside, blocking the door from closing with his foot. Leaning the torch carefully against a metal shelf, he grimaced at the towel, already half burned away and in need of a replacement soon.

  He pulled the duct tape from his pocket and tore off a strip. Pressing the door latch down, he fixed the tape over it. "Fool me once..." he said, frowning as he added two more strips before easing the door closed.

  The room was nearly barren. A steel industrial sink was fixed to the wall, gleaming in the torchlight and two unmarked doors flanked the sink, one to the right, one to the left. Adam retrieved the torch and approached the door on the right, reaching for the handle. He hesitated, eyes shifting to the door on the left.

  Adam was struck by a sudden sense of wrongness. Something about the room was off, though he couldn't quite place what. He backed away from the door, turning slowly as a faint wave of vertigo pressed behind his eyes.

  His gaze landed on a set of empty shelves. He reached out and impulsively ran a finger across one. It squeaked.

  Adam pulled his hand back and stared at his finger tip.

  "Too clean."

  His finger came away spotless. No dust, no grime. Even the grout between the tiles looked freshly scrubbed, without a trace of wear. The room was immaculate, unnaturally so, and it made his skin crawl. Someone, or something, had been cleaning.

  He turned to the left-hand door, checking for a lock. Finding none, he pulled it open. A short hallway stretched ahead. One door stood to the left with a sign labeled SUPPLY, with three numbered doors lining the opposite wall.

  Taking a step forward, he heard the sound of more faint footsteps on the tile, similar to the ones he’d heard earlier. The sound faded quickly, but it left him feeling just as uneasy.

  Adam shook his head, more puzzled than afraid. The room behind him was still empty, still spotless, and he couldn't figure out why that unsettled him so much. Irritation began to replace his sense of unease and he cleared his throat.

  "Are you just going to walk around making noise?" he said, more a challenge than a question. With the torch pushing back the muffling darkness, the words echoed softly off of the walls.

  Receiving no answer, he sighed and walked down the narrow hallway toward the SUPPLY door. For the first time since entering the hospital, he felt a flicker of safety. The torch illuminated the entire passage and left no dark corners for things to hide.

  Eyeing the dwindling flame, Adam reached for the door handle. He pursed his lips, fully expecting it to be locked. It resisted for a moment, then gave way.

  The door swung open and he nearly screamed.