Krillostar

The doors of the emergency department at St. Mary Hospital swung open again, sending another gurney through. A pair of paramedics pushed past visitors, wheeling a middle-aged, bearded man past the reception area.

“Another one?” asked one of the nurses behind the desk.

One of the paramedics turned around without slowing down and gave a slight nod.

The emergency department hallways were unusually chaotic for a weekday evening. Patients leaned against the walls, covering their faces and moaning softly. An elderly woman navigated the maze of hallways, cluttered with boxes of medical supplies, with chairs turned sideways, feeling along the wall with both her wiry hands. The paramedics had to weave through like skiers on a black diamond slope and shout at unsuspecting patients to move out of the way. Some had to be pushed aside.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” said one of the paramedics as they approached the destination. “We can at least save this one.”

Finally, they slammed the operating room doors. The bright light blinded them, and they covered their eyes. When their eyesight returned, they saw five bewildered surgeons frantically operating, and at least a dozen patients of all ages leaning against the wall, sitting in chairs, or aimlessly shuffling.

“Fuck!” yelled one of the paramedics and dropped to the floor. He covered his face with his hands and started shaking. Tears fell onto the white floor of the operating room. His coworker patted him on the back, then slowly walked out into the patient waiting area. The TV was turned on.

“Krillostar’ refers to the damage inflicted on anyone who witnesses the Krill supernova. Hospitals are overwhelmed with people needing urgent retinal surgery. If you are not experiencing a medical emergency, please stay home and avoid going to the hospital. Wear eye protection if you must go outside.”