Everyone wondered how the world would end. But December came and went. The movie 2012 was laughed at even more than when it was released and was thrown into bargain basement bins everywhere—better as a coaster than entertainment. That's what I use my copy for. I wonder if that woman is still waiting at the top of the mountain in France for the alien spaceship to take her away. The only reason the men in white coats haven't taken her away is because they can't be arsed to walk up the mountain.
But life carried on as normal. I can't wait to tell my kids—if I have any—how I survived 2012, bird flu, and swine flu. Load of crap. Ha! It was media sensationalism and hype like that that led to our current problem, which started eight hours ago.
This is how the world ends.
I woke up late, as usual, after staying up watching TV that I had no interest in. Twenty-five minutes to get dressed and get to the bus stop for the staff bus that ferries employees from site to site. I threw my clothes on and walked to the bathroom, spent five minutes fighting my hair to stay down or at least in some semblance of style. I gave up, winked at the mirror—just a weird habit I have.
I work in a hospital. Nothing fancy, I'm just the cleaner, but it pays my bills—just about. The walk was the usual uneventful, freezing cold, rainy misery you would expect from southeast England in January. At least it was short enough not to be soaked to the bone but long enough for a smoke.
After stepping in sick from the night before's drunks, swearing, and putting out my fag, I crossed the road, seeing the staff bus already waiting. I used to walk the two or so miles to the hospital, but that got old real fast when the rain of summer ended and the freezing rain of winter began. I got on the bus, the driver completely blanking me as usual. I made my way through the narrow aisle, looking at the still half-asleep faces of the 7:30 Monday morning shift. I sat in my usual spot at the back on the left—always the same spot. That's the thing about commuters, always sticking with the same old seats and spots. I plugged my headphones into my phone and dozed in my seat, the scenery passing by my blank gaze.
The Bus Ride and the Hospital
The bus pulled up outside the hospital's main entrance, and the passengers slowly disembarked in a sluggish, single-file line. The revolving door was still acting up, stopping halfway through its rotation, keeping you out in the cold for a bit longer—almost like it had some personal disdain for you.
I walked through the lobby, already bustling with people who had arrived far too early for their morning appointments. They could now enjoy a two-hour wait, staring at a screen that would eventually tell them they had to wait an extra hour on top of that—because someone was late or sick. Hospital staff are always hypochondriacs. Oh well, at least they could have a disgusting sandwich from the shop—disgusting in both price and taste.
I headed down, ignoring the lift, taking the stairs two flights down. Swiping my card, I signed in and walked off without a word to anyone. I already knew my ward for the day—same as every other day for the last three months. Not that I minded. I had worked with this group for a while now. They knew me, I knew them. They were a good group.
This time, I took the lift—sod doing four flights of stairs at this hour. I passed the maternity ward, swiped my damn card again, and headed down the corridor to my area for the day. After a brief argument with the card scanner, which refused to read my card—mainly because I was trying to swipe my ATM card—I finally walked through. I really should use my wallet.
My ward was basically three corridors in a Y-shape: ten rooms, five on each side, with a nurses' station at the base of the Y. The other two arms of the Y had ten rooms each, with a nurses' station on either side. To the left, there was a large waiting room, though it was rarely occupied—mostly because there was another entrance there with a swipe card reader. No members of the public could get in unless they pushed the buzzer and waited ten minutes for someone to respond and let them in.
I muttered a quick good morning to the nurses, who were just getting their updates on patients from the night shift, and headed straight to my walk-in cupboard. I spent some time wrestling my cleaning trolley out—someone had somehow managed to wedge it behind a stack of paper towels. After finally pulling it free, I walked in, took off my bag and coat, tossed them on top of the cupboards, and popped open a can of Irn-Bru. I was really starting to get addicted to that stuff.
After about fifteen minutes, I realized I was on my own for the day—or at least until half past eleven, when the next shift would come in. Four hours alone. God, I love Mondays.
The Ward
After a fun hour and a half of scrubbing toilets and emptying bins, the volunteer pushing the newspaper trolley came around. I bought a paper and a Red Bull—he didn't stock Irn-Bru. I retreated to my cupboard, downed the rest of my Irn-Bru, and cracked open the Red Bull while browsing the paper.
Gun control controversy. Why do Americans need automatic weapons? You're not John Wayne, and this isn't the Wild West.Taxes.Jimmy Savile. God, will that ever end?
The door opened. It was Jade, the nurse's aide. Short, black hair, pale face—reasonably good-looking. She smiled.
"Patient's going home. Room for you to clean. Oh, give us some." She grabbed my Red Bull and took a swig.
"Morning, Ringo. You're welcome, by the way."
"Buzz off," I replied.
She laughed.
"Which room?"
"Number 22. Just do a normal clean, nothing fancy. Could you start now? A&E has a patient they want up here quickly."
"The fun never stops, does it?" I muttered.
She smiled and left. Sports will have to wait.
The Bible
A patient always leaves something behind when they're discharged—socks, a coat, chocolate… once, even a pair of false teeth. This time, it was an old leather-bound Bible. Mrs. H. Collins was written on the inside page.Love, Frank. Kiss kiss.
I put it in my pocket. It obviously had sentimental value, and I didn't want to leave it lying around where it could end up covered in cleaning fluid.
This room was a little different from the others. It was on the top left of the Y-shaped ward and was an isolation room. Although, I had never seen it used as anything other than a general patient room. It had two entrances: one was a simple pine door that led directly into the room, and the other led into a small side room with a sink and table before another door led into the main space. The room also had a vent and a pressure monitor—I had no idea how it worked. I just knew that if you didn't close the door properly, after five minutes, it would start beeping madly until you shut it and hit the silence button.
After mopping the floor, I told Jade it was all done and headed back to the cupboard. That's when I caught a glimpse of the new patient coming in.
He was in his fifties, a little heavy, with thinning grey hair, a big red nose, and sweating profusely—yet pale as hell. The guy looked like death.
I wasn't too concerned about the mask. This was a respiratory ward. The staff knew what they were doing. They were dedicated. They cared.
If he could get better, we would make it happen.
I let the cupboard door close behind me and went back to the sports section.