The Discharge Floor – A Horror Short Story by Dr. Josh Valk

The elevator should not have worked. That was Corbin Delacroix's first thought when the doors closed behind him. His second was that he should have taken the stairs. He had spent most of Tuesday morning inside St. Bartholomew Medical Center in Guam cataloging equipment nobody wanted. The hospital had been abandoned for eight years, officially because storm damage had made repairs more expensive than relocation. The redevelopment company planned to demolish the building before Christmas and put something expensive in its place. Condos, probably. Maybe a resort. Corbin had stopped listening during the conference call.

His job was simpler. Find anything worth saving. So far, the answer was not much. Two infusion pumps manufactured during the first Obama administration. An autoclave with enough corrosion to qualify as modern art. Three hospital beds that might have been salvageable if rats had not eaten through the wiring. Everything else was rust, mold, mildew, and obsolete technology. Corbin stepped into the elevator because the stairs smelled like something had died in them.

He pressed B. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing. "Of course." He reached for the DOOR OPEN button. That was when he noticed the button beneath B.

Corbin frowned. The building plans listed six floors and one basement. No subbasement. No parking garage. No D. He pressed it. The elevator moved. Down. "Bullshit." The display changed from 1 to B. Then the B disappeared. The elevator continued descending. Corbin felt pressure building in his ears. Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

"How fucking deep is this place?"

The elevator stopped.

The doors opened. Corbin stared. The hallway beyond them was immaculate. White tile reflected fluorescent lights. Stainless-steel handrails ran along pale blue walls. A nurses' station sat perhaps 40 feet ahead, its monitors glowing. Somewhere nearby, an electronic machine chirped steadily.

Beep.

The air smelled like disinfectant. Corbin remained inside the elevator. "Nope." He pressed 1. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. The doors stayed open. "Come on." Nothing. Corbin stepped into the hallway. The doors immediately closed behind him. "Motherfucker." He pressed the call button. Nothing. He pulled out his phone. No signal. Of course.

He turned toward the nurses' station. "Hello?" His voice traveled farther than he expected. No answer. "Building inspection!"

Beep.

Corbin walked forward. A clipboard rested on the counter. That bothered him more than the lights. Dust should have covered everything down here. Instead, the counter was clean enough to eat from. He picked up the clipboard.

PATIENT CENSUS — UNIT D

Room D101. Occupied. D102. Occupied. D103. Occupied. Every room was occupied. Twenty-four patients. Corbin lowered the clipboard. "Okay." He laughed once. "Very fucking funny." He walked toward D101. The door was closed. A small window allowed him to see inside.

Hospital bed.

IV pole.

Monitor.

Patient.

Corbin froze. An elderly man lay beneath a white blanket. His chest rose. Fell. Rose. "What the fuck?" Corbin opened the door. The monitor displayed a heart rate of 58. The man was alive. "Sir?" His eyes opened. Corbin almost jumped backward. "Jesus Christ. Sir, can you hear me?" The man's eyes widened. His mouth opened. No sound came out. Corbin approached. "Are you okay?"

The man's lips moved frantically.

Corbin leaned closer. Then he understood why there was no sound. The man's tongue was gone. Not recently. The stump had healed. Corbin stumbled backward. The man's right hand emerged from beneath the blanket. Two fingers remained. He pointed toward the door. "Do you want me to get somebody?" The man shook his head violently. He pointed again. "Leave?"

Nod.

"You want me to leave?"

Another frantic nod.

Then footsteps sounded in the hallway. Corbin turned. Nothing passed the window. When he looked back, the patient had closed his eyes. Corbin stepped into the hall. "Hello?" Silence. He checked D102. A woman. Perhaps 60. Conscious. Tracheostomy. Her left arm ended above the elbow.

D103 contained a younger man whose face was covered in surgical dressings. D104 was empty except for a bed stained dark brown. D105 contained a woman who appeared asleep. Corbin approached her. Her chart hung from the foot of the bed.

NAME: ELEANOR VARGAS

DOB: 04/11/1963

ADMISSION: 09/18/1997

Corbin read the date twice. "No." He flipped through the pages. There were hundreds. Surgeries. Procedures. Harvests. The word appeared repeatedly.

CORNEAL HARVEST — LEFT

PARTIAL HEPATECTOMY

SKIN HARVEST — 18% TBSA

MANDIBULAR GRAFT PROCUREMENT

OVARIAN TISSUE PROCUREMENT

Corbin stopped. Eleanor's eyes opened. Only one of them. The other socket was covered by smooth scar tissue. "Ms. Vargas?" Her remaining eye filled with tears. "I'm Corbin. I'm going to get you out of here." She shook her head. "Yes. I'm calling the police as soon as I get upstairs." She shook harder. "I don't understand." Eleanor lifted one trembling hand toward her oxygen mask. Her fingernail scratched against the plastic. Corbin leaned closer. She dragged her finger through the condensation. Three words.

HE STILL OPERATES

A door opened somewhere down the hall. Corbin turned. This time he heard the footsteps clearly. Slow. Measured. Coming closer. He stepped out of Eleanor's room. "Who's there?" A man appeared at the far end of the corridor. White coat. Gray hair. Tall. Thin. He carried a stainless-steel tray.

"Mr. Delacroix."

Corbin's stomach tightened. "How do you know my name?"

The man smiled. "I have been expecting you."

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Perrin Sallow."

Corbin knew the name. Everyone involved with the redevelopment did. Sallow had founded St. Bartholomew in 1984. He would be…

"Ninety-one," Sallow said. Corbin stared at him. Sallow smiled wider. "People always calculate it." He did not look 91. Sixty-five, perhaps. Seventy. His face was oddly mismatched. The skin around his eyes was smooth while his forehead was deeply lined. His left ear was noticeably darker than his right. One hand was heavily spotted with age. The other was not. Corbin understood before he wanted to.

"What did you do?"

Sallow looked genuinely surprised. "Medicine."

"Those people…"

"Patients."

"You butchered them."

"No. Butchery wastes material." Sallow set the tray on the nurses' station. Scalpel. Forceps. Syringes. Bone saw. Corbin stepped backward.

"You are fucking insane."

"That word has become terribly overused."

"I'm leaving."

"The elevator will not respond."

"I'll find stairs."

"There are none."

Corbin looked behind him. Sallow's expression remained pleasant. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why keep them alive?"

Sallow considered the question. "Because death is inefficient." Corbin said nothing. "We replace hearts. Kidneys. Livers. Joints. Skin. Blood. Why do we accept that the organism itself must eventually fail?"

"Those are people."

"Yes."

"You cut pieces off them."

"And replaced what was necessary."

Corbin thought of Eleanor. "She has been here since 1997."

"Correct."

"Twenty-nine years."

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

Corbin lunged. He made it three steps. Something struck his neck. A sting. He slapped his hand against it and pulled away a dart. Sallow watched him. Corbin's knees buckled. "No." The floor rose toward him. Sallow's shoes approached.

"The problem with biomedical technicians," Sallow said, "is that they always look at the machinery." Darkness swallowed everything.

Corbin woke restrained. His wrists were strapped to metal extensions. An operating light burned above him. He tried moving his legs. Strapped. Sallow stood beside a stainless-steel table. "Good." Corbin pulled against the restraints.

"Let me the fuck go."

"I cannot."

"What are you doing?"

"Inventory." Sallow picked up a marker. "Excellent musculature for 44." He drew a line across Corbin's thigh.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your left kidney is already spoken for."

Corbin thrashed. "Stop!"

"Your liver appears healthy. I will confirm that shortly."

"Please."

Sallow paused. "Do not do that."

"Do what?"

"Beg. It makes the work unpleasant."

"You fucking psychopath."

"Better." Sallow picked up a scalpel.

"No anesthesia?"

"Anesthetics distort several physiological measurements."

Corbin stared at him. "No."

"I will begin conservatively." Sallow touched the blade to Corbin's thigh. Pain exploded through him. Corbin screamed. The incision was only a few inches long. It felt endless. Sallow watched the monitor rather than Corbin. "Excellent response."

"STOP!!!"

Sallow widened the incision. Corbin screamed until his throat burned. Then Sallow stopped. "There." He placed something wet onto the tray.

Corbin could not see what. "What did you take?"

"A sample."

"Of what?"

Sallow smiled. "Nothing you cannot spare."

He turned away. Corbin pulled against the straps. His right wrist moved. Barely. Sweat had slickened his skin. He twisted. Pain ripped across his hand. Again. Sallow opened a cabinet. Corbin pulled harder. Skin tore from his wrist. He felt blood. Good. Again. His thumb folded beneath the restraint. Something popped. He nearly screamed. His hand came free.

Sallow turned. Corbin grabbed the nearest object. A metal instrument tray. He swung. The edge struck Sallow's temple. The old doctor fell. Corbin tore at the remaining restraints. Sallow moved. Corbin hit him again. And again. On the third strike, something strange happened. A flap of skin near Sallow's hairline peeled loose. Beneath it was older skin. Corbin stared. Sallow laughed. "You see?" Corbin backed away. Sallow touched the loose piece. "Cosmetic. That one was vanity."

"You put them in yourself."

"Some." Sallow smiled through bloody teeth. "My kidneys are 32. Liver, 47. Right cornea, 19. Left hip, 26."

Corbin felt sick. "Heart?"

Sallow's smile disappeared. "Sixteen."

Corbin hit him again. Sallow stopped moving. Corbin found his clothes in a cabinet. His thigh poured blood, but he could walk. He stumbled into the corridor. Patients stared through windows as he passed.

D101. The tongueless man began pounding his remaining fingers against the bedrail. D102 joined him. Then D103.

Metal struck metal throughout the floor. Corbin reached the elevator. The call button illuminated. Behind him, the banging grew louder. He pressed it. The doors opened. Corbin stepped inside. He pressed 1. The doors began closing. Then he heard Eleanor. Not screaming. Crying. Corbin put his hand between the doors. They reopened. He looked down the corridor. Twenty-three occupied rooms. Twenty-three people who had spent years waiting for someone to discover them. Someone had. Probably more than once. Inspectors. Contractors. Employees. People who had gotten scared. People who had promised to call the police once they reached daylight. People who had walked into this elevator and never returned. Corbin looked at the buttons. Then at the hallway. "Fuck." He stepped out. The doors closed behind him.

Corbin found the surgical saw beside Sallow's operating table. The doctor was breathing. Barely. Corbin left him there. He returned to D101 first. The old man stared at the saw. Then at Corbin. Corbin swallowed. "I can try to get you upstairs." The man shook his head. "You understand what I'm asking?" Nod. Corbin's hands trembled. "I need you to be sure." The man's remaining fingers reached toward him. Corbin took his hand. The old man squeezed once. Corbin understood. He moved to the head of the bed. What he did was quieter than he expected. Afterward, the monitor produced one long tone.

Corbin turned it off. D102. The woman with the missing arm smiled when she saw him. D103 cried. D105 was Eleanor. Corbin sat beside her. "I found him." She watched him. "Sallow." Her eye widened. "He's alive." She began trembling. "Not for long." The trembling stopped. Corbin showed her the saw. "I don't know what you want." Eleanor raised her hand. She touched his cheek. Then pointed toward the operating theater. Sallow. "You want to see him?" Nod. Corbin unlocked the wheels beneath Eleanor's bed. He pushed her down the corridor. Other patients watched them pass. Sallow was awake when they entered. He had dragged himself halfway across the floor. Eleanor made a sound through her oxygen mask.

Not a word.

Something deeper.

Sallow looked up.

For the first time, Corbin saw fear. "Eleanor." Her hand moved. Corbin understood. He placed the surgical saw in it. Her fingers could barely close around the handle. So, Corbin wrapped his hand around hers. Sallow began crawling backward. "Mr. Delacroix." Corbin said nothing. "This is not medicine."

"No."

He helped Eleanor lift the saw.

"Corbin." Sallow's voice cracked. "Please."

Corbin looked at Eleanor. A tear rolled from her remaining eye. Then she smiled. "No," Corbin said. "It isn't." The saw screamed to life.

Three hours later, the elevator opened on the first floor. Empty. Sunlight entered through broken windows. Dust drifted through the lobby. Far beneath the building, another monitor went silent. Then another. Then another. Until only one remained. Corbin sat beside Eleanor as dawn reached somewhere far above them. Her breathing slowed. She touched his hand. He squeezed hers. "You can go."

Her eye closed. The monitor flattened. Corbin switched it off. For the first time in 29 years, Unit D was silent. He returned to the nurses' station. The patient census still rested on the counter. Twenty-four names. Corbin picked up a pen. Beside the first name, he wrote:

DISCHARGED.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Twenty-four times.

When he finished, he walked toward the operating theater. There was one patient left. Perrin Sallow was strapped to his own table. What remained of him was conscious. Corbin pulled a chair beside him. Sallow tried to speak. Corbin leaned closer. "What's that?" Sallow's mouth moved again. Corbin smiled. "I can't understand you." He looked at the stainless-steel tray. At what he had removed. At what he had deliberately left intact. Then at the clock.

Demolition crews would not arrive for another six weeks. Corbin picked up the scalpel. "You've got plenty of time, Doctor." Sallow's eyes widened. Corbin placed the patient census on his chest. Twenty-four names. Twenty-four discharges. Beneath them, Corbin had added one more.

SALLOW, PERRIN — ADMITTED 09/06/2026

The discharge line remained blank.

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