The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 2: Code Black

“OK, what have we got here?” Doctor Khalid’s tone was quick and alert. Two nurses flanked him as they pushed the gurney quickly to a waiting ER room. The night had been impossible: two gunshot wounds, one cardiac arrest, a fall from a fourth-floor balcony into a hedge, and now this. It was 2 A.M., and things were looking not only exhausting but bad.

The paramedic, Matt Jones, responded in the same manner, abrupt and clear: “White male, we’re guessing mid-twenties. Hypothermia. We found him lying on the pavement in the rain over between 25th and Park.”

“Guessing?”

“No ID anywhere, nothing on him, pockets empty. Didn’t have any shoes on. But he’s killing a nice suit,” which was quickly being removed, his chest now bare. Electrodes were being attached to his chest, legs, arms, and neck for an EKG. A nurse was tapping for a vein in the crook of the man’s elbow.

“OK, what else? Come on, he doesn’t look too good.” A quick stethoscope check revealed, “Heart rate is slow, like super slow.”

“That’s not the best of it,” Jones rushed. “Blood pressure 73 over 45, heart rate 28, oxygen level 84, nonresponsive, and wait until you get this…”

“Jonesy, enough…” the doc replied.

“Body temperature 47 degrees,” Jones answered.

“Not possible, just not possible,” Khalid offered, and the nurses looked at him.

“We did it three times. The underarm thermometer worked fine. You try the rectal. I swear to God, it was 47 every time.”

“He shouldn’t be alive.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Jones replied.

“OK, eyes here. This is what we’re doing. Tests later. We need to get his temperature up. Fast! All these wet clothes off. Get the Bair Hugger. I want it everywhere. Cover every part of his body that you can. We’re gonna lavage everything. You know the drill: pleural, peritoneal, bladder, stomach, all of it. We’ve only got minutes here. We’re gonna do a rapid infusion right now.”

While everyone jumped into action, Khalid continued to pepper Jones with questions.

“Where did you say you found him?”

“Kind of a little ways up an alley, 25th and Park. A 911 call. Police responded, dispatched us when they were on their way. You know there’s nothing over there. Some abandoned apartment houses, maybe a bodega down the block. Right next to that old funeral home. Harshen, Hairston, something like that.”

“Harrison, it’s called Harrison,” one nurse offered.

“That’s it,” Jones conferred.

“How long was he out there? Down in the rain? It’s cold out there.”

“How would I know?” Jones asked.

“They have cameras, the funeral home.” Khalid hesitated. “Harrison must have cameras in that neighborhood.”

Chaos exploded.

The Mindray alarm jumped from normal rhythm into loud flashing lights. The monitor above the man’s head glowed bright red with the word “ASYSTOLE” beaming. A nurse punched the blue Code button, then jumped to begin chest compressions. Immediately, the speaker in the room, echoing out in the hall, commanded, “Code Blue, Emergency Department, Room 12.” It repeated four times. Within a half minute, the room was crowded with a dozen additional doctors and nurses. A crash cart appeared, followed by a loud crack as its plastic security lock was snapped. Khalid barked orders.

“You, stay with the compressions!” “You, on the airway.” “You, get IV access!”

The high-pitched whine of the defibrillator maxed. “Clear!” was shouted. Over the next few minutes, “Clear!” echoed again and again.

What felt like a year lasted 15 minutes in all. Futile attempts, curses, orders. Then quiet descended. Everyone in the room breathed again, and posture regressed from vigilant action to slouched acceptance.

The ER room was littered with cast-off utensils, plastic coverings, and gauze. Staff hesitated, looked around at each other, then slowly turned, leaving the room in pairs or singly. Khalid announced, “Time of death, 2:27 A.M. Identity not yet established.” He walked outside and turned to Jones, who had waited behind and was leaning against a gurney, cup of coffee in hand.

“Not good, huh?” Khalid shook his head, then said, “You off shift?”

“Yeah,” Jones replied.

“Do me a favor. Go over to the funeral parlor. Take a patrol car with you. Call the 24/7 phone number for the place. Harrison, right? Ask to see their tapes. There’s got to be something to find out who this person is.”

“Was,” Jones corrected. Khalid nodded.

An hour and a half later, and just as intrigued as Khalid, Jones was sitting with the real Mr. Harrison, the grandson of the original Harrison. They were discussing the use of the three cameras attached to the facility: front, back, and alley. The police duo who had come along with Jones offered a sense of immediacy.

“Look, Mr. Harrison, I have a picture of this man on my phone. The doctor suggested I take it so we can make a reasonable comparison.” He turned the phone to Harrison, whose body abruptly moved back in his chair while his face dropped, forehead furrowed.

“Well, that’s not right, Mr. Jones. You’ve got the wrong photo there. That’s not the man that you brought into the hospital tonight,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harrison. I don’t understand. I assure you this is the man who died in the hospital ER tonight. He came in under great distress, and despite amazing lifesaving measures by Dr. Khalid and the staff, he died. He was very sick, almost frozen. They, we, did everything but couldn’t revive him,” Jones countered.

“It’s not. And it can’t be,” Harrison replied.

“And why not?” Jones continued.

“Because he…” An uncomfortable silence emerged. “He’s a client. And he’s on a rack in the mortuary cooler. I placed him there myself this afternoon. He died on Tuesday.”