Chapter 2: The Queue of the Damned

We’d only taken a few steps when terrified screams erupted from the crowd behind us. I glanced back as we ran. The tattooed guy had been beaten to the ground by security guards who’d rushed over. The guards swung their batons with mechanical precision. One blow, and his head split open. Their eyes were wild with a sick excitement, and they started swinging even harder. Jesus. This place meant business.

Blood splattered across the tiles, and the crowd scattered in horror. The guards didn’t stop, not even when he stopped moving. The cold efficiency of their violence sent a chill down my spine. No one dared get close—not even to help.

We didn’t stop running.

My lungs burned as we ducked around a corner, putting as much distance as possible between us and that nightmare.

The wet thud of batons echoed in my ears. I promised myself: never forget the lesson—follow the rules, or pay the price.

Following Connor, I made it to the emergency wing. At this hour, there weren’t many patients in the ER—most daytime cases had been diverted elsewhere. Not many people were trying to check in here now.

The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of rubbing alcohol and the faint tang of blood.

The waiting area was quieter, almost eerily so, compared to the chaos we’d just left behind.

Connor and I lined up right away at the triage desk. Before long, other patients who’d given up on the outpatient line noticed what we were doing and rushed over to check in at the ER too.

The moment they caught on, the line swelled. People jostled for position, their eyes darting.

Some whispered, others shot us dirty looks for beating them to the punch. But we held our ground.

Luckily, we moved fast and were near the front of the line. By the time we got our numbers, the ER was packed with patients who’d followed us in.

I felt a rush of relief as the printer spat out my slip. I clutched it like a winning lottery ticket, knowing how close we’d come to missing out.

I glanced down at my number:

Queue Number: 901

Patients ahead: 900

Note: Does not include follow-up or appointment patients. Please wait in the waiting area.

It was like getting the last seat on a lifeboat. I stared at the number, realizing just how tight the window was. One minute slower, and we’d be out of luck. Talk about cutting it close.

Clearly, this hospital was slammed. One minute in line could make or break you.

I nudged Connor, grinning despite myself. “That was close. We almost missed the cut.”

The hall was now a seething mass of people. I elbowed Connor.

“Dude! You’re something else!”

My voice was half-admiring, half-incredulous. If he hadn’t spotted the opportunity, we’d be toast.

“How’d you know we could still register in emergency?”

Connor adjusted his glasses. “My mom’s been in and out of hospitals for years. I know the system pretty well.”

His words had the ring of someone who’d spent too many nights in sterile waiting rooms.

I could see the shadow of old memories flicker across his face. He was used to fighting the system, and it showed.

He looked at his own queue number and sighed. “If a doctor sees a patient every five minutes, that’s 144 patients a day. In seven days, that’s a max of 1,008 patients. What’s gonna happen to everyone who didn’t get a number?”

His math was flawless, but the implications were grim. The numbers didn’t lie—there was no room for mercy in this place.

As soon as he finished, the nurse at the triage desk made an announcement to the rest of the line. I tensed, bracing for the fallout.

“Attention, patients: Our hospital can only treat up to one thousand patients in the next seven days. If you didn’t get a number, please go to another hospital for care so you don’t miss your chance.”

Her words hit the crowd like a bucket of ice water.

The announcement echoed off the walls, and for a moment, everything went still. Then the panic hit like a tidal wave.

Everyone who hadn’t gotten a number exploded:

“What the hell! I’ve been in line forever—how can you just say there are no more numbers?!”

“Get your manager out here! I want to file a complaint!”

“What kind of garbage hospital only sees a thousand patients in seven days? Your doctors are paid a fortune and just sit around doing nothing!”

People waved their arms, slammed fists on the counter, voices rising in a chorus of outrage. But the nurse didn’t flinch. She’d seen it all before—or maybe she was just following a script.

No normal hospital would have such a low patient limit. But this was no normal hospital. Welcome to the nightmare.

The logic of this place was cruel and absolute. I glanced at Connor, and he shook his head, his jaw clenched. We both knew arguing was pointless.

The nurse’s face darkened. She grabbed the phone and called security. In no time, a dozen baton-wielding guards appeared in the emergency wing. The loudest ones instantly went quiet. After all, everyone had just seen what happened to the tattooed guy.

The guards’ boots thudded against the tile as they fanned out, eyes scanning the crowd for anyone foolish enough to resist. The threat hung heavy in the air, and the protests died on people’s lips.

Those who didn’t get a number left the ER, frustrated, angry, but with no choice.

Some slunk away, muttering curses under their breath. Others just stared at the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat. The hope in their eyes flickered and went out.

At that moment, the mechanical voice boomed overhead:

*Because players failed to register in time and missed their best chance for treatment, they have died of their illnesses.*

The announcement was final, merciless. It left no room for appeals or second chances. I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine.

The faces of those leaving the ER went pale. They rushed for the entrance, desperate to get a number. But it was too late.

Panic set in as they realized there was no loophole, no way back. The hospital doors might as well have been the gates of hell.

Outside the doors, people suddenly erupted like human fireworks—spraying the glass with a red haze.

The sound was muffled, but the sight was unforgettable. Blood and bone splattered across the glass, dripping down in slow, sticky streams. The horror was total, and the message was clear: follow the rules, or die.

After witnessing that, everyone fell silent and gathered in the waiting area. Some clutched their number slips tightly, others carefully tucked them into hidden pockets inside their clothes.

For now, those numbers were their lifelines.

It was like holding a golden ticket—one that might save your life, if you played your cards right. No one spoke above a whisper. Even the air felt heavy with dread.

Everyone waited through the night, hoping to hear their number called. Not a single person dared leave. The slip said it plain as day: Please wait in the waiting area.

People dozed in their chairs, heads lolling, but nobody left. The fear of missing their turn was stronger than hunger or exhaustion. A few folks tried to trade snacks or water, but most just stared at the digital display, willing it to change.

No one knew what would happen if a patient left without permission—maybe the guards would come for them. After so many deaths, everyone was terrified. They were starting to understand the rules of this horror world—and to follow them.

I watched a young guy eye the exit, then think better of it and sit back down, hands trembling. No one wanted to test the boundaries anymore. The waiting area had become our prison, and the numbers our only hope.