The Good Doctor - Part 1

Time was running out. My evening with a dead man provided something useful. Searching various medical records, I found that a Dr Julian Aurelius treated the man’s wife. I also learned that Dr Aurelius was part of some kind of research program, though I couldn’t find any leads as to what. The virus perhaps? I am not sure. However, during his tenure at the St Anthony Hospital, Dr Aurelius was treating several patients who became the subjects of unauthorised experiments, mostly about behavioural alteration. There is some footage that was used in the court case. Dr Aurelius was incarcerated in his own hospital as criminally insane. That was three days before Valentine’s Day. After the massacre, the hospital has become an asylum for those taken by the virus and too dangerous to live amongst the general populace.

My investigation is no longer official. I have been away from work for days. I am not living at my apartment any more but instead in the floor above. I have heard them searching for me. I know Mandlebrot would be particularly interested in where I have been. My problem is that I know they are connected with what has been happening to this city. All of the ones that are wearing shades. I see more of them everyday. I know they will outnumber us at some point, so I need to know how to stop this plague and escape from this terrible place.

Sneaking out at night, I have been making a new map of a safe path through the city. There are more cameras now, forcing me to use more canals and water drains. I avoid as many of these tunnels as I can, because of the denizens they live in there. I’ve heard things about them, all kinds of urban legends, and it would be best just to steer clear of them. Despite this, there are a series of sewers and drainage tunnels beneath the hospital that should allow me to access the lower levels with minimal detection. I managed to get plans to the hospital before disappearing from work. I have made maps of everything. My memory is going and I’m losing important details. I’m not sure about my own name anymore.

I look outside the peep hole of my current hideout and see the street lights come on. There are still enough lights in the city, that you can see the clouds clearly. Tonight they look like cancerous. They have become like bloated and misshapen organs with this dark veins running through them. It looks like a storm is coming.

I pick up a backpack and begin to head down the stairs. Inside the pack are my carefully folded maps, three torches, two bottles of water, three cans of fluorescent spraypaint, my shotgun and a box of shells.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and go out the back door. From the shadows of the alley, I can see a patrol car making a steady predatory prowl through the empty streets. There has been a curfew in the city for sometime now. People caught at the time, are arrested immediately. I don’t know what happens to them after that. I wait for the car to pass, listening for the engine to fade in the distance before making my move out into the street. I’m only out there for seconds and into the darkness of a nearby park. There is a flood mitigation canal and a bridge, where I can check my map. Under the bridge, I lean against the wall, take a map out of my bag and begin to unfold part of it. Learning where I have to go next. I put the map in my jacket, the pack on my back and continued down the canal.

Following the canal, I go unnoticed through several blocks and under a dozen or so streets. I stop in one tunnel and check the map again. This is where it going to get confusing. I reach into the pack and pull out a can of spray paint and make a mark to determine the place I started, in case I have to trace my way back. Then making my way through the city, occasionally only stopping to make another mark in paint. I proceed through sparsely lit parks into the backyards and blocks of townhouses and down dank alleys, attempting to keep clear of the streets all the way. Most of this city’s living areas are dark inside now. I’m not sure whether people are occupying them, or they lie empty. Sometimes I think I can hushed talk, whispers or quiet lonely sobbing.

I cannot pause. I look down at a grate that leads into the storm water drains and ahead of me I can see the lights of the hospital. This is the halfway point. I leave a mark on the wall and descend into the canal that leads into the Overlund. The grate is old, rusted and covered in grime, but there is a gate of sorts that opens with some noise. I step into the grate, kneel down and pull the shotgun from my bag, keeping my eyes from the what might be ahead in the tunnel. I proceed into the pitch-black darkness. Despite the absence of rain, there is still water collecting in pools down here. All I can smell is the musty dank and dampness of the rotting matter down here. My steps are slow and deliberate. I make the least amount of noise as I can. The less attention I attract the better. I pause briefly lighting my torch only for short moments, either to check the map or make another mark.

I’m near the hospital, almost right beneath it. Water is knee deep here, and rising... Could it be raining? I’m too far underground to hear. I move further under the hospital. Suddenly, there is a sloshing sound behind me, like someone moving through the water. I spring around, flicking on the torch taped beneath my shotgun. Nothing but empty tunnels and rising, swirling water. Something in the back of my head tells me to run. I make no attempt at stealth, moving as fast as I can through the dark waters. I can hear it clearly now. This is no echo - something is behind me. The torch on the shotgun is still on and ahead is a ladder. I push to move faster, but the thing behind me is gaining speed. I can feel it right on my heels. It grabs for my bag, almost pulling me over, but I twist my body free of it, and continue sprinting down the tunnel I sling the shotgun over my shoulder, once I’m in arms length of the ladder. Grabbing onto the rusting rungs, I scramble to the surface punching open the grate and leaping free of the sewers. Grabbing the shotgun back into my hands I point it down into the hole in the floor, down below is nothing but dark churning waters. The feeling in the back of my head is back.

I look around, it’s dark, but my eyes have adjusted enough to see. I must be in a basement or some kind of maintenance area. Large machines are all around me, sitting silent and still like ominous relics. The main area of the hospital is above me. I need to get out of this place. Despite the maze like structure of this place, I find myself headed upwards into the main body of the hospital. The old raw stone walls, concrete stairs and rusted iron, give way to smoother stone, tiles and wood. This section of the hospital has looked abandoned for decades. I need to memorise places, I can’t afford to get lost here if I am noticed. I see the flash of lightning outside in the window, followed shortly by the crack of thunder. The storm outside is in full swing. I stare at the window for a short while, mesmerised. I do not know when the last storm past through this town. I feel relieved almost, as if things may return to normal. Then I look at the clouds. There they hang, dark and bulbous, covering the sky, almost throbbing with a pulse. I turn away down the hall and continue my search for the Doctor.

I near the end of the hall and I begin to hear the wails and moans of the patients of the asylum. I sling the shotgun, back on my shoulder. I can’t use it right now, it’ll make too much noise. I open the heavy door just a crack, hoping it doesn’t make too much protest. Looking through the crack I can see a hall of the asylum wing. There are cameras scanning every inch of the hallway. There’s no way I can make it through th…

Suddenly, there is the sound of an explosion, everything is bright and then instantly everything is drowned in darkness. Even the cries of agony of the patients’ stop for a moment leaving stunned silence. I duck behind the door for a short moment. The lightning has taken out the power. I look through the crack in the door. The red lights on the cameras are dead. This is my chance. I open the door as quietly as I can and then quickly move into the hallway. It’s dark now, the only available light coming from the emergency lights. I begin to move down the hall. However, the patients sense my presence, somehow and one by one, they begin howling their litanies of agony. I make it to the end of the hall and hide behind the door just as it opens. Two hospital staff stroll in, obviously brought by the noise of the patients. As they walk some way down the hall, they pause, like strange sentinels, trying to sense the cause of the patients’ howls. I don’t stick around. While the pair have their backs to me I sneak through the doors they entered through.

I sneak down a corridor and follow the signs to the high security wing. This is where he will be. I turn to the door and peek through the small window. There are two guards standing with their backs to the walls. They are wearing dark shades. Just like Mandelbrot… I need something to distract them. Reaching into my pocket, I find a sizeable coin. Freshly minted, I take it in my hand, open the door slightly and then flick it, so that it rolls down the corridor.

The coin made a loud, dense sound against the tiled floor, as it rolled across the silent hall. The two guards looked down in strange fascination as it flawlessly rolled past their feet. They don't see me burst through the door until the last moment. The first one went down quickly, as the butt of the shotgun slams into the side of his face, making a heavy cracking sound. The second guard is ready for action, but he steps too far with his baton out too wide. Taking a step in, I swing the shotgun around like a club, connecting near the temple, smashing the shades off his face.

I run down the hall to the door at the end, normally you would need a pass key, but the lightning must have shorted out most of the security system, like the cameras. I enter through the heavy doors. The room is dark almost pitch black. From the available light I can see a cell, instead of bars there are panels of thick glass. It seems empty, but then there is a voice.

“Ah, there you are.” A man steps forward to the glass where I can see him. He has a lean and wiry build covered in hospital whites. His thin face shows the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Brown hair has receded giving him a more pronounced widow’s peak. This is Doctor Aurelius.
For a moment I look at him, trying to gauge him. It’s like looking into a black mirror. Why would they put him in a cell like this? Is he really that dangerous?

“Don’t just stand there, my boy,” the Doctor coolly says, “We need to get out of here.”

“Not until I get some answers,”

“You cannot make demands with me,” the Doctor sneers, “You don’t have the time. If you get me out of this cell, I will give you anything, provided our time together permits.”

He looked at me with a knowing coldness, like he could see my trek through the tunnels, through the hospital up to this point. He seems to know everything around him, even if he hasn’t see it with his own eyes. He needed out and I needed answers. The virus had to be stopped. I tightened my grip on the shotgun. A terrible mistake is about to be made.

“How do I get you out?” I say with great reluctance.

“There is a lever to release this door,” the Doctor points, his finger nearly touching the glass, “Unfortunately the lightning strike shorted out the system that controls the hydraulics to the doors. The lever is an emergency release, but I could not reach it from here.”

What did he mean by that? I move over to the panel on the wall, open it and turn the lever down. There is the sound of liquid gushing. I turn to see the Doctor's cell door shift open, under it’s open power. The Doctor stands there smiling.

“Good,” he says, “Now time to get out of here.”

Doctor Aurelius takes two steps and then he pauses, “Damn”

The all of the lights come on, and an alarm begins to sound.

Doctor Aurelius looks at me and smiles, “Looks like our time together just got shorter”

To be Continued...Here

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Restauranteering - Cream

Hot damn! I felt like eating out. Even though really I hadn’t spent the last two weeks at home. I was surprised my flat mates hadn’t sold my things, returned my mail and turned my room into some kind of dungeon where they could whip each other all day to the tune of the Pirates of Penzance. They have this kink for Gilbert and Sullivan. It’s weird. Anyway, tonight I would be enjoying company in an actual restaurant, not the tired surrounds of the help desk that earns my monthly bread.

Tonight’s restauranteering buddies tonight would be the lovely Shebarella and Philé. Philé’s a great cook. I pitched the idea to him over mussels in a Vietnamese-based sauce and butternut pumpkin soup. His imagination for food goes far beyond mine. In fact, he came up with a better idea than I had. But we’ll save that for another night. On Philé’s request, I invited Shebarella, who’s always excellent and spontaneous company.

We decided to go to “Cream” that lies on the heart of the Glowing Octopus, right on the corner of a massive shopping complex, Cream is one of those places that I mostly passed by without a second thought. Shebarella knew it intimately, having eaten there for breakfast and lunch, but never dinner. She was dying to find out, as she hadn’t been out in a fair while.

It’s the last night of autumn and the we meet shortly after the sun drops out of the sky. Inside Cream, the arrangement is kind of dynamic, the kitchen is naturally at the back, but there is a centre island with cakes, deserts and other items behind glass. There is also an coffee bar at the front. The restaurant appears to be a part bar as well, a massive solid wood bench extends through the southwest corner accompanied by many bar stools. Two giant snowflake-like patterns adorn the ceiling divided by a pattern that looks like cartoon TV static drawn by Jim Woodring. Shebarella and I arrived first to a busy and somewhat noisy place.

In some respects this is good, many people mean the restaurant is generally good. But at times, I found having to repeat myself to Shebarella. Somehow the place needed something to dampen the noise.

The service was a bit of a potluck affair. We got attended to pretty much immediately, but we decided to take our time as Philé was late for reasons unknown. By the he came around, we were ready to order a bottle of wine. Paringa Pinot Noir was the choice. But staff seemed to be in short supply at points, or hyper-focused on other tasks. The man who initially said that he would return, didn’t until near the end of our evening. Either that or we were in a waiter/waitress blind spot. Even the bill seemed to take its time to arrive and would only do so when we specifically requested it. This is good in some respects, you never get the feeling that you’re going to be pushed out the door to free another table for a hungry-hungry patron, though it was somewhat annoying. However, we managed to entertain ourselves, as usual, by watching other meals pass by. Like their eye fillet, decorated with prosciutto in such a way it looks like a council arts project, by a bypass. Though, judging by the food we did have, I’m sure was very, very nice.

Our food for starters: a tapas medley of salt and pepper marinated half quail, char grilled chorizo with mint yoghurt, tempura prawns with preserved lemon aioli and potatas bravas dusted in smoked paprika with garlic mayonnaise. The half-quail consisted of four quail legs and then grilled, a simple but tasty little number. The chorizo with the mint yoghurt provided an interesting contrast cool spice. Probably the best of those was the Potatoes in paprika and the garlic dipping sauce.

Of our mains, Shebarella ordered the Chimmichunga, a thick roll of tortilla packed full of tandoori chicken, bacon, cheddar and chipolte chilli. Philé ordered the Duck Risotto, which was braised duck accompanied by garlic, chilli and shitake mushrooms. I ordered the Chicken Breast that was seasoned to five spices and sat on a bed of dark wild rice and asian greens. The verdict of our mains was simple, Philé summed up the risotto as “perfect”. Shebarella’s words were strangled in between mouthfuls of ‘chunga. The chicken for me was very good, the spice seasoning complemented well with the dark sweetness of the rice and greens. It was a meal that went down very well. Later I tried the Lavender Bruleé, but found myself unable to finish it, though very sweet, I was near bursting.

Thought you find it difficult to talk on a regular night, give Cream a go. You will not be disappointed.

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The Haunted City

The virus had turned. Apparently, not content with forcing us to annihilate ourselves, the same force is beginning to make us turn on each other. Soon there won’t be many of us left. Tonight, curfew has been extended. No one is allowed out and the insect-like authorities are patrolling the streets. Even I’ve been sent home. This is good I guess, I’m tired of work. I return to my sparsely furnished apartment, with some shopping. Inside the bags I’ve bought some more food, canned soup, hard bread, biscuits and other long-lifers. Fresh produce items are hard to come by. My shopping also included tools, a new paint brush, black paint, a new drill and some masonry screws. The wood I ordered arrived a couple of days before. During my spare time, I’ve been blacking out the windows of my apartment, except some peep holes covered with black duct tape. I’ve also been blacking out other random apartments in building to give the impression during the day that multiple people are living here rather than the ghost town it really is.

Something has been itching the back of my skull the whole week. Some things are going to happen tonight which won’t be good and the less my place is noticed, the better I’ll be. I secure all of the locks and then begin screwing the planks of wood to my doors and windows. I know I’m a couple of floors up but I’m not taking chances.

My last purchase was three bottles of wine. Not good stuff, but enough to hammer me to sleep and not have a care if some maniac manages to get into my apartment. I plan to drink all three tonight.

I begin to pass out at around two-thirds through the second bottle. The wine is powerfully bad. Sometime passes and my bladder is the thing that gets me off the couch. It’s dark. The power must have gone out. I stumble to the bathroom and relieve myself. I’m still drunk and deeply considering that the empty cold steel of the bath is the next best thing to a bed in the presidential suite in the Matriarch. Wait. That’s gone. I finally finish aiming in the toilet bowl’s direction, pack my gear back in my pants, when suddenly I hear a noise. The fear is a strong soberer. I don’t know how they got in without a battering ram or small explosives. Maybe they cut the power to catch us unaware, search each apartment and take what they like. I creep back into my bedroom to my bed and reach under. I feel for the cold metal and pull hard to free it from the tape I used to keep it under. I pull out a shotgun I borrowed from an evidence locker. I also taped a torch under the barrel for such situations as these.

I sneak back out of my bedroom and stop near the entrance way to the main living area. I can’t hear anything. It’s very quiet. Maybe they know I know about their presence. Maybe they don’t exist at all and too much bad wine makes me paranoid. Fuck it. I’m not getting caught out. It’s almost pitch black. I step out into the entrance way and thumb the torch on. I freeze in terror. There in the illuminated dark is a man standing with his back to me. There is a hole on the back of his head. A gaping wound, which I can see gore inside. My hands begin to shake. He was staring at the back wall, but now he’s noticed the torch light and turned around. His rounding pock-marked face is laced with dried blood and bruising. Dark patches surround the faded blue eyes. He’s middle aged, the hair on top is thinning. He produces this smirk on his face and then points to the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

“You gonna drink that?” the man asks.

I can’t say anything, I can only shake my head, but it comes out as a nervous spasm.

The man with the hole in his head, reaches down and plucks the bottle up, noting the label, glancing back at me, “This is what you’ve been reduced to drink?

He puts the bottle to his lips and begins to gulp down the remainder of the wine in the bottle. As he tips the bottle up he tilts his head back. Whatever remained in his head dribbles out the hole in the back like runny jelly, hitting the carpet and spreading in a red stain.

While he drinks I finally come up with the brainpower to speak, “You’re a hallucination.”

His eyes look at me again, with the “wait until I finish feel about them”. Wine begins to dribble out of the corner of his mouth like a fresh red stream.

I continue to try to form words, “You’re guilt. I’m drunk and your guilt manifest, you’re not real. Just a figment of my imagination.”

The man has finished drinking, placed the bottle back on the coffee table and wiped the mouth with the back of his hand, and then his hand on his trousers. “Well this figment of your imagination just finished off your bottle of wine. Which was terrible mind you. Look, your still holding that gun at me. Get a lantern or something. This could be a while, and seeing as your stuck here, with me, I don’t want your arms getting tired,” the man said smiling and then pointed to the back of his head, “Besides I don’t think you can kill me the same way again.”

The dead man was right. The gun was getting pretty heavy in my arms, and with the lights out, I needed something better than a torch. I stumbled out of the room and found a battery lantern. Returning to the living room, the dead man had already taken a seat on my sofa and had opened up the last bottle of the wine.

I paused when I saw him again.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m letting it breathe a bit”

Setting down the lantern on coffee table, I pulled a chair closer and sat down. I stared the man for a while. For a hallucination he looked pretty convincing. He also realised that I was examining him and took a slight at it.

“What are you looking at?” He asked.

“I’m thinking,” I replied, “Why are you here?”

“I live here,” the man said rubbing the back of his head realising that he had a hole, he drew his hand to his face to look at the blood his fingers, “Or least I used to.”

He wiped his hand on my sofa and then reached for the bottle. “Okay, my turn. What are you scared of?”

As I began to explain, he poured the wine from the bottle into my glass and began to drink from it.

“The virus. It’s getting closer to me. It got Paul and he was – like me. This place, this whole fucking building, had the virus run right through it. And now with the others dead, I don’t have a chance to get out of the city. And the virus is turning. This whole city is now forcing us to kill each other. I don’t even know how they are circulating the notebooks.”

“Notebooks?” the dead man seemed terrified dropping the glass, wine pouring onto the carpet, “No. They didn’t leave this building. I thought I got them all.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

Guilt seemed to wash the colour out of him, “My wife she had a tumor. Cancer. There was nothing we could do. One doctor suggested she write in a journal, everything she thought of, as some kind - I don’t know – coping mechanism. That red was her favourite colour”

“So she began circulating the books? Some kind of act of vengenance?”

“No!” the man blurted out, almost angry, “No. One day I walked by one of my neighbours and she was writing in a notebook, exactly the same as her’s. I don’t know where she got it. Soon the whole building has it. Writing all their thoughts down, their frustrations. Then it’s Valentine’s Day, and then, well you know.”

He seemed to choke up, but then continued, “my wife died on that day and a year later, all of those people.” Some of them died in this building. I found the books and hid them all. I know I did, I thought it was weird, but if I could contain it here, then it wouldn’t spread. But if I missed one, then this is all of my fault…”

An explosion suddenly happens outside shaking the building. I go to the window and peel back one of the pieces of duct tape to look through the peephole. A great fireball rising, rolling with black smoke into the sky briefly illuminates the entire city. Then it fades, leaving the entire area in darkness. I can hear sirens racing through the streets below.
I turn back around to find the dead man gone, although his blood and the spilled wine remained. I stare at the table and where he sat for a while. I thought about the weight of the shotgun and the painted rear wall, he was looking at. He hid the books. I went over to the coffee table and picked up the empty bottle of wine. Then moved over the formerly blood stained wall.

The neck of the bottle choked in my hands, I hit the wall with the base of the bottle. Again and again, hitting to break the plaster away. The was an alcove that was patched and painted over. After some blows the hole was big enough for me to see inside. Red Notebooks, dozens of them. All stacked neatly packed into the wall. I stood back from the discovery. The stain on the wall became clearer to me now, like a bloodied face, screaming in silence.

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