The meteorologist "Paging Dr. C, paging Dr. C. Paging Dr. C, paging Dr. C. Dr. C, please attend at Ward 7." The tinny voice of the tannoy echoed along long, empty corridors and through metal-walled rooms abandoned when 90% of the population was killed either in the first blast or in the two weeks following it. Tattered strips of paper that the wind had torn from posters advertising the benefit of Atomic Industries brand U-238 toothpaste ("for a smile that dazzles at night!") mounded in corners, and gritty dust scattered across the floor, waiting to crunch underfoot if anyone came down here again. Dr. C. groaned and forced himself to sit up on the low bed in the biologist's storeroom. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the sharpness of sleepy-sand grind away, and stood up, aching all over. "You got nearly ninety minutes," said the biologist. She was assembling a microscope nearby. "Better than the last two times." "Better than last night," said Dr. C. He forced a smile that turned into a yawn. "Ward 7." "Good luck."
Ward 7 had been part of the main building once, but after a gas-main explosion the main building was now three parts of a building. Two of them were still connected if you were brave enough to go up to the fifth floor and walk along exposed steel beams and sagging, still-carpeted floors. Rusted rods poked out of the concrete they were supposed to be reinforcing and birds, not all friendly, roosted in black, feather-shedding colonies. If it was raining it was sometimes preferable to go that way, but even though the Radstorm was still dropping the odd glowing droplet of rain Dr. C. held an already-soggy newspaper over his head and ran across the overgrown courtyard that had once been a patient's outdoor exercise area and hurried through a blue-painted side-door. This was a maintenance corridor, and a flight of bare concrete steps led to another blue-painted door that let him out into the main hospital arteries, and then he was turning a corner to Ward 7. "Ah, Dr. C, there you are." The Senior Registrar had put aside his paperwork and was sitting on a plastic chair at the side of a patient's bed. The chair had one original leg surviving; the others were a wooden one from a completely different chair, a length of plastic drainpipe, and a long-dead potted plant with a sturdy stem. He looked ridiculous. "This is my daughter, the meteorologist." Dr. C. looked at the patient, who was thin, pale, and had radiation sores on her neck, and he slowly realised that this was the woman he'd recently operated on. "She does the weather forecasts on Baseball City Radio," said the Senior Registrar. "You've probably heard her." "I think I may have," said Dr. C. "I think I may have."
Greg - this is a really great continuation of the tale. Love your scene setting work in this one especially. I'm not sure 'dystopian' is strong enough a term for this place.
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The meteorologist
"Paging Dr. C, paging Dr. C. Paging Dr. C, paging Dr. C. Dr. C, please attend at Ward 7." The tinny voice of the tannoy echoed along long, empty corridors and through metal-walled rooms abandoned when 90% of the population was killed either in the first blast or in the two weeks following it. Tattered strips of paper that the wind had torn from posters advertising the benefit of Atomic Industries brand U-238 toothpaste ("for a smile that dazzles at night!") mounded in corners, and gritty dust scattered across the floor, waiting to crunch underfoot if anyone came down here again.
Dr. C. groaned and forced himself to sit up on the low bed in the biologist's storeroom. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the sharpness of sleepy-sand grind away, and stood up, aching all over.
"You got nearly ninety minutes," said the biologist. She was assembling a microscope nearby. "Better than the last two times."
"Better than last night," said Dr. C. He forced a smile that turned into a yawn. "Ward 7."
"Good luck."
Ward 7 had been part of the main building once, but after a gas-main explosion the main building was now three parts of a building. Two of them were still connected if you were brave enough to go up to the fifth floor and walk along exposed steel beams and sagging, still-carpeted floors. Rusted rods poked out of the concrete they were supposed to be reinforcing and birds, not all friendly, roosted in black, feather-shedding colonies. If it was raining it was sometimes preferable to go that way, but even though the Radstorm was still dropping the odd glowing droplet of rain Dr. C. held an already-soggy newspaper over his head and ran across the overgrown courtyard that had once been a patient's outdoor exercise area and hurried through a blue-painted side-door.
This was a maintenance corridor, and a flight of bare concrete steps led to another blue-painted door that let him out into the main hospital arteries, and then he was turning a corner to Ward 7.
"Ah, Dr. C, there you are." The Senior Registrar had put aside his paperwork and was sitting on a plastic chair at the side of a patient's bed. The chair had one original leg surviving; the others were a wooden one from a completely different chair, a length of plastic drainpipe, and a long-dead potted plant with a sturdy stem. He looked ridiculous. "This is my daughter, the meteorologist."
Dr. C. looked at the patient, who was thin, pale, and had radiation sores on her neck, and he slowly realised that this was the woman he'd recently operated on.
"She does the weather forecasts on Baseball City Radio," said the Senior Registrar. "You've probably heard her."
"I think I may have," said Dr. C. "I think I may have."
Greg - this is a really great continuation of the tale. Love your scene setting work in this one especially. I'm not sure 'dystopian' is strong enough a term for this place.
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