Hmm, that's a good word to be an acronym, you know?
SPACE "Paging DR Congo, paging DR Congo, bleed-out in progress in Nixon Ward. Paging DR Congo, paging...." DR Congo (his full name was Democratic Republic of Congo but he shortened it for obvious reasons) sighed and stood up. It felt like he'd only just sat down in the lime-green plastic chair that was the only unbroken one in the doctors's lounge of Transvale Public Hospital. He tapped the little beeper attached to his stained white jacket -- not a actual lab coat as they were in scarce supply again, but a yachting jacket that had been left behind when another patient had died. It almost fit, but it was a little baggy at the armpits and there were cigarette burns on the lower hem.
Nixon Ward was close enough that he actually jogged down the mahogany-painted corridors ignoring the splintering terracotta tiles beneath his feet. The walls were supposed to have been painted mascarpone white but the Director's assistant taking notes had misspelled it badly, and then the decorators had matched the tiles as per their instructions. The result was a feeling that you were somehow trapped inside a clay tube or perhaps the trunk of a long, hollow tree. It made many people feel claustrophobic.
He turned a corner, sprinted up a flight of stairs and darted through a heavy plastic swinging door. Immediately to his left was Nixon Ward, two nurses whose white uniforms were sprayed with red, and his sister, Cincinatti.
"Sorry, doctor," said one of the nurses holding up a mop. "We didn't realise how bad the bleed-out was until we'd asked you to be paged." "They're dead now," said the other nurse, wiping her face. "And a lot flatter than they were when it started." "Who was it?" asked DR Congo, holding in a sigh. "We didn't get a name," said the first nurse, shaking her head. Blood dripped down the back of her neck. "He has Wasteland Fever and what looked like Galloping Fibrosis. Might have been a Raider." "No loss," said the other nurse, just a little callously. "His gang won't come looking for him and it's unlikely there's anyone out there who cared for him." "Who cares for any of us," said Cincinatti, who was famous amongst family for her bluntness. "Well, now that that's sorted little brother, I have some questions for you." "For me?" DR Congo let himself be led away from the Ward, glad he wasn't having to be part of the clean-up. They walked back down the stairs, heading towards the cafeteria. "Yeah. You remember SPACE?" "Special Project And Classified Experiments?" "Yeah, Institute stuff. Well, they asked me to fly a... let's call it a device over to Boston for them. For transfer to an airship. And... well, the thing is about as weird as you'd expect from the Institute, but during the flight the crate it was in got knocked around -- turbulence -- and when I went back to check on it, there was this black sphere just sat there, and every time a bit of the case struck it, it... vanished." "Sphere of Annihilation," said DR Congo. His voice sounded a little distant. "You delivered it already?" "Oh hell yes. I didn't want anything like that deciding to eat up my plane. Or me or Bruno for that matter." Bruno was her Newfoundland. "Good choice," said DR Congo. "Those things... well, if they'd had them before the war started the outcome would have been pretty different, you know? Like, no survivors different."
2 comments:
Hmm, that's a good word to be an acronym, you know?
SPACE
"Paging DR Congo, paging DR Congo, bleed-out in progress in Nixon Ward. Paging DR Congo, paging...." DR Congo (his full name was Democratic Republic of Congo but he shortened it for obvious reasons) sighed and stood up. It felt like he'd only just sat down in the lime-green plastic chair that was the only unbroken one in the doctors's lounge of Transvale Public Hospital. He tapped the little beeper attached to his stained white jacket -- not a actual lab coat as they were in scarce supply again, but a yachting jacket that had been left behind when another patient had died. It almost fit, but it was a little baggy at the armpits and there were cigarette burns on the lower hem.
Nixon Ward was close enough that he actually jogged down the mahogany-painted corridors ignoring the splintering terracotta tiles beneath his feet. The walls were supposed to have been painted mascarpone white but the Director's assistant taking notes had misspelled it badly, and then the decorators had matched the tiles as per their instructions. The result was a feeling that you were somehow trapped inside a clay tube or perhaps the trunk of a long, hollow tree. It made many people feel claustrophobic.
He turned a corner, sprinted up a flight of stairs and darted through a heavy plastic swinging door. Immediately to his left was Nixon Ward, two nurses whose white uniforms were sprayed with red, and his sister, Cincinatti.
"Sorry, doctor," said one of the nurses holding up a mop. "We didn't realise how bad the bleed-out was until we'd asked you to be paged."
"They're dead now," said the other nurse, wiping her face. "And a lot flatter than they were when it started."
"Who was it?" asked DR Congo, holding in a sigh.
"We didn't get a name," said the first nurse, shaking her head. Blood dripped down the back of her neck. "He has Wasteland Fever and what looked like Galloping Fibrosis. Might have been a Raider."
"No loss," said the other nurse, just a little callously. "His gang won't come looking for him and it's unlikely there's anyone out there who cared for him."
"Who cares for any of us," said Cincinatti, who was famous amongst family for her bluntness. "Well, now that that's sorted little brother, I have some questions for you."
"For me?" DR Congo let himself be led away from the Ward, glad he wasn't having to be part of the clean-up. They walked back down the stairs, heading towards the cafeteria.
"Yeah. You remember SPACE?"
"Special Project And Classified Experiments?"
"Yeah, Institute stuff. Well, they asked me to fly a... let's call it a device over to Boston for them. For transfer to an airship. And... well, the thing is about as weird as you'd expect from the Institute, but during the flight the crate it was in got knocked around -- turbulence -- and when I went back to check on it, there was this black sphere just sat there, and every time a bit of the case struck it, it... vanished."
"Sphere of Annihilation," said DR Congo. His voice sounded a little distant. "You delivered it already?"
"Oh hell yes. I didn't want anything like that deciding to eat up my plane. Or me or Bruno for that matter."
Bruno was her Newfoundland.
"Good choice," said DR Congo. "Those things... well, if they'd had them before the war started the outcome would have been pretty different, you know? Like, no survivors different."
Greg - I will admit that this did not occur to me. And that you're quite right.
Cincinatti! It's been much too long.
And I am impressed by the continual appearance of the sphere, as you'd promised. You're managing to have it show up in unique ways each time :)
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