Fantasy Totum revolutum

[kevintheradioguy]

The figure shook a little, and at first it was hard to understand what he was doing under the layers of cloth and leather, before it struck Noah that this was a shrug. "Well, there's simply nothing left to do for me here. Coast is clear. I can only scare the kids." Perhaps, Noah was paranoid, as the man opernheartedly stated next: "There are several orderlies that did not abandon their duties in this part of town, however; they're even more paranoid about the outbreak than you are, doctor. Guarding houses they think suspicious, hear too much or too little from. I've tried to tell the oafs that we better tend to the the dead, but they are stubborn. Insist on staying here unless you or the Judge dismiss them personally." He hemmed, and Noah felt him rolling his eyes. "Bootlickers if you ask me. Try to show-off how well they take orders, instead of doing what we all volunteered to: giving the dead at least some respect." It wasn't clear if that was a stab at Noah or not, but perhaps he was one of the lout Matches talked about, and just lacked any filter between his brain and his mouth. But at least some of the others were around, however subservient they were. Perhaps, subservient wasn't the worst thing in the world during an epidemic, though.

 

[Featherstone]

Bootlickers or not, at least there would be extra hands. Noah hesitated again, but didn't see this ending in a productive fashion, so he made the decision to let it go. "Alright. Good luck with the bodies then. Be careful out there." He summoned another smile, consciously relaxing his weight to make himself seem more at ease than he was. "Thank you again for all your work here. Have a good..." He paused to look at his watch, then finished. "Morning." Morning? It felt like later. Looked later. But things were different here than at home.

With this, Noah pressed onwards to Blacky's and pushed the nagging thoughts of the plague aside. The plague could be dealt with after Blacky's nameless father and Gregory Caine.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

It was a nice autumn day. The trees with yellowed leaves were slowly dropping them - like gold coins on the ground, and tall, unkempt grass, almost reaching Noah's waist swayed slowly on the wind, its copper colour changing with silver each time the glossy leaves reflected light. Only wide paved roads were spared from the wild lush of herbs, and just a few footpaths were seen between houses. Noah had to take one of the footpaths, among less sued ones, where the grass was thicker and taller, and as he entered it, suddenly, all sounds were cut from him. The layer of grass was so thick, it dulled the sounds almost entirely, leaving only a low-humming HISS each tile it moved. The skies above him were of a brilliant blue colour, with long paintbrush touches of white, thin clods, growing darker and darker to the north, where the rain started. Above his head and through the air, small particles of golden pollen flew, glittering like dust in the house when one opened their eyes in the morning to see first rays of sun. It was wild, and peaceful, but also - eerily scary. Noah was covered from the world in this grass almost entirely, but so a wild animal would. Maybe even the most dangerous of all. Maybe wielding a knife. But in this whirlwind of gold, and hissing of grass, he could almost forget there was even a plague. It was so bright, and colourful here, in the grass, looking at small spikelets, and tiny bluebells that strangled taller, round-leaved plants. Above it all stood colourful stone giants - buildings reaching for the skies, and above them all - an eerie artistic monstrosity of a yellow, shining, giant polyhedron, swaying gently in the wind, like some sort of a lit-up, gargantuan kite. Noah didn't know what it was, exactly, but perhaps, another artistic expression of local painters and architects, picking up fashionable abstractionism from the capital's young artists. It all looked magical, and peaceful, it called Noah to just lay down in the grass, and let the high sun warm his paling skin, let him imagine how it would be to live in peace like that, just him and Carter, enjoying the sweet smell of pollen and honey, and listen to nothing but the wind and an odd cricket.

That was before he had turned into the arch, and witnessed reality. From that point he could see through the houses and into the river; more importantly - the bridges. large barricades made of crates, furniture, and crudely cut trees lay between them and infected districts. Black clouds loomed over them, all the gold, all the red being sucked out of those placed. Instead, they were coloured black. Black from soot, black from fores, black from ash. As... it flew through the air among not empty, dirty houses, picked by the wind, so different from whirlwinds of shiny pollen around Noah. Sudden burst of wind brought the smell of burning and rotting from over the river, and he could've sworn it also carried screams and cries with it, people yelling and mewling in agony of their last moments. But that didn't abide the laws of physics, did it? Noah must've imagined that.

Blacky's house was where Matches told him. Another large, tall, two-story house painted baby blue. Its windows were of thick, yellow glass, and the door was heavy and wooden. Oak, as far as he could tell. There was a number painted on the door, but the paint was so old, it fell off, leaving nothing but a few lines and odd curls. Locals didn't really need to know the house number - the place was tiny. They probably knew everything by heart.

 

[Featherstone]

The thoughts of Carter left him in something of a reverie, absentmindedly turning the ring around his finger. He could still remember the day he'd met him. The night had started in the library until he'd gotten kicked out at the closing hour, on a spring evening where the fog had rolled in so thick that one could barely see their hand held straight in front of them, thick enough that it condensed on his skin and rolled down underneath his collar, only adding to the cold dampness of the day. He was in his very first semester, barely off the battlefield, and working his mind back into that of a student's after years of war was a challenging prospect. He could barely remember the math from his younger days, much less what he needed for hard science, and it was on that evening that he'd run into Carter at the coffee shop a few blocks from their university, where he'd gone at the late hour to finish studying. He'd seen the heightening stack of scrap paper and sat down across from Noah with a smile, set a coffee down in front of him, and pulled the notes right out from under Noah's hands--an action that annoyed him until they were getting passed back with corrected mistakes and a charming grin.

Although Carter had approached him that first day, though, Noah was the one to go down on his knee with a ring in his hands. The grass brushed against his collarbone as the memories drifted through his mind. His own shaking hands, hands that could be steady in surgery and the cacophonous din of bullets and planes, but were rendered trembling when he held his prayers for a future together in them. It wasn't an impressive ring. Noah wanted it to be, but he didn't have the money for it, and he'd worked day in and day out to get enough for that plain gold band, but it was enough. And when he got home, they could finish what they'd started--with their project, with Carter's project, still flourishing, and this town alive.

His gaze alighted upon the blue building, reality grounding him from the fleeting fantasies and recollections of cerulean eyes. He strode to the door and rapped his knuckles against it in a few sharp knocks to announce his presence, then tucked his hand into his pocket to spare it from the bitter breeze. First floor, Blacky's father, not the plague, he reminded himself, going through the list again. Then to Gregory Caine's.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Standing there on the porch, it took Noah some time to realise he was knocking in a front door of an apartment building. Of course, there was a chance someone would be on the first floor, passing the front door just as he did the knocking, but it was a lovely day, after all, last warm days before harsh winter; and people tried to be outside as much as they could. So chances were that asides for the kid and his dad there was no one inside. If the child would even want to be around near the dying. There would've been no shame in getting scared and hiding.

Of course, this wouldn't be the first time Noah would have to barge into someone's home - else he'd never find the sick or survivors, but never he had to do that in a district that was healthy. If it was healthy. If his dream wasn't prosthetic, and he just forgot about something very, very important.

 

[Featherstone]

He never liked the feeling of opening a door and striding inside--it felt invasive and went against every bit of courtesy and manners that his father had driven into him in his youth--but when there was no answer, he kicked the discomfort into the back of his mind and opened it anyways. He took his hat off as he did so, a habitual motion, and quietly stepped through the threshold and into the building. He closed it with the same muted carefulness with which entered. It wasn't out of a desire to go undetected so much as wanting to be unobtrusive, and once it was settled, he dared to speak.

"Excuse me?" he asked, trying to identify anyone there, or figure out exactly where he might find Blacky's old man.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The ground floor was the same as in his own temporary residence, Noah could remark. Only the dimmed yellow wallpaper with almost the same rose print. Maybe with some extra stripes. An open door to the second floor, and four others around. Two on the right, two on the left. One of the doors weren't closed, creating a few-inch-wide gap into an apartment beyond it. Its windows faced south, it seemed, and as such, a bouquet of sun rays was bursting through the slit, a blinding smear in the dimmed light of a creaky corridor. His voice penetrated the room, and echoed through the stairwell. In response, something changed, but Noah didn't understand what exactly. The quiet house seemed to become even quieter somehow.

 

[Featherstone]

The silence wasn't necessarily surprising, but it wasn't optimal. They were probably afraid that he was there to take the sick man away, as if he were a greater danger than the plague was. He padded further inside and went to the partially-open door, knocking on the doorframe and peering in through the crack. "I'm here to help Blacky's father," he posed. Given that there was a response, if a negative one, he was pretty sure someone heard him--he just wasn't sure who, or exactly how well. "Is he here?"

 

[kevintheradioguy]

He heard a clack, as if someone put something metal on a shelf. The partially-open door creaked as it opened once more, and through the gap a face of a pale, dark-haired child all covered in soot smudges peaked out. He looked to be a young teen, wearing something like a light leather coat over the naked torso, and some bright knitted hat of sorts, that looked halfway through a beanie and a beret. "Who the bloody hell are you?", he asked in a daring voice, as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit hallway, before he could see Noah. And when he did, his expression changed to that of terror. This is what Noah had become to the people around. Not really a doctor to save lives, but an executioner to send giant crows and take loved ones away to the pyre.

"He's all right.", mumbled the kid, voice filled with offence, as if he already blamed Noah for something the man done only in the kid's imagination. "It's not a pest thing, he's just tired. Go away."

 

[Featherstone]

It was anything but a pleasant experience to be vilified for saving lives. Noah didn't quite blame them for it--it was what the human mind did, when subjected to such stresses--but he felt it still, a weight coalescing in his chest when fear overtook insolence on the boy's face. The man's countenance remained neutral, however, and he answered in a soft and non-combative tone, making no move that could be construed as hostile, lest he escalate things with Blacky--or so he assumed this boy was. The dark hair and soot on his skin would make such a nickname sensical.

"I'm not here to take anyone away," Noah assured, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "I only wish to offer assistance, if it is within my power. If there's nothing wrong then I'll be in and out in minutes and if there is then I can offer medicine. Please, let me help?"

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The child pursed his lips. He didn't seem to believe Noah at all, but at the same time, felt like he had no choice. Either way, he figured, they will take away his dad, with or without Noah giving him a look. But at least, if Noah looks first, the kid could be able to blame him for it with better excuse. He'd be sure that the doctor had direct involvement. It made sense that matches didn't want Noah to tell anything - probably in this case, the children would blame him, and while Noah could stand a few angry gazes from local youth, and a couple of rocks thrown at him for taking someone's family away, he'd be gone soon. Matches had to live here.

Throwing an angry look at Noah, and with his lip bitten, the child just disappeared behind the door, saying nothing, silently sliding into the room he came from.

 

[Featherstone]

Noah hadn't expected to be received warmly, and took Blacky's lack of contention as a win, bitter as it tasted. There was a hint of guilt towards the danger that the situation put Matches in, too, even if it wasn't quite Noah's fault. He still was responsible for the situation, even if he couldn't control peoples' illusions and broken realities.

"Thank you," he said, deciding not to acknowledge the child's frustration--what could he do or say? It was what it was. The man stepped inside and closed the door behind him, turning his attention to the his patient.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The child stood by the chest of drawers, top of it cluttered by all sorts of small things: jugs, and statuettes, glasses, painted plates, tin boxes with knitting equipment, old jars of some creams and ointments - probably his mother's; and tried his best to look busy to avoid talking, deeply offended by the presence of a doctor at his place. There were three small rooms in this place. One of the open doors led to a tiny, colourful bedroom, probably, belonging to the child. Another one - to a slightly larger room with double bed, and the last one was probably the bathroom. Logical trail of thought suggested that an adult was in a larger room. There were no sounds coming from it, so the mother wasn't here, it seemed.

There, on the bed that was still done, right behind the wall, lay a man - pale and motionless - still in his full clothes, boots included. His outfit was rough and simple - he was probably one of the factory workers from beyond the river. There was a large wet spot on his chest of unknown origin, but absolutely fresh, which reminded Noah that what Matches didn't tell him was how long the man was sick for. Of course, the kid woke him up to tell about it, but then again, he also told off the local "mayor" to get out to let Noah have some rest. Did he just drag the news out, or came immediately?

 

[Featherstone]

Noah glanced over the space, automatically scanning to note the doors and the overall layout of the place and to ascertain whether or not there was someone beyond the doors. The quiet assured him that he was alone with the boy and the old man, and he turned his full attention to the one in need, striding to his side and setting his bag down on the ground.

"Can you tell me how long he's been sick and what his symptoms are?" he asked Blacky quietly, gaze flickering over the wet spot in an attempt to identify it while he took the man's wrist and felt for a pulse. He did so slowly and gently, as not to startle the man if he suddenly awoke him. Noah could only hope that the kid wouldn't be too stubborn to work with him, or too afraid. He doubted he could convince the boy that his intentions were good and he wasn't some sort of boogeyman but he still hung on to some optimism that the child would at least talk to him.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"About an hour ago or so.", mumbled the child, voice still full of offence. Something creaked behind Noah. Whatever he did, he even sounded busy. "Dropped down, started beatin' like a fish, mouth open and such. I brought him water, asked 'him what he needs, but he nearly punched me. Couldn't tell it was me." The kid's voice suddenly cut short, almost as if he was going to say something obscene, but caught himself right in time, shutting his mouth shut. Fever and delusions were, in fact, one of the symptoms of the plague, people burning, not thinking straight, breaking quarantine and wondering around talking nonsense like crazy. Those were the safest ones. Noah remembered a few that were so out of it, they started chasing random people asking for help, whether ignoring or not understanding danger and distress they were putting those people into. This might as well have been one of the symptoms. If that is so, Noah have found the reason of his paranoia - his infected in the citadel of healthy. Unfortunately, it was hard to tell whether the man exhibited fever, delusions, and dehydration at this point. When the man checked for a pulse, he had found none. Just a still, pale, and still warm skin. The man was dead, but from what? For now, without closer examination, it remained a mystery.

 

[Featherstone]

"Who else has had contact with him in the past two days?" he asked, reaching to grab the stethoscope. He really wanted to know about contact since the lock down, but didn't want to alarm Blacky by phrasing it that way. He'd be damned if the man wasn't dead but there was a procedure to these things and he wasn't going to turn around and tell the kid that his father was deceased until he had exhausted the possibility of any other option, no matter how unlikely. Noah's voice belied no unsteadiness or concern: he was perfectly cool in his questioning, unwilling to let anything off quite yet.

The possibility if it being the plague--or that was what Noah guessed it was, anyways--was real, if not definite. Delirium could mean a lot of things and it was paranoid to believe it was somehow definitely the "Sand Pest," but even still, it made him wonder. He might've asked the kid about respiratory symptoms in preceding days but he didn't want to scare the boy, and given that people had seen the disease, he doubted his train of thought would go unnoticed if he pried. His eyes fell to the wet spot again, leaning forward but not touching it, trying to decipher if it could've been sputum expelled in a bout of acute respiratory distress, and if there was any blood in the mix. He needed some way to test samples to see if it was, indeed, the plague, but he didn't have the facilities here to do so. It left him grasping at straws to some extent: he understood the symptoms, but with only his head, hands, and what he had in his bag, making any certain diagnosis or treatment impossible. All he could do was the best he could. A part of him even hoped he was right in his hypothesis--it meant he'd be dealing with a known variable, or at least a better-known one, and worries about asymptomatic transmission would be greatly alleviated. Things had to be bad when he was hoping for the fucking plague, didn't they? He wished Carter were there with him. He was an actual doctor who could handle this, whereas Noah was just...well. A student. A soldier.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

There was silence behind Noah's back. If the man was a working one, chances were, the child didn't know all his friends and co-workers. And telling about family seemed to be a bad idea, all things considered. Though it was safe to assume that they've been in contact, of course. This was a family. Probably the rest of the inhabitants as well. Who were outside. This wasn't good. Especially given the fact people, according to Matches, gathered in large groups to argue about him, Noah. If he transmitted it to his child and wife, and if his child and wife have seen someone since, dozens of people might already be infected, and it would be impossible to find them.

Fortunately for the man, before he could start panicking properly about it, as Noah checked for the heartbeat to see none, he had noticed the expression on the man's face - uneven and crooked. The fingers on his one arm clutched the sheets tight in an uncomfortable and somewhat inhumane way - at least not in a way a human being would find comfortable. His skin was white, and veins were dark, purple half-closed lids showing blood-shot eyes. Noah has seen exactly this some time before, in medical school. Although this didn't mean that the man didn't catch anything, it was clear to Noah that the man died of a massive stroke, and not so long ago. Maybe around ten or so minutes ago, in fact. To add to the theory, he lacked the fever of the usual infection victims, and if he started feeling bad just a few hours ago, the sickness would've dragged this on for days before killing him. Noah was... probably around eighty per cent sure in his diagnosis.

 

[Featherstone]

Noah didn't push for any answer, only used the silence to listen for a heartbeat. He closed his eyes to tune in on the sound--or lack thereof--counting slowly in his head to sixty. The act helped him keep calm as much as it did go through proper protocol to declare the man dead. Although such intense and aggressive delirium wasn't quite typical of a stroke, it could be attributed to textbook confusion. The diagnosis of a stroke largely hinged on the accuracy of Blacky's assessment, but still...He moved the stethoscope to his lungs and started from one again. No breath. He draped the stethoscope over his neck, reaching to press his fingers to the carotid, the mechanical motions that protocol dictated he go through. Another minute of no pulse was followed by the flashlight being shone into dead eyes.

"Where's your mother?" he asked, no longer needing his ears. He put the flashlight away after several moments, then slid his finger over the man's eye until he felt the supra-orbital groove, leaning his weight into it. If there was no motor response to the pain, then that was that: the man could be declared dead. A sobering thought, but better than that of the infection spreading within these walls.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Instead of the child's voice, Noah heard a dull, echoing voice of an adult: "Not a plague, then?". There was one of the suited orderlies in the door frame, almost bumping their head over the upper part of it. They must've scared the child off, given the reputation and the imposing stature, but the question was: how did they get in here this quietly? Did Noah miss an especially soft rug, or was he that involved in his job to notice? And more importantly, who send this person here? As far as he knew, only Matches knew about the man, and he specifically asked for no orderlies. "Or do I dag him away for an autopsy?"

 

[Featherstone]

Noah wasn't used to having someone sneak up on him. Generally, he was quite vigilant, so to have the orderly so abruptly arrive caused him to start, a rare break in his typical stoicism. "Stroke, I believe," he replied once he'd recovered himself, grabbing the alcohol from his bag to quickly wipe down his stethoscope and hands on the off chance that the man had been carrying something contagious. "I would like to autopsy him but I'd rather do so with the family's consent to avoid adding fuel to the fire. May I ask if someone sent for you, orderly? I was under the impression most of you were disposing of bodies." He asked the question in the tone that someone might conduct small talk with: friendly, without any particular overtones or subtle hints. Although it was strange for the orderly to show up, he found it just that and nothing more--out of the ordinary, but no cause for particular alarm.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"I told you I was already here.", the voice sounded too clear, and too close. For a moment, all the sounds seemed to be sucked out of the air, even the ticking of grandfather clock in the room as Noah looked at the mask, and it looked back at him.

And then, all of a sudden everything turned back normal again. "Doctor?", the muffled voice was heard again. The orderly's head turned back to Noah - the man didn't even notice how its beak turned as the mortician looked around to try and find the source of Noah's distress. "You went pale there for a moment, are you all right?" He paused. "I saw you coming in here from the square, having that expression of yours like if something's wrong." He must've thought that being near a possible outbreak place was a better idea than leaving the man alone here, looking for what few of them were left on this side of the river.

 

[Featherstone]

The words trickled down Noah's spine like spiders' legs barely palpable on his flesh and eliciting a slight shiver over his back. Auditory hallucinations--a result of the dream, his exhaustion, no doubt. You felt feverish there, chief. But delirium wasn't one of the first symptoms of the plague, and he had no difficulty breathing, no chest pain, nausea, shortness of breath. He'd felt some chills when he'd first awoken but he'd also been disoriented, in this bizarre weather, and chock full of adrenaline. The what-if still plied at the edges of his consciousness, though. What if it wasn't this man on the bed that was the breach in the quarantine, but Noah himself?

"Yes, I'm alright. Tired, that's all. Did you see where the child went, or anyone else that could've been his family? I'd hate to leave the body here without properly informing anyone of his passing. I think it's unlikely that this is of any significant concern--he doesn't seem to have been exhibiting any symptoms except delirium, but strokes mess with the head. Still, like I said, I'd like to get permission to take him back for an autopsy, just to be certain, I just don't think it's worth the discord if such a course of action is contested." He pulled himself back together after the confusion, drawing his posture up and straightening himself. He put his hat back on while he talked and put the stethoscope in his bag so he could sling the container over his shoulder once more. The actions weren't ones that he really needed to go about with at this juncture--it'd be just as easy and perhaps even more courteous to wait until he was done talking--but it was easier to keep his body under control when he was asking it to do something than when he was trying to keep stone-faced and still.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"The... child?", the masked man asked. It was obvious he didn't see the kid here. But Noah couldn't have imagined him, could he? The man looked around again, trying to stand in place. The stilts weren't very comfortable to use - tall wooden platforms that kept them high up from the ground, and often when not carrying anyone, these men tried to stand still not to trip and fall. "No...", he replied in doubt. "I haven't seen a child.", he sounded uneasy, so decided to suggest an option instead:

"It's a beautiful day out there - children are outside. So are the parents. And they seem angry at you, doc. But, uh-h-h..." He turned his head just a little towards the body. It did feel like he had something on his mind, but decided to dismiss it. The doctor knew best. "I mean, I know them. Or more like, I know of them. The Blackers.", that shone some light on the kid's nickname. "He, uh, lost his wife two days ago. Worked over the bridge. The pest got her. He came looking for her, and, well, found her. In a... way..." The man paused, lowering his head as a small sign of respect.

 

[Featherstone]

A pang of anxiety shot through Noah when the orderly's confusion was made obvious. Matches had mentioned Blacky, so the kid couldn't have been all in his head--could he? No. Even hallucinations were rarely so severe in someone as generally stable as he himself was, much less weirdly sensical like that. Angry, of course they were angry, angry at him for locking them in. What did they think the alternative was? His thoughts were pulled back to the subject at hand when the orderly mentioned the deceased Mrs. Blacker. That made the kid an orphan, then, like Matches. He could feel his heart starting to pound in his chest. Shit.

"If you have something to say, please don't be afraid of speaking it," he said, lifting his bag and pulling it over his head. The noticeable betrayal of his anxiety was the way he pressed his fingers against the leather strap with the intensity that a fully calm man never would. "I may be a doctor but even I am a mere mortal. It never hurts to hear an extra thought."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

There was an awkward pause. There were no other doctors left, and the man there was probably another worker on another factory. Maybe town militia. Perhaps a clerk - though that was unlikely given the amount of strength needed to carry corpses. Not to mention, clerks were needed to monitor food and medicine. Factory workers, however, were out of work. "Well, it's nothing professional. I just thought...", the man paused. "Did you really expect it to be so simple?", Noah heard a change in the voice once more as he was dressing up. "I am offended."