“We need to go down, yes. Look, see the blood, the trail...”
I shone the torch on the white lino of the hallway and spotted it, a few drops here and there, leading off to the left, towards a stair case. I had no way of knowing what kind of wound had caused the blood loss but it seemed to have bled profusely, the stains being quite big even though they had dried to a cracking brown crust.
“Where do you think that leads?” I asked, hoping Cato had more of an idea of what was happening than he seemed to.
He didn't have a chance to answer, as I spotted the white shoes at the far end of the corridor to the right, glowing ethereally in the darkness. I saw Perdita's mouth was now closed as she stepped around the corner looking almost normal, yet there was the hint of red at the edges of her lips that would have looked like lipstick if I hadn't known better. Her scrubs shone blue across the floor, walls and ceiling, the colour spreading down the corridor towards us quickly. I felt Cato stiffen as the hue touched him, his body freezing in place. I pulled my arm loose just in time before the colour touched me, scrambling away towards the other end of the corridor. I stopped by the stairs, looking back as I gasped for air, the oxygen seeming to have been pulled out of my lungs by that icy blue. I saw Cato collapsing to the ground as Perdita approached, holding his chest, his skin seeming to petrify and crack. Perdita crouched down near to his feet and opened her mouth just wide enough to fit his foot inside. I saw her throat work as she moved slowly up his body, swallowing him in stages as he stared at me, trying to mouth a single word, an easy word to work out even though I couldn't hear him... “Go.”
As Perdita reached his chest, I decided I didn't want to see any more. I turned towards the stairs, my torch picking out the sign on the wall. It was then that I spotted the bloody hand print marking the lowest floor, giving me my destination – the morgue.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. It should have only been four floors but I passed ten doors, twenty, as the stairs kept on and on, further and further down, showing no sign of reaching an end. I shone my torch upwards to see if I could spot Perdita but there was nothing in the dark, just the endless circling of the stair rail snaking upwards.
I stopped to catch my breath, trying to put everything I had experienced in some kind of order. I had lost Marcus and Cato, Perdita was waiting to consume me, my world had fallen from the dull monotony of the island to a nightmare of corpses, evil deeds, apparitions and madness. If I had no idea where I was supposed to be going, how would I know when I got there?
(I will show you the way.)
The light above the exit blinked and blossomed white, almost blinding me. I looked closer, seeing the smear of dried blood on the door frame of the slightly open door, and beyond it the blinking light inside illuminating the short corridor that led to the steel door of the morgue. I looked around me. I was at the bottom of the stairs, standing in a mass of rotting organs and flesh that twisted and trailed up the steps into the darkness. There was a lift, which was open but not powered, each of its walls stained crimson. The body parts were everywhere, thick against the walls; arms, legs, torsos and even heads surrounded me, some of which showed the signs of infection, working their jaws fitfully despite being severed from their former bodies. It was the scene of a massacre. I slipped as I pushed open the door, landing with my hands in the horrific sludge, cutting my hand on a broken ribcage. I hauled myself to my feet on the stair rail and staggered into the corridor, trying desperately not to retch. My clothes were covered in filth and yet it wasn't the grime that worried me but the likelihood of infection from the cut on my hand. I needed some water. The morgue would have a sink, I was sure, yet nevertheless I was paralysed with nerves as I raised my hand towards the door handle.
The door was pulled inwards suddenly, as light flooded past me.
At first all I could see was a white shape, which gradually grew in detail to show a female doctor in a long white coat, wearing delicate silver rimmed reading glasses and holding a dark burgundy file under one arm. Her face was familiar, very familiar. I tried to place her but that part of my mind was obviously still obscured in fog, even though I could see the badge bearing her name, Dr. Celia Perrin. She smiled warmly, somehow making me feel at ease despite the turmoil of the world around me, the dark illogical mess that sucked at my senses and was driving me to the brink of despair.
(Please, won't you take a seat? I'm glad you've finally returned.)
Her voice seemed to be coming from all around me, echoing throughout my brain. Her tone was warm, familiar. I had heard it before, many times. She gestured to a large reclined chair in the corner made of beautifully shining leather, next to a smaller wooden chair lined with plush red velvet. They were strange, out of place items in a room that was otherwise a sight of disarray.
Many of the refrigerated compartments were open, with the drawers pulled out. There was blood on the ground here but that was to be expected after the amount of blood that had been in the corridor. There were papers scattered across the floor, empty files, and I could just about spot the glint of a chisel lying stuck to the floor in a patch of blood near to a cupboard door.
(Please, take a seat.)
I looked down at the blood that was seeping out of the cut on my palm, before spotting a large steel sink to the right of the room.
“May I?” I asked, gesturing towards the tap.
(Certainly. I've waited this long, another minute or so won't make a difference. You need to be comfortable.)
I nodded, somehow fitting into my role seamlessly. This didn't seem out of place for me, after so much that did. That thought alone gave me a tremor of disquiet, giving what was playing out a strangely sinister edge.
After washing my hand as best I could and bandaging it using a nearby first aid kit, I walked back over to the leather chair and lowered myself onto it as Dr. Perrin waited patiently.
She was in her late thirties from what I could gather, with shoulder length chestnut hair pushed back behind her ears and light blue eyes that were watching me intently. Her face showed the kind of innate kindness that people hoped all doctors would possess but not all did. From her poise and general shape of her body it seemed clear that she was very physically strong, probably a fitness fanatic. Well, she would have to be to survive by herself during the plague, of course...
(And what plague would that be?)
I looked at her, stunned. Had I spoken those words? I didn't think so but then I was so tired that anything was possible.
“The dead, the world... I mean... you must have seen the stairway? It's an abattoir, from the amount of rot it must have been like that for weeks.”
She flicked through her notes, before finally finding what she was after.
(Ah yes, let me see... ‘a mass of rotting organs and flesh that twisted and trailed up the steps into the darkness. The body parts were everywhere, thick against the walls, arms, legs, torsos and even heads.’ Well it's all very gruesome. I don't think it's healthy for you to be fantasising about such sights any more, is it?)
“But it's there, it's just outside... if you look you can see it,” I said, starting to get up.
(Please sit down. We can check afterwards but we have a lot of work to do first. I want you to start at the beginning, as much as you can recall.)
I sat back, the leather creaking as I cast my eyes over her. She still seemed... real, except this situation was stilted, skewed. Surely this wasn't the proper location for a therapy session?
“Are you a psychiatrist? You look more general medical to me,” I said slowly, trying not to offend.
(You're right, I don’t have a background in psychiatry... but I have studied some psychology, enough to deal with this I should think. Anyway, I have a personal interest in this case, as you can imagine.)
I had no idea why this was personal for her, but her demeanour, though gentle, seemed to brook no argument. She was firmly in control of the situation.
“Where should I begin?”
&nbs
p; (From the first thing that you can remember. Don’t leave out any details, I want to know everything so I can make a thorough analysis. We need you to recover. I think you know what the other option is...)
I nodded, took a deep breath and began.
As I started to speak, it became like a fountain, the words tumbling out one after another. She was writing furiously, her hand moving fast across her notes as I recounted waking up on the cold, sharp pebbles of the island, my time with the others there, travelling to the harbour, everything. The dead, the... for want of a better word “friends” I had made, the violence, the unrelenting rain, the struggles, and finally I recounted my journey through the hospital. With the last section in particular I was very careful to get every detail into my description, in the hope that Dr. Perrin could make some sense of it all.
The lights in the morgue were dimming as I continued to speak, each one starting to develop a colourful halo as if there were some sort of gas in the room, though I could smell nothing when I breathed in except for the rotting remains of flesh in the corridor and the blood that was splashed in claret fountains on the floor.
Dr. Perrin sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes after I had spoken, as the lights continued to diminish in their luminescence. The slowly encroaching darkness was putting me on edge. Dr. Perrin must have noticed, as she put her pen down onto the notes and leaned forwards, looking at me carefully over her reading glasses.
(Are you all right?)
“I'm fine, I just... it all seems to be getting darker,” I said carefully, trying to pinpoint exactly why I felt so nervous. The darkness was not the only reason but the others were muddled together and would take a lot of teasing out to separate.
(Darker... I see. Physically or thematically?)
“I don't understand...” My body felt a hundred times heavier than it should, as if I were rushing upwards and being pushed into the leather seat by inertia. It was becoming a little difficult to breath. I tried to lift my arm off the seat but it was now impossible.
A pause.
(I have a few observations, if you're ready to hear them.)
The light was almost gone, with the only thing now visible being the vague outline of Dr. Perrin.
(Marcus... brash, hungry, violent, angry, a being born of desire, a constant need... he clearly represents the Id, the most primitive form of the psyche.)
Dr. Perrin's eyes blazed, a fire within, hell-fire soul.
(Cato... rules, warnings, restraint, constantly putting all of your needs and survival first... he is the Ego, the means of controlling the desire, good judgement keeping urges in check to ensure the needs are properly met.)
She breathed out, her breath frosting to a blue haze.
(There remains the final part of the personality, the Superego. The link to society, holding its rules and retributions, the guilt and the pride, the guiding adult force...)
It could only be Eliza... but that was not possible. She was human... strong, alive, a vital energy.
(The journey has been handicapped by severe and unbalanced swings of personality, as the various aspects and elements fought, struggled and died, refusing to fall into a close harmony, as it should be. The thoughts are dark, the violence brutal, the death almost inevitable. All these signs point to a serious fragmentation of the personality...)
“You mean my personality,” I managed to gasp through the crushing pain of my ribcage.
(No, not yours. Mine.)
I tried to focus on the woman in front of me as she stood up. Her face was older but of course she had been ageing with every step. I had seen that before but had forgotten. I had been so foolish. It had to be her. There was no one else. As I looked now at the features, their familiarity pressed on my mind and pushed through, flooding my mind with her name... Perdita, Perdita, Perdita.
(Perdita is what was lost. I am now found. I am Celia Perrin, and you are my Superego.)
It was not just Perdita, there was something more, a stark realisation at the features I had barely scrutinised, only looking at once or twice before briefly in a mirror, rippling in a puddle, previously distorted but now so clear. When I had bathed at the brigadier's house, my body had been thin and wiry but unmistakeably female. I had felt everything: Marcus' hunger, Cato's control, my own constant analysis and comparisons, all because the Superego was the highest form. Sometimes when my control had faltered, as everyone's did from time to time, the Id or the Ego had taken over, yet I had always wrestled control back. Yet I could not survive alone, not without a sense of self, her sense of self.
(Guy, the guide.)
My face was hers.
She... I... the woman opened her mouth wide, the jaw muscles and tendons stretching and moving all around me, surrounding me, closing on me, pulling me back, swallowing me down, deeper down, falling down...
12
Remembrance
The hammer in Celia's hand was cold but it was not the chill that was causing her hand to shake. It was the knowledge of the line she had somehow crossed, the ethics that she had defied and the laws of biology that she had unknowingly subverted. She put the hammer and chisel down again on the tray, trying to take a moment to gather herself. This needed to be done, no question. It needed to be buried and yet... it was him.
It was unlikely anyone would disturb her, not at this time of the night. The wing's guard, Lucas, was a lazy jobs-worth who never came down the stairs to the morgue unless his rounds were being watched by the hospital administrator, who usually had better things to do. No, she could be confident that she wouldn't be disturbed, at least until after the deed was done.
A little recap, yes, that was what the doctor called for, to gain some perspective. She gave herself a little humourless smile at her own weak pun. She would soon be stripped of that title if anyone found out about what she had really been doing all these weeks but it was a risk that she had accepted when she had begun.
It had been a risk for her father to help fund her studies after so many... issues... at the school. Her intelligence was never in doubt but the way she chose to express it, the insidious and violent way she had dealt with her perceived enemies in the past had led to years of medication, therapy and social isolation. She had learned to hide her demons, nothing more, yet still there was always an air of suspicion in those around her. She had been overlooked for promotion for years, firmly embedded in clinical duty as her peers moved ever upwards, snakes crawling up the rod of Aesculapius.
It was while she had been studying her own condition, feverishly devoting all her time off duty to digging deeper and deeper into it, that the accident occurred.
Her brother had always been a risk taker but to drive after so many drinks, assuring their now elderly father that he was fine, was unforgivable. He had paid the price of course, dying on the operating table, yet that hadn't stopped her from beating his corpse in anger when she had seen him in the morgue, having to be restrained as she had been so many times before. He had always been her father's favourite, that much was obvious. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, striking good looks and confident manner, he had been a son every father could be proud of, except for the fact that he had been an idiot, paying the price for his stupidity with his life and their father's. Their father wasn't dead though, not yet, although all were saying it was just a matter of time as his brain was too damaged to recover from the coma.
All her training told her that this was true and in some ways she was glad. Her father had always imparted a strong sense of discipline, which had served her well in controlling herself to some extent, even though his judgements had been instant and harsh whenever she had suffered a lapse. Her brother had acted as a buffer, as their father had always been more calm when the dunce was around, eager to impart his wisdom to the prodigal son, though what wisdom a fisherman could impart was debatable. Now her brother was gone she was alone with him, or what was left of him. He was finally in a position to truly help her without subjecting her to his judgement.
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br /> In some ways it had all been too... perfect. She had been studying her own “vaccine”, for want of a better word, a way of controlling her base instinct for violence that always threatened to boil over. It had been years since her last outburst but she could always feel it there, hiding in the shadows, bubbling behind her eyeballs. If she could somehow separate that section of the mind, almost institutionalise it in an absurdly fitting way, then she could be rid of it for good. Success in that goal had been her overriding wish for years, and had been the force that had led her to such drastic measures.
Perhaps it had been sympathy or perhaps it had been guilt but the administrator had agreed to her requests to look into her father's condition herself, even allowing her a sabbatical to undertake the task, although she had needed to fund the treatment privately from her own wages. It had been a small price to pay. She had her father, medical equipment and time alone with him in their own room. The theoretical could become reality.
After weeks of trial and error, secret dosing and studying the resulting electrical impulses, it had become clear that using a coma victim was not the right method of study to create a therapeutic drug. There was no anger, no confusion, no emotion, nothing to measure and therefore no difference to notice. She had needed to cause an emotional, violent disturbance, study its pattern and then work off the resulting data.
She had hit upon the idea of rabies... although he was in a coma and the rabies virus had a variable incubation period, if she injected it directly into the cerebral fluid the resulting symptoms should manifest considerably quicker, hopefully firing up the brain. It had taken a bit of work to manage to get a vial of the contagion from the the research department but there were always ways around protocols if you had the necessary intelligence, the patience to forge documents carefully and the gall to take advantage of your only true friendship.
Dr. Jack Wilkinson was into his fifties but had the mannerisms of a seventy year old, taking her under his wing when no others would, an adoptive grandparent within the workplace. He had lost a daughter a few years ago, a woman who had also been studying medicine whilst battling long and hard against depression, before eventually taking her own life. Celia had never found out what method she had used, not wanting to ask, as the pain had still been just as raw every day, etched into his features for all to see. Maybe he had seen the troubles that Celia dealt with daily, her struggle that she hid so well but that sometimes forced its way out with a look or a cutting word. Whatever it was, he had begun to care for her deeply, helping her any way that he could with her research. He had expressed considerable concern at the use of rabies in her studies but she had managed to persuade him that she taken all the necessary safeguards. If he had known how she was conducting her research, he would have had her struck off.
Heal the Sick, Raise the Dead Page 22
