It was a quiet night in the clinic, and everyone in the health profession knows better than to acknowledge that fact. Dr. Death sits at his desk sipping a coffee and reading the latest print of The People’s Voice.
“Ha!” Dr. Death shouts in jest as he spits some coffee out on the page. “Sudden outbreak my ass, anyone following along knows we’ve nearly reached pandemic levels what with all the migrants from the bleak…”
But his voice trails off as he hears a noise coming from outside. It’s well past mid night, the moon is on the descent, and it’s just about that time that if you’re not in bed asleep then there’s absolutely nothing good that’ll come your way.
Just then, the Clinic’s door swings open and a man stumbles inside. Luchadoc adjusts his mask, places his paper and coffee upon his desk, and stands up. He moves slowly towards the wretched man, observing him closer, and notices the blood pooling from under his neck.
There’s a massive gash right where the man’s windpipe had once been, right next to the jugular, and more importantly the carotid. The blood is flowing out like a fountain, and no amount of pressure is going to prevent an anoxic brain injury at this point, but the Good doctor grabs a towel and attempts to apply pressure as per his duty.
The man’s head abruptly turns ninety degrees, swiveling like an owl’s would, and that’s when he sees it:
This is no man. His eyes are glowing light blue, as if possessed by something, and he’s not breathing… yet he speaks with a demonic undertone.
“Why didn’t you save me?”
Dr. Death takes a step back.
“You said you could save me. You said you were a miracle worker!” he adds, staring daggers into Dr. Death, who continues stepping back, shaking his head. He’s acting as if he’s seen a ghost—
CRASH!!
Luchadeath accidentally bumped into his medicine cabinet and knocked several glass bottles of propofol onto the floor. He looks back up and the man with the slit throat is now standing directly in his face.
“You said you’d save all of us.”
“All of you?…” Death ominously queries as one by one, his patients who had died horrifically brutal deaths filter into his Clinic, surrounding him and moving in fast.
These are his deceased patients, the ones he offered false hope to in exchange for credits. He never had any intention of actually saving them, for he knew they were on death’s doorstep and took them for all they were worth while he still could.
The undead have now made this room claustrophobic for Dr. Death, pinning him against the wall, admonishing him and about to make him pay for his transgressions. He reaches out for anything, but all he gets ahold of are the blood-crusted, necrotic bodies and limbs of his own deathly creation.
Bodies that he had sent to the mortuary long ago.
Bodies that now will send him to the mortuary.
But like them, will he be able to escape?