Embracing the Plague {Linkingrad}

[Radekal]

***


Mol opened his eyes. It was pitch black, and he struggled to remember where he was. Had he gone home for the night? Did he fall asleep at the clinic? No, no, Karen would have come to wake him up, surely...
Was this... somewhere else?
He tried to look around, but found only darkness so perfect that he couldn't even tell whether his eyes were moving.
A silhouette appeared a way off, in front. It was as jet-black as everything else, yet he could just about make it out; it struck him this made no sense, but yet there it was, and it was getting bigger, drifting, creeping, closer. Ever closer. A feeling of unease washed over him. His mind shivered, uncontrollably. Somewhere in the back of his head, he became aware of a knife, twisting, slowly, into his brain. He didn’t like this at all, tried to move, flee, but it was all in vain: his body fixed, as if entombed in black lead. The shadow kept getting bigger, and the cold steel of the blade of pain was becoming overpowering, nauseating. Mol tried to scream to relieve the agony, but there was only silence. Silence and darkness. The shadow was now right here, with him, up close. He could feel its putrid breath. He knew what it was now, how he could sense it in the perfect black. It was the rancid, sickening phantom known to all creatures of conscience. It was guilt. His whole existence was torture.


“DO YOU REMEMBER ME, AUGMENTIN MOL?”


The medik’s eyelids shot open and light poured in. He was drenched in an ice-cold sweat, temples pulsating to the beat of a heart pounding on the ribcage like an iron fist. As the spinning surroundings rotated into place, he began to recognise the familiar shapes of his bedroom. Fear was being pushed aside by relief, and he started to regain control of his body. It was “just” a bad dream. He extended a shaking arm to the bedside table and grasped around. The trusted, cool metal of the flask reassured him further and he drew it up to his dry lips. It was empty. Mol cursed under his breath, put it aside and slowly sat up. What day was it? He peered at the calendar pinned beside his bed, and assessed it as well as he could in his dazed state.
Day off. Praise the universe.
It had been several weeks since the patient in Mol’s clinic had mysteriously disappeared, and there was no doubt that the dark phantom in his recurring nightmare since then was the same individual, even though he could never identify any particular detail of its appearance, no matter how hard he tried. He had attempted to put it behind him and get on with life as before, but clearly, the subconscious part of his mind was never going to let him forget that encounter. The combination of Sisyphean work shifts and disturbed sleep was gradually making him appear more haggard with every weary evening look in the mirror. He had to do something about it, otherwise, he felt, he would waste away into nothing just like that unfortunate soul he'd tried in vain to save all those weeks ago.

But first, koffee.

Still half asleep and bleary eyed, Mol stepped outside and set a course for the beverage stall down the street. He barely managed to drag his legs a few steps when he heard a splash, and felt a frigid wetness seize his foot. He looked down and saw his own pale face stare back at him in disgust from the surface of a murky puddle. "OH FOR FU-"

"Good morning, doc" interrupted a cheerful voice, "any comment for the Courier on the medicinal value of bathing in rainwater? I'm sure our readers would love to know the opinion of a healthcare professional!"

The medik looked up and found himself face-to-face with every Linkingradian's worst nightmare: the carefree and painfully sincere smiling face of Bric Vignette, self-proclaimed 'Editor-In-Chief and Principal Reporter' of the Linkingrad Courier, the inane pamphlet which he insisted on calling 'the best and only newspaper in town'. Like some multi-resistant superbug, Vignette always seemed to pop up at the most inopportune time, and even if staved off, was never gone for very long.

"Not right now, Bric" managed Mol through gritted teeth.

Bric looked from Mol to the puddle, then back again, and then retraced that visual journey once more for good measure. Realization seemed to dawn, unbearably slowly, across his simple face.

"Oh of course! I do apologise, doctor! You've barely had a chance to dip your toe in! Do come and find me once you've had a proper swim and are able to provide a full review!"

I'd rather jump off the Shelf without a parachute, Mol thought. "With pleasure," he said. He watched as the ‘Editor-in-Chief’ skipped energetically away.
He removed the soaked shoe from the puddle and continued on his pilgrimage, taking care to avoid any further sampling of the waters.
After what seemed like eternity, he saw his oasis: a rickety stall which looked like it had been hastily thrown together from junkyard rubbish. Above the counter, someone had clearly tried to test out the minimum number of nails required to put up a plank of half-rotten wood. Across the timber, in bold, uneven lettering, they had then evidently attempted to paint the name of the business whilst blindfolded. It - just about - read "BRoOtAL BRU".
Behind the desk, wearing a fetching brown apron, stood a huge, burly, green-skinned barista. Their voluminous, platinum blond wig, tied into a neat bun, contrasted sharply with facial features reminiscent of a cobbled street blown up with several tonnes of dynamite.

Mol approached the counter.
"Good morning. The usual, please" He handed over the empty flask.

"STUD OR CHRONO?" replied the greenskin.

"Chronos, please" said Mol. He wondered who was still carrying studs around in this economy, where every brick and plate from near and far was scavenged to build this hodgepodge village and any surplus was channeled into the so-called space programme. The barista pressed a couple of buttons on the mechano-till.

"TEN MINUTE" announced the Brootal.

"TEN minutes?" replied Mol in disbelief, "it was seven last time I filled up!"

The barista pointed up to the cloudy sky.
"WAS RAIN. LOW POWER. COST HIGH."

The medik sighed in resignation, and quietly cursed this town and its lack of natural resources. He begrudgingly took out his ChronoCounter and looked at the clockface. The hands were stationary, and indicated a time of three forty-two, and seventeen seconds. He placed the device on the designated slot of the mechano-till and gently pressed until it clicked into place. The barista pushed another button on their side of the apparatus. Mol watched dejectedly as the minute hand on his ChronoCounter jerked alive, and started to tick backwards. Tick. Three forty-one. Tick - three forty. Tick - three thirty-nine. A few seconds later, the Brootal barista smiled as they watched the dial hand on their side of the till start to march forwards by the corresponding amount of time. When Mol's clock reached three thirty-two, his device popped up from the slot with a click. The hands were frozen again. He threw it back in his pocket.
The barista filled Mol's flask up from the koffee machine and handed it over.

"GOOD BUSINESS WITH YOU" they boomed.

"I'm sure" murmured Mol, turning away. He walked over to a nearby table, ensured the seat was dry, sat down, and took a swig.
Instantly, he felt more alert, and the vice-like, gripping pain around his temples loosened up. His shoulders relaxed. Deep breath in - deep breath out. Around him, Linkingrad was stirring, waking up: here, someone was cleaning the water off their sun collector with a towel; there, someone else was adjusting the angle of their windmill to better catch the morning's soft breeze. Others were heading hurriedly to work, yet others, just as quickly - to the pub. The Old Guarded Inn was by far the most solid and architecturally coherent structure in the village, which the medik felt betrayed a lot about the overall attitude of its inhabitants. His eyes wandered to the first floor elevation, where the famous Mr Pinion had his workshop. He could vaguely see the clockmaker's silhouette moving around inside, and reflected on how this humble man had been propelled to stardom largely as a knock on effect of seemingly completely unrelated geological circumstances. Life could really write the most unbelievable twists sometimes. He thought again of the vanishing patient - maybe this was supposed to be his own twist of fate? In any case, he felt that perhaps if he pursued it and managed to get some form of closure, it might make the nightmares go away. It was time to get some help and launch a proper investigation. For the first time in his life, he decided he was going to report an Incident to the Authorities. He took another swig of Brootal Brew, and headed to Linkingrad Guard headquarters.




A young guardsman in green uniform was sitting behind the desk, red neckerchief neatly tied over sand-green jacket, and a hat in the same bright crimson pulled over his eyes. He seemed to be asleep.

Mol looked around uncertainly, but there didn't seem to be anyone else to talk to.
"Erm.. hello there?"

The young man jerked awake, and a smile immediately appeared on his face as he looked up at the medik.

"Oh good morning Dr Mol! I do apologise, I was just taking my Post Breakfast Snooze! How can I help?"

"Yyy... Is your Vertmaster around? I wanted to ask if the rod- I mean, the Guard, could help me with something?

"I'm afraid he's out on Breakfast Patrol, doc, and I think he was also going to put the word out that robbing and burgling is from 10am at the earliest on Monday, seeing as we've got a bit of a celebration on Sunday night and might need a lie-in... but could I help in any way? Junior Guard Bobby, at your service" the guardsman beamed, puffing his chest out to better show off the gold buttons of his uniform, and extending a hand to Mol across the table.

"Yes... I think I'd like to... file a missing person's report" said Mol, as his palm was now being very enthusiastically shaken.

"Certainly doc, one missing person's report coming right up" the chirpy young guardsman flicked open a cabinet behind him, quickly leafed through some documents and pulled out a crisp white sheet. "All right then" he said, with an eager smile, "shall we begin at the start? Question one: what is the name of the missing person please?"

"Erm... I'm not sure, actually."

"No worries, I will just put 'unknown'! Next question: any hair or headgear?"

Mol tried to search his mind but all he found was a return of his headache.
"I... don't know" he said, quietly.

"Okay, unknown again it is then! Right, now what about the face - smiley, frowny, other? Any facial hair, glasses?"

"No idea, unfortunately" the medik found the headache was receding, as long as he didn't think too hard about his mystery patient's appearance.

"That's absolutely fine" came Bobby's cheerful reply. "Can you describe the torso?"

"No"

"Legs: long, standard, medium or short?"

"Pass"

"Any characteristic accessories? Weapons, tools, bags, pom-poms, et cetera?"

"I... don't think so?"

"Excellent! So let's see now: a person of unknown name, with unknown headdress status, face, and torso, could be any height, and probably no characteristic accessories! I'm sure we'll find them in no time!" Bobby was still grinning from ear to ear, with no hint of irony in his voice.

"Erm... good to hear" Mol said, sheepishly.

"Now where and when did you last see them, doc? And no worries if you can't recall!"

The doctor perked up, happy to finally be able to give some concrete information.
"No, no, that I remember quite clearly. The person in question was one of the patients at my clinic, in the early hours of the morning, some weeks ago. They were... very unwell, and I'd turned around for just a second - and then it was like they'd never been there at all."

"Do you keep a record of the patients who attend the clinic, doctor?"

"Yes, but when I checked the book, the corresponding appointment time had nothing written next to it, which is also highly unusual. The secretary is very diligent in writing down everyone's details, and if the name is unknown, she also records it as such. A blank space implies that nobody was booked in for the appointment, which never happens."

“Well, as I said, don't you worry about a thing doc, your case is in the safest hands in town” Bobby held up his palms. “We will make this investigation a priority, and solve the mystery in no time!”

Mol was not entirely convinced, but then again, he had no clue about policing or detective work, and the associated investigative techniques used behind the scenes. It suddenly occurred to him that now was perhaps a good time to find out a bit more about this.

“Erm… Thank you, Guardsman. Can I ask how you're planning to conduct the investigation?”

“Why, we'll make our enquiries of course, doc” beamed Bobby.

“Yes of course, quite” Mol frowned. “And can I ask what that involves, exactly?”

“We will go around town, and ask if anyone has seen your missing person, of course.”

“You will… ask them if they have seen a person of unknown appearance?”

“You got it, doc!”

Mol's eyebrows drifted upwards.The two men stared at each other.

The medik mustered a weak smile and brought his eyebrows under relative control.
“Of course” he said, softly.

He left the Guard station feeling dejected, and leaned against the cool brick wall. It was clear that these lawmen, while enthusiastic, stood no chance of finding out anything useful. He would need to personally question everyone he could about any other strange vanishings and mysterious goings-on, but how could he? He was only one man, and a very busy one at that. Even dedicating all his spare time between work shifts to the single purpose of investigating the disappearance, it would take him years, perhaps more than a lifetime, to piece this together. He had to approach this in a different way, think outside the Box. He needed the information to come to him. Was there some way, some medium, of quickly disseminating his narrative to the entire town, and encouraging the people to come forward, perhaps by way of offering a reward? Better yet, could it be done through an independent intermediary, so he could somehow attempt to remain anonymous in the process?
Mol looked across the plaza, letting his eyes wander among the citizens, each seemingly carving their own trail independent of the others, yet all somehow part of the same vaguely functional society. Where did the paths intersect? How would they learn of his news?
In the distance, a bouncing mess of taro hair caught his eye. An enthusiastic hand was waving white pages dotted haphazardly with ink. He looked more carefully at the passers-by. To his surprise, here and there, everywhere, he saw the same sheets. Sticking out of a pocket. Held in a fist. Squashed into a handbag. Blowing in the wind.
Spreading like the plague, he chuckled to himself.

Bric Vignette was just about to bellow another headline to the crowd when he felt a hand tap his shoulder. He spun around, looked at the tapper, and punched his fist into the air in triumph.

“Yes! I knew you’d come through Dr Mol! I hope the puddle was as invigorating as it looked! Now how about that exclusive interv-”

“Never mind that, Bric” interrupted the medik, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve got a real story for you.”