Contagion

I found this buried at the bottom of my files. It's something I started a long time ago and will likely never pick back up again. Still, it was fun to write so I thought I would share. I thought about trying to turn it into a short story but I don't think there is enough to work with. So, here you go: an unedited, going-nowhere story.

You're welcome.

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The people that survive the contagion say that it feels like your soul is being ripped in half. Not that many people survive, so its hard to tell if that's true.

Krysta Nuckols refuses to acknowledge the patients’ screams as she goes about her morning routine. Dr. Vanquish hired her three months ago, and she can’t afford to loose this opportunity by doing something stupid. He created Contagious Nightmare Therapy in medical school and has since become the leading authority in regenerating positive subconscious thought patterns. Becoming a member of his office staff takes two years of grueling tests. Krysta passed the background checks, drug, and gene testing easily, but only barely survived the personality training. She was lucky to have gotten her role as the lowest ranked staff member in the ward. She imagines a movie screen at the end of one of the long halls, playing old horror movies, and continues.

An animalistic howl rattles the walls of the hospital and Krysta has to close her eyes to keep from dropping her tray. The image of her grandmother floods her closed eyes and she relaxes. 

Dr. Vanquish’s breakthrough was isolating the part of the brain that fosters contagious nightmares. As it turns out, it is a part of the brain that you can live without, but removing it usually fatal.

She continues down the hall balancing a tray full of small paper cups filled with pills: reds for the new patients, yellows for the ‘screamers,’ and blues for the ‘goners.’ Arriving at the head nurse’s station she places the cups with red and yellow pills on the counter.

“Good morning Ms. Newbury. Morning supplements are ready.” The old nurse just grunts. Newbury hardly ever speaks and when she does, she’ll makes the staff wish she hadn’t. Krysta sighs as she takes a left and down her own hall with the tray of blue pills. The main ward is made up of three hallways, each specific to the stage of therapy. The operating rooms for each stage are at the end of the halls, and the nurses’ stations are all clustered at the center of the floor, where the hallways come together. New hires are eased into the ward by restricting their contact with patients. Krysta only has to deliver pills on the silent hall of the recovering patients. She hopes she never gets promoted.

Holding her try in her left hand she turns the first knob of the day: suite 301 - Stuart Shaumyan. Krysta slips into the darkened room and waits several seconds while her eyes adjust to the lack of light. The air smells of iodine and bleach, and she tries to breath through her mouth so she doesn’t get sick. Stuart finished his final stage yesterday. Krysta has never treated someone so soon after surgery. The floor warden told her to be prepared.

She walks up to Stuart’s bed, very aware of the sound of her own breath in the otherwise silent room. She tests a quiet hum, but it feels wrong so she goes back to listening to her breath go in and out of her mouth. Stuart is staring at the white wall opposite his bed. Everything in the ward is white, even the equipment. Color and texture are considered traumatic for patients. She stops at the foot of his bed and he shifts his focus. His eyes are flat black and she shudders when his empty gaze stops to rest on her.

He takes a long, slow breath and turns back to the wall without so much as a word. She also take a breath, but forgets to breathe through her mouth and bile rises in her throat.

“Good morning Mr. Shaumyan. I have your pills here. Would you like them now?” He doesn’t respond, but holds out his hand. She walks to the side of his bed and places the pill cup in his palm. Without shifting his gaze, he snaps his hand shut, catching the pills and her hand in his vice-like grip. She stifles a yelp and tugs at her hand, trying to get free. She starts to shake as her chest tightens, and tears build up in the corners of her eyes.

He’s just a man. He’s just a scared, sick man. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing. The patients are not dangerous.

She forces herself to stop struggling. Stuart stares at the wall with no sign of emotion. Krysta’s shaking starts to lessen. He obviously doesn’t mean her harm. He just hasn’t figured out how to control his new mind.

“Mr. Shaumyan, will you please release my hand?” She waits but he doesn’t respond, so she tries a stronger tone. “Stuart. Release my hand at once, you are hurting me.”

He turns back to her mechanically, his cavernous eyes staring her direction but not seeing anything. When his lips part, he doesn’t sound human.

“The Dark One cannot be stopped. You will not get rid of the black. You will be consumed by it. You will never win. You can never win.”

Krysta froze.

Stuart turned back to the wall, released her hand, and placed the cup of pills to his lips. He swallowed the pills dry and let the cup fall to the ground. Not trying to hide anything, Krysta bolted from the room and slammed the door. She leaned against the wall and cried, hoping no one would see her.

Her hand burned.