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Hospital Fighter 2: Breaking and Entering

Updated on March 18, 2018
Paul Garand profile image

I write classic "good vs. evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.

2 A.M, a hospital at night may just be among the scariest places; especially when something sinister is affecting healthcare across the city, further accentuated by sounds of robotic chants. Adjusting my brass knuckles (I wore on both hands) that were covered in blood from the fight outside; I walked down the pitch-black hallway to the droning voices. “The first one to leap out gets a busted jaw!” I thought trying to fight off the eerie vibe that slowly crept into my mind; my eyes were filling with nervous tears and my spine felt like shattering. While I was an experienced man who was fighting on the dark Soviet streets during the hardships of the 1980s era; facing corrupt police and local criminals (sometimes in gangs) this was different.

Suddenly, the hallway was shaken by a blood-freezing scream; like that of a baby’s but emitted by an adult; what is it about baby cries that scare the human mind? I quickly ran down the hallway; busting down doors and trying to fight off the fear. It did indeed come from the pediatric ward where things took a turn for twisted and screwed up. Crayon drawings of rituals and sodomy graced the walls where both featured the same “character;” whom I seen moments later. A fat man who looked to be in his late 20s dressed in patient garb sat on the floor; working on another drawing; I deciphered that he drew himself in all his pieces. He noticed me and backed away; I lowered my hands to show that I meant no harm; maybe he was abused and managed to escape.

The man crawled towards a toy chest; reaching his hand inside, however, before I could let him be; he pounced at me; the same suspicious syringe in hand. By reflex, I sent him flying backwards with a heel kick. The man curled up and nursing his core, he began to cry while breathing heavily. I wasn’t going to hurt him anymore; especially when the floor rattled with many running steps. Here it comes; they are going to cut me up if I fall. The ward was full of long knives and syringes now; whatever they were chanting to has disfigured them horribly; deep lacerations on the face, angry red eyes and green veins protruding out.

The baby-man I disabled started to wipe his tears and point at me; complaining to the livid horde that started to move closer to me; it was then I slugged one in the jaw; he knocked over those to the side as he fell. Side-stepping the incoming lunge, I DDT’ed (a wrestling move where the opponent is in an inverted headlock and thrown down or backwards so he hits the floor) my attacker into the hard floor ; stopping another kick with my elbows and tackling the next attacker so I am on top of him. Quickly, I turned him off with a snap-punch to the nasal bridge.

The fear was gone with every punch, kick and throw as the angry horde fell apart where some strewn on the floor and others running away like a dog that was disciplined. My hands were red with blood and my eyes working overtime in case I missed a spot. The horde was vanquished with the last one learning to fly as I threw him out of the nearby window. However, I was still curious about what happens here and the baby-man seemed to have more grasp on reality than his friends; maybe I could make him talk. To my dismay, he was gone.

The hospital, now felt dead as pin-drop silence flooded the halls; no chants, no steps; only my breathing was heard in the darkness as I moved from ward to ward in search for clues. Was it the only hospital that lost it? I contemplated as I walked into another wing. Lots of patient rooms with dim lights pointing at the rickety beds with dirty mattresses and even restraining devices were presented as if on cue. People were still chained to the beds; hard to say if they are sane; I decided to enter one room to check, maybe they were hostages.

Opening the door, the bed-ridden patient’s eyes suddenly sprang to life and followed me as I came closer; they were scared and confused. “You….you gotta help me, man!” he whispered weakly, as if each word was costing him life, “Its inside me now.” I was taken aback, from all the insanity I seen tonight, it felt strange to hear normal speech. “What is inside?!” I demanded, “Who did this?!” The man took a breath as if he surfaced from underwater and with all his strength, he screamed, “OBEDIENCE!!!!!!” only to collapse back onto the bed lifelessly. I felt his pulse; he had none. The man seems to have died from saying this word.

Leaving the accursed room, I scanned around for a sign that lead to the hospital archives; maybe I could get something there. Something I could bring back to show and warn others; something sinister is going on with the Soviet healthcare system. My train of thought was derailed by a door opening in the dark hallways; followed by voices that seemed normal and professional. “There was a break-in at the hospital at Chapayev St.” a voice reported. “Proceeding to check it out.” Police, but why now considering I’ve been here for a couple of hours; something is sketchy here.

“HOLD IT!” I heard behind me, “Get on your knees!” I complied and with a corner of my eye I saw a police officer training his PMM handgun on my head. I spied a tattoo on his hand; it was a lighthouse; a prison tattoo meaning “Desire for Freedom.” It wasn’t a cop, rather a hired thug disguised as one so without further hesitation, I rapidly twisted to my right, driving my right back-fist below his ear; instant knockout. I didn’t loot his body; knowing the owner, the gun could have been used to kill many others hence; I could be framed for said killings.

There was one more thug on the move; the one I heard prior to this moment; motivating me to use shadows for cover since he would shoot on-sight. I dealt with former prison inmates before in my street fighting career and they are all-too eager to kill using any means; usually with a knife or a pistol so he would be trigger-happy as all of them. I was right; another thug was moving down the hall, handgun ready to fire, he looked nervous. “Hey, Yurets!” he yelled, “Quit screwin’ around!” I did my best Sylvester Stallone impression from the Rambo films my father brought back from one of his trips to America and grabbed the thug from cover; neck under control. The thug was not as resilient; he lost consciousness from my control and fell back.

After traversing the dark hospital to the archives, I started digging through patient records; nothing strange aside from a few cases of drug overdoses; something unheard of before in the USSR. Then, reaching more recent records, I found a pattern where records stated that patients suffered mental disorders and hence was brought by force. (The record specified the orderlies’ names that did.) Patients were mostly young adults and were directed to the same type of treatment; identified as “calming therapy.”

It started to make sense now, young adults that rebelled against the Soviet way of life were branded as “mentally unstable” so brought over here for treatment; the baby man flew back to my mind; he was totally pacified and thus easily controlled. The man dying on the bed screaming about obedience was referring to that; he died to some kind of trigger which could have come from the therapy stages. Finally, everything relating to this treatment had the KGB stamp alongside a TOP SECRET branding; this was a government psi-op!

© 2018 Jake Clawson


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