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Hospital Fighter Ch. 3 Discoveries

Updated on May 16, 2018
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I write creative writing pieces inspired by '80s action, gaming, and heavy metal—classic "good vs evil" stories with smart twists.

Looking through more files, the KGB insignia progressively, grown in abundance as the details written within straddled the line between ethical and unethical while being ever more graphic; I discovered that orderlies were now armed and had full authority to use force alongside the full support of rapid-response squads - who were not affiliated with the hospital. I got to know this as files reported on requirements of lethal force where, according to the report, tactical squads opened automatic rifle fire, leading "patients" at gunpoint and even cases where orderlies worked as plain-clothed secret "police" where people could be grabbed and carted off to the hospital.

So far, the hospital effectively had a private police force - something I never saw while I worked there. Many patient records had familiar names; my neighbors, my friends and even the guy who bullied me through childhood during our times playing in the yard: busted his head open on his cell wall according to the records - grabbed by plain-clothes orderlies in broad daylight too.

Suddenly, my nose picked up a strong smell as if someone smashed a Vodka bottle - a nostril-piercing alcohol mixed with something else to increase potency while adding more side-effects. I stood up, balled my fists to unleash a right hook before whoever could react and listened on; slow, heavy footsteps were heard in the distance accompanied by lighter ones. Dropping the files, my ears began tracking the sounds through the wall to plan my sudden strike; from now on, everyone in the hospital is hostile if I don't, I will end up chained to a dirty mattress and worse yet, be completely neutered like the baby-man I saw before.

"One." Taps on a glass, post-World War 2 syringe were heard.

"Two." Some quiet moaning heard; like a child who was disciplined.

"THREE!" Using the room door as a weapon, I forced it into the incoming silhouette's face and in quick succession, launched a drop-kick to his companion.

Both fell, a tall man in dark green surgical garb and my old friend, the baby-man; the latter crawled away in fear while the former groped around for something: a good time to get some answers. I picked him up by his collar and with a knee strike to the rib, I sparked a conversation:

"What's inside the injections?!"

The surgeon attempted resistance; to which my hands went for his throat, thumbs on his voicebox: choking the boldness out of him.

"Resist and I crush your larynx!"

The surgeon, choking and coughing, fired off names of chemical compounds I never heard of, causing me to drive my forehead into his nasal bridge, "IN PLAIN RUSSIAN!" I raged.

My captive, defeated, answered, "Chemicals made to suppress brain power and testosterone to enforce obedience." I listened on. "The mixture also has control drugs that respond to pre-programmed triggers set during therapy stages - each with unique parameters!"

That response disturbed me, especially the trigger part: what could they have set?!

"You are coming with me!" I ordered; only for the surgeon to suddenly, started coughing blood. I stepped back as he grabbed his throat, collapsed back and continued to choke on his blood and stopping in moments. Was that one of the triggers? Possibly since he was dead as no pulse was felt and the body was cold. Did the KGB program everyone involved to kill themselves? In this case, everyone from doctor to janitor undergone this. Are all hospitals programmed?! To find out is my next step, I thought to myself as I headed for the exit. No point of lingering in this hospital now. The nearest one was a bus ride away and at this time, the buses are not running this late; guess I'll go back home to study what I found further.

5 AM. Carrying my findings, I reached familiar territory; brutalist buildings from Stalin's era dimly illuminated by the few streetlights, sounds of a drunk vagrant screaming gibberish at the sky while he lay on his back: home sweet home. My street was not what could be called a "bad" part of town but it had its share of anti-social elements whose population increased almost yearly. A group of homeless people digging through trash, drunks fighting and even ex-convicts congregating on the benches; all fairly common sights around here. However, something was wrong this time, I caught sight of some windows being hastily closed and curtains getting pulled down behind. Ignoring that, I continued to the entrance of my building; as I opened the creaky door, I ran into 2 police officers. "Good evening." one of them greeted me in a formal, regulation manner, "I am Sergeant Gurov." he finished as he saluted me. (A regulation greeting by a Soviet police officer) The other cop looked nervous yet alert and ready for anything.

Recalling my run-in with impostors back at the hospital, I looked at both officers for giveaways; prison tattoos, inconsistencies with uniforms and rank chevrons. They appeared normal so I decided to act natural. "How can I help you, Sergeant?" I replied.

"Where were you just now?" Gurov asked as he scanned the bruises on my knuckles and blood on my clothes; something I completely missed!

My findings swirled around in my head, but I had no trouble coming up with a logical excuse: "I was with my friends from school years and we disagreed on things; so one of them got drunk and started a fight."

Gurov didn't look like he was buying it, so he said something that terrified every Soviet citizen regardless of age to the core: "Come with us, please." I had to be smarter here so I complied; Gurov's partner stepped behind me as I followed the Sergeant outside. As my head went into thinking about fleshing out the excuse further, I noticed something strange on the Sergeant's neck; a big hole that was still bleeding; soaking through the bandage that showed itself from the uniform. As the Soviet lawman lead me, his hands began to twitch as if getting ready to spring.

The cop was fixed, I thought to myself, he must have been sent to detain me. However, despite my revelation, I kept walking to see how far this goes: maybe I'd get away with a few questions. "Get in." Gurov gestured to a parked yellow-blue police Volga car as his partner opened the back door; I complied. "So, you had a fight that went too far?" the Sergeant began questioning. The other cop's eyes burned through me as he looked for more clues.

"Yes, comrade Sergeant," I replied as calmly as I could. "My friend got really drunk and pulled a knife."

"Right, and why did he do that?"

"He has a history of mental issues, the Recruiting Commission (recruiting for the mandatory military service in USSR) said he had schizophrenia."

"We need to make a protocol and record the incident since this is Assault with Intent," Gurov answered, "You need to ride to the station with us."

Then and there, I realized that they ARE here to detain me, people with mental issues are not charged but committed to an institution; they tried to dress this up as textbook interrogation and arrest. The Sergeant knew that I was lying so he wanted to lock me up in a temporary cell, interrogate me and force a signature tying me to whatever crime they conjur up; common practice of the Soviet police force that grew ever more corrupt. Comrade Police Officer now thinks "Screw you, Got MINE!" as he beats confessions out of petty thieves and vagrants; admitting to murder and conspiracy charges while forcing them to choose prison.

The other cop, like lightning, snapped handcuffs at the both of us; daisy-chaining us together.

"What are those for?" I asked.

"Standard procedure, relax; you got nothing to hide right?" Gurov replied as he started the cruiser.













Soviet Police

© 2018 Jake Clawson

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