The Graveyard Ghostly || Owner: Johnny_673

The patients had been piling up for days. The pandemic of 2009 was proving to be one of the most virulent and difficult to treat strains of the novel zombie virus. As a doctor, he had a duty to be sure, but more than that, he wanted to help. It didn’t sit right with him, ever, to stand by and let other, less qualified personnel deal with patients just because it was “too dangerous,” or “not a high enough priority.”

As fate would have it, his colleagues had been right.

* * *

The doctor sighed, closing the fifth draft of his book. Or was it the sixth? He had re-written it so many times, it would be a miracle if it was ever published. But it was his dream, so write drafts he did.

The meager light of the Underground shone through the simple window, white paint peeling from the walls. A sign of decay, both outside and inside.
It had been his eagerness to help that caused it all, of course. Trying to restrain a bitten man who was having a particularly severe reaction to the zombie virus. Writhing on the streets, apparently living in a back alley, the man obviously needed help, but was almost completely delusional.
One frenzied bite from the patient later, that tore through kevlar and plastic sleeves, and he became an infected statistic too.

There was no cure, not in time at least.
He had tried to hide it at first, mostly from himself admittedly. Wearing long sleeved clothes, gloves, anything to remind himself of normalcy.
But ‘normal’ goes out the window when your hand literally falls off mid-sentence while typing, as it did a minute ago.

The doctor stared at the detached limb and sighed, getting up with a shrug.
It was all he did, for these past few years; write his book on the zombie strains. Now though, he couldn’t ignore his condition any longer. It was difficult to type one-handed as well.
It was a pathetic sight at first, walking down the street with one hand at his side, the other…in a satchel hung over his shoulder. But it was out of necessity, the first time going out and mingling in years.
It was a learned practice, to not immediately be startled at seeing other afflicted individuals in varying states of decay or repair. That had taken many months of living in the Underground. Now, he was just like one of them; a worn lab coat with semi-clean blue scrubs. It was the most comfortable fabric he had found; didn’t rub the skin off and so forth.

A fellow infected individual saw his hand-less arm, and waved, gesturing down the road.
“Hey man, you need to go talk to Rachelle. She helped me out when that started happening too! Real good work.”

He waved back, following down the direction indicated. The shop, or rather, medical center was easily located, in the commerce district and up some winding stairs near a bakery. Walking inside, he was surprised to see only one other person; who was quickly seen, and then ushered out the door. The inside was cleaner than the ramshackle appearance outside would indicate, which was a pleasant surprise.
A arm poked out of the worn double-doors, gesturing briefly.
“Welcome; no need to be shy.” A voice called.

Walking inside and sitting down, the man regarded the multiply-armed figure as they came closer, mouth obscured by a sewn-on mask and goggles. She was likewise clothed in some green overalls with gloved hands; aside from the metal one, that is.

“Ah. Lost a hand did you? Well let’s see, do you still have it? My name is Rachelle by the way; I haven’t seen you around much.”

He nodded, showing her the detached limb and watching as she expertly put his arm on a surprisingly clean metal surgical table and began to sew.

“Been writing a book, so not too much time.” He finally stated, rather lamely in retrospect; in terms of conversation, this was the first in a long time, and his voice was rather rough.

“Ah, interesting! So a writer? Or a doctor from what it looks like.” She asked, flipping his arm over to continue the stitches, adding a few drops of liquid and lotion to the attachment site.
“Both I suppose. I used to be a doctor, but one slip up and here I am.” He explained, prompting a slight laugh from behind the mask.

“I see, well, it happens. At least you are here and not one of the unfortunate cases who just out-right died though. A different life, but life all the same.” She added.
“There. All done. Hmm. I’m actually short-handed right now; as hard as that is to believe.” Rachelle gestured to her other arms.
“But you’re a doctor; so you must know how to stitch and staple. Would you be interested in helping me out now and again, between writing that book of course?”

Surprisingly, it only took him a few moments to respond.
“Sure thing, I have a lot of experience with that; I’d also like to learn how to... well… do this myself, no offense.” He added, prompting a happy nod.

“Of course! I know it’s more comfortable that way sometimes. Especially if you’re a fellow doctor, I understand! I’d be more than happy to teach you... ah, there we go. All done!” Rachelle proclaimed, causing him to lift the arm and newly-attached hand. It felt as normal as could be expected, the stitching and staples neatly done as not to draw attention.

“Thank you, really. It’s been difficult to….” His words were waved off by an arm.
“Don’t worry about it, I get it. It took me a while to find my place here too.” She replied calmly, mostly-hidden eyes seeming to soften briefly.
“First attachment is free- can you come here tomorrow morning before I open? That’s usually when the rush is. Need to see some example stitching before I let you loose!”

He nodded, taking her outstretched hand in a grip to show his thanks.
“Tomorrow morning then, and thank you again.”

He was waved off as another customer walked in the door, Rachelle gesturing for the newcomer. As the man walked back to his ramshackle apartment, he couldn’t help but grin.
Making a friend, especially after so long, was a welcome feeling indeed.

He stayed as a resident for a couple week, it felt good to help people (or zombies) again.
Now, more than ever, he was absorbing knowledge about the strains in person. He felt he could finally finish his book.

Art by Andy
Writing by Frode
Profile by Johnny_673
Book from The Journal
Background by patterncooler.com