Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 3

Hearing is the first sense that comes back to Dr. Armistead. Alien sounds, at first, are ringing in his ears. Metallic whispers, followed by eerie voices. Is it one voice, or many? He cannot discern: Is his mind playing tricks, or is the world around him telling the good doctor to wake up?

Smell is the second sense to return. The essence of burning hair and flesh tickle the hairs of Armistead's nose. The stench of bile slides down his throat, triggering the sense of taste. The cocktail of bile mixed with the iron of blood now invades the taste buds. His mouth swallows the excess saliva. The feeling of death starts to lift. Finally, the eyes begin to wake.

Clouded at first. The doctor blinks several times to stimulate the tear ducts. Only hazy darkness fills his sight.

The last sense to awake is touch. The doctor's place of death is cold and hard. His groping fingers find a metallic surface. I must be lying on a table, he thinks to himself. The brain begins to function once more. He tries recalling his most recent memory, only to be struck by pain, horrible pain, throbbing from the middle of his forehead. The spasm pierces a nerve to his eyes, causing extremely blurred vision.

Several moments later the agony subsides, and the fog obscuring his eyesight lifts slightly. He looks around the dimly lit room, in hopes of figuring out exactly where he is. A voice breaches the gloom and Armistead can't help but have a sense of irony at his plight. "Are we coming around?" a familiar voice asks. "I was worried there for a bit. I wasn't sure if you'd pull through with the wound on your neck."

The doctor gazes into the left corner of the room. As he attempts to speak, his voice is dry and hoarse. "Come out of the shadows, Strand. I know it's you."

The figure comes into view. Yellow teeth and wide eyes approach until they are inches from Armistead.

"Don't worry, I just need you alive a bit longer."

"What's the meaning—," Armistead coughs violently from his cracked throat. "Of this? You slaughtered your friend and now hold me against my will? The council will hear of this treason." He fights to clear his throat again. "You have my word."

The skeletal, ghastly man gives a devilish laugh. Stopping abruptly, he looks back at the doctor strapped to the table. He leans in until his long narrow nose is touching the doctor's. His bulging eyes are bloodshot. The man slithers on top of Dr. Armistead, straddling him with crossed arms nestled on the bound surgeon's chest. He slicks back his limp, oily brown hair with his right hand.

"You stupid little man. It was the Dragon himself that sent me to the Sanitarium. Claudius is more than upset by your lack of progress. The Joining is soon at hand, and you've yet to produce what he requires."

Armistead struggles to breathe from Strand's weight. Strand notices. He lays heavier on Armistead's chest.

"How've you been, Edward? Boy how I've missed you."

He gazes fixedly at Armistead. Pausing with a sense of reflection, "Been what, a month or so since you locked me in a cell and threw away the key?" Armistead growls for breath, "You killed Zynik. Tortured him to death.

Why?" Dr. Armistead struggles against his iron confines. Strand giggles, kisses Armistead's nose, and then slinks off. He stands facing the darkness, speaking to Armistead, completely disregarding the question. "You kind of lose all track of time when sitting in a puddle of your own shit and piss."

Strand turns back to Armistead, playfully flicking the doctor's nose. Strand stares intently at his old friend. "You took my skulls from me. I carved those with my bare hands! I spent hours sanding the insides. And for Zynik? Well, he got what was coming to him. I know you two have sabotaged the experiments. You were farther along than the last report you gave the council."

"You lie," Armistead struggles harder. "The transference is a complicated ritual that must not be taken lightly. If one rune is off, or the serum is too potent, you can be lost within the astral plane."

"No!" Strands shouts. Saliva splashes across Armistead's face. It has the aroma of a week-old carcass. "The Master knows the truth. You have the correct runes and the serum. X-37 is it not?"

The doctor's eyes widen from Strand's revelation. Armistead is the only person that knew Strand's serum worked. Not even Zynik fathomed how far the three doctors had come. The experiment was a success. He had the bodies incinerated for fear of the implications. Strand's knowledge of the serum terrified Armistead and Strand could see it across his face. "Man is not meant for such power," Armistead shouts. "We are dabbling in things that should not be. Our ancestors knew this and still, they continued. We cannot make the same mistake, Strand. I implore you to reconsider."

"Checkmate," Strand rejoices. He's beaten Armistead and both men know it. Armistead continues to struggle, "Goddamnit Strand, this is not a game."

"Oh, but it is Armistead. Life is always a game. We're two pieces on the same board being controlled by our masters." Strand slicks his oily hair back again. "The only difference between us is you no longer serve any usefulness. Now on to more pressing business, Armistead my boy." Strand changes the subject back to his skulls. His precious skulls that he covets more than anything in the world. A keepsake from his childhood.

Strand looks back to Armistead. His gaze is malicious with intent. "Did you know I had to boil the skulls for days just so I could pry them wider without breaking them?" Strand's demeanor swiftly changes at the thought of his skulls. The man lovingly strokes Dr. Armistead's face. Strand gently leans in and kisses his forehead.

"They were my babies, and you took them from me."

Without warning, Strand pulls out a scalpel then jabs it into the top of the doctor's forehead. Armistead screams. Strand grab's the doctor's jaw and dives the scalpel into his mouth. "Shh, shh my dear Armistead. Now's not the time for talking," Strand squeals with orgasmic laughter as he slices Armistead's tongue clean off. The doctor shrieks in pain. Warm blood pumps out of the wound. The taste of iron fills Armistead's mouth. Strand returns to methodically tracing the scalpel around Armistead's face. The doctor continues to wail relentlessly, but the restraints keep him from breaking free of the torture. Blood oozes out of the lines created by the scalpel.

As the blade reaches the starting point, the pseudo-surgeon digs his fingers into the seams and attempts to pull the skin back. At first, the facial muscles hold onto the skin. Strand starts to sings as he tugs. "There once was a man from Nantucket," he strains, "tendons were so strong." Armistead's agonizing cries overshadow Strand's song. The hymn of pain echoes through the empty, charred asylum.

"Almost got it." Strand is tugging encouragingly. The strained and weakened muscles release their grasp on Armistead's face. The thin man raises his prize up in the air; he twirls it around in a victory celebration. Placing the mask on his gaunt face, Strand peers back at the doctor.

"Look at me, I'm Dr. Armistead." Mockingly, he prances around the operating table, gesturing wildly as Armistead loses consciousness. Strand stops his revelry and looks down at the doctor.

"No time for sleeping. The party is just getting started."

He casually flings the flesh mask against the wall and walks into the shadows whence he came. He reappears with a small electrical saw.

"I must have a new mask for the ball. The Seven Devils are coming, Armistead. The Joining is close at hand, and the Master is bidding me follow. And what better way than to sacrifice the very man that made this auspicious occasion possible. Do you hear it?"

Strand perks his head up to the sky, like a dog hearing his master's call, "He's calling me to travel north, to the Walled City. Time to claim my prize." Strand rams the saw into the side of Armistead's face. Warm blood sprays across the pseudo-doctor's chest.

After moments of unimaginable pain, Dr. Armistead passes from this existence into the next. The pale man, covered in the doctor's vibrantly red blood, holds his new keepsake. Eyeing the skull like a child with a new toy, Strand wipes the blood away with his hands.

"I really must thank the man that set me free. He has a very remarkable skull indeed."

Strand vanishes back into the shadows with his trophy. Maniacal laughter echoes throughout the remainder of the scorched Sanitarium before subsiding into eternal silence.