The City

He trudged home from the hospital. It had been a long shift, and they kept getting longer, and there was still nothing that he or anyone else could do. Fluorescent lights flickered and showed the rows of beds that he passes as he walked out. The patients were all coughing, sneezing, and he could see the red welts that swelled on all their emaciated bodies.

            It was depressing, and he would have to be back here in six hours for another twelve-hour shift. There were fewer and fewer doctors these days, at least not in the city. Many had been sent to the front. He had thought that he was being clever when he applied for a position at the government sanctioned hospital, able to avoid the war, but he was wrong. The war was here, but of a different kind, and it was one they were losing.

            The doctor made it to the hospital lobby that had long since been turned into the decontamination zone. He took off his biohazard suit before entering the harsh chemical shower. He scrubbed as hard as he could, as if the pressure were enough to squeeze out the infinitesimal virus. Afterward, he stepped in a scanner and stuck his arm into the slot. While lights flashed around him, a needle extended from the tube and took a blood sample. After a few minutes, a green light flashed. He was free to go.

            When he finished, he grabbed a uniform gray shirt and pants that were provided to everyone, and kept his head down as he pushed open the grimy glass door that was covered with tarp that led to the rows of guards outside. He flashed his ID at the one of the guards, who nodded and let him pass.

            It was nighttime outside. Whenever his shift ended, he never knew what time of day it would be. He would make bets with himself for his own amusement. Today he had guessed correctly that it would be dark outside, which meant that he would allow himself to use one of his hours of allotted electricity. 

            While he was glad that he was getting a break from the hospital, the way home was the worst. A clear path was demarked from the hospital to his apartment, fenced off from the rest of the public. Those who were sick lied in various states of illness, and every day an unlucky few were selected to move the bodies of those who had died.  Dozens of people were at the edge of the fence, moaning and pleading for help, his help, but there was no help to be given. He was no research doctor, and he didn't know of who was searching for a cure.

            The Commonwealth sent messages every morning through the radio, and each message was about the victories on the battlefront or of recent breakthroughs on curing The Disease. At the beginning, these messages had brought hope, but now it was a monotonous repetition of propaganda. 

            Once he made it half a mile from the hospital, the number of those dwindling outside the electrified fence thinned out until there was not a soul in sight. There was just the sound of rubber soles hitting cold concrete, and shadows to hide the desolation around him. 

_______________

            In his apartment, a speaker had been installed to assure that he arose from sleep. Half an hour before each shift, Renee from the Commonwealth HR rang him up on the PA system, and every time he woke to her whining voice.

            "Dr. Moreau? Dr. Moreau, honey, it's time to get up."

            He had never met Renee, but he imagined her as a grumpy old lady, sitting in a cramped cubicle with pictures of missing grandchildren tacked to the sides. In the old days, he would have pictured her with a bowl of those strawberry candies on her desk as well, but he had not seen so much as a Hershey's bar in years. 

            Sliding out of bed, he grumbled to himself and walked over to the speaker and pressed a button to speak.

            "I'm up, Renee."