31
Panská 12, Prague, Czech Republic
November 29
The smooth carpet ran down the length of the main foyer, the floor so shiny the Healer could almost see his reflection in it. Untouched, as if no one passed the threshold anymore. Glimmering chandeliers hung on domed ceilings above, the brightest lights he had seen in many months.
It had been a hotel once, this place, but the front desk was empty, left in pristine condition by the last employee to leave. There was no building directory, no guest list, nothing to go by. He started up the polished wooden stairwell, watching his surroundings closely.
In the corners of some steps were white and yellow flakes, like a strong antiseptic that wasn’t properly washed away. There were pots of flowers on every fifth step, as if the smell of daisies could drown out the industrial-strength cleansing. The flowers were new, so someone had been there recently.
At each door was a camera encased in a dark glass dome. At one room, a brown paper bag sat outside the door, its bottom stained with some kind of grease. A room at the far end of the hall had at least two dozen newspapers stacked before it.
By the third floor, the walls were decorated in fine wood panelling, accented with classic-looking murals. The lighting was all finer, the bulbs all aimed at the ceiling for a calm, subdued feel. He passed by a large mirror, and paused there, seeing how foreign he looked.
On the fifth floor, the final change. Down the hallway and on the left was a simple wooden stool, straddled by a large squarish man in a green military uniform. The man was already watching the Healer as he reached the floor, but he made no move. He just watched.
The Healer walked slowly down the hallway, but there were no other doors to check. He stopped a safe distance away from the man, who was still watching him passively. He had bright orange hair, and his uniform bore no stars, no commendations, just two simple “U.S.” pins on each lapel, and the name “Shaw” on his chest.
The two of them stared at each other for quite a while, no movements, as if in the midst of a duel that neither would admit to.
The Healer slowly, deliberately, reached out a hand and knocked on the door.
Shaw placed a firm grip on the Healer’s forearm and squeezed. His green eyes were not angry, just professional, and he shook his head slightly, as if his say-so would let the Healer concede defeat.
The Healer kept his stare at the larger man, and with some strain, knocked on the door again: one, two, three.
Shaw seemed to grit his teeth at this, maybe amused. Suddenly, he swung the Healer’s arm down and away, and with the other hand pinned him against the far side of the enclave, fingers wrapped tightly around the armoured casing on his neck.
The Healer moved fast, grabbing hold of Shaw’s arm, twisting it. The sudden pressure made Shaw lose his grip, and the Healer pushed the arm down and backwards, up behind his back.
The man barely reacted to the move, and with his other arm reached back and grabbed the Healer’s chest. With a bit of a crack in his twisted arm, he heaved strongly enough to break the Healer’s grip, and threw him across the hall and into one of the murals that hung there.
The Healer regained his footing quickly, and Shaw cricked his shoulder, grimacing at the sensation. The Healer made a point to not make any sudden moves, but his opponent had no such concern: his right hand slid to his side and pulled his pistol from its holster, swinging it up towards the Healer’s mask.
The Healer was prepared. He side-stepped, grabbed Shaw’s wrist and twisted until her heard a crack, and then with his other hand caught the falling gun and threw it down the hall. When he looked back up, it was too late to stop Shaw’s fist from hitting him in the side of the head, and was spun round by the impact.
His suit whined a warning, his heart rate increasing, and he heard a constant ringing in his ears. He backed up instinctively to give himself room to think. Shaw took the time to diagnose his wrist, and seemed to write it off, letting that arm hang loose by his side.
They watched each other for another moment, and then Shaw lunged forward, his punch missing, and was caught with an armoured elbow to the neck, and then a swift low kick to the legs that sent him sprawling.
Shaw landed on the crimson carpet and rolled to his back with some difficulty. The Healer was already turned, ready for more, his cloak swung back and his machete now clearly visible at his side.
The Healer held out his hand in a warning, and shook his head slowly, but Shaw was too stubborn or honour-bound to give up. He got to his feet, his knees smarting from the kick, and pulled himself straight, though his body looked ragged.
The Healer shook his head slowly one more time, keeping his hand out, but adjusting his stance to be ready for the next move.
Then it came: Shaw grabbed the Healer’s outstretched hand and twisted, pulling back. It would have worked, but it was predictable, and the Healer spun round, his elbow finding its mark on Shaw’s nose. There was a loud crack and Shaw gasped, his grip gave way, and the Healer kicked his feet out from under him again, grabbing his wrist on the way down and pinning him on the floor with his arm twisted up behind his back.
Shaw’s nose was bleeding on the carpet, red on red, his breathing rough and bubbly, but he turned his head enough to see his attacker through bruised eyes. He said something in a tired but vengeful voice that the Healer didn’t understand — his English was worse than his German — and then started jerking about, trying to get loose.
The Healer held him there for a minute, watching him fight uselessly.
With his other hand, the Healer grabbed Shaw by the back of the neck and pulled him upright, then let go of his arm and let him turn around, limping and wrecked, his face a swollen bloody mess. The Healer stood a safe distance away, machete in his hand, ready. He pointed down the hall to the stairwell, then his weapon, and left it at that.
Shaw watched silently; then, after spitting out a pair of teeth, turned around and slowly creaked down the hall, his stride a sad imitation of pride. The Healer waited until he was on the stairwell and out of sight before turning his attention to the door.
It took him only a minute to dislodge the handle and push the door open. The room inside was unlike the rest of the building. It was grey, the blinds drawn with all the lamps off, and the walls were stark and bare, like a home waiting to be lived in.
There were blankets across all the floors, and a large white sofa oddly-placed in the middle of the main room, pointed at the windows as if the dirty shafts of light that shot through were somehow worth watching. At the end of the sofa, the Healer noticed a pair of socked feet lazily waving from side to side. Dancing to music no one else could hear.
The Healer took another step forward, and heard a scraping, a metallic grind under his foot, looked down. It was a spoon, rough and beaten, stained in the middle with a dark substance, like a makeshift boiler. And there, another spoon. And another, and mixed in between were used needles. Thin ones at that. The Healer navigated his way to the sofa, careful to avoid stepping on anything dangerous. There he stopped, looking down on poor Lewis Kwong.
He was old and exhausted, so thin he almost didn’t look human, and his skin hung loose on his body, scarred and wrinkled from years of abuse. He was wrapped in a military jacket, highly decorated, high rank, resting heavy on his frail chest. His left arm was out of the sleeve, instead resting loose by his side, a tourniquet tied around the middle, purple pocked veins bulging, waiting for more.
The Healer picked a small packet of white powder off the back of the sofa, squeezing it gently between gloved fingers. Heroin, probably. He dropped the bag and rubbed his fingers along the white upholstery.
Kwong opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the weak light to his left, and turned his gaze to the Healer, pupils flushed wide. He didn’t react, but was watching carefully.
The Healer removed his black pouch and placed it on the back of the seat, removed a vial and put it towards Kwong. With abrupt dexterity, Kwong moved his arm away and into his jacket, and his eyes narrowed, judging.
He said something in English, and the Healer shook his head to it. He motioned with his needle, but Kwong rolled himself to his side, and then sat up, wobbling, his back to the Healer, and exhaled.
“Why you here?” he said in Mandarin, the voice weak and tortured. His accent was heavy and his words very simple, like a very old child fumbling through the language.
“I not with… use… any illness,” Kwong said.
The Healer paused, seemed to think.
“You may be sick,” he said. “With a deadly disease. I must sample your blood now.”
Kwong shook his head, curled up a bit.
“My sick, all me. My fault.”
“That may be,” said the Healer.
Kwong turned around part-way, eyes narrow and pained, lips trembling with fear or hurt or self-pity. “Then let me die,” he said, and he meant ‘alone’.
The Healer shook his head gravely, and Kwong winced. The Healer showed him the needle, the grey display, what must be done.
“I must sample your blood, because you have infected others,” he said slowly, hoping the meaning would get across. “We cannot cure them without this sample.”
They sat there in silence for a moment.
Kwong turned on the sofa, and put out his arm towards the Healer, and closed his eyes tightly, as if he’d never had a needle before, and the thought of blood scared him. The Healer filled a first vial easily, and as he was attaching the second, Kwong spoke, his eyes still closed.
“Grandfather taught me language,” he said. “I never study big. Wish now I did. So much to say.”
The Healer waited until the second vial was full and then switched to the third. He didn’t speak.
“I am alone here, this city,” continued Kwong after a time. “I cannot go home. My family… I cannot see. Too sick in Europe. All safe at home in America.”
The Healer nodded to show he understood.
“I am waiting to die,” Kwong said. “Can you know when?”
The Healer met his imploring eyes as the last of the blood was drawn. He slid it into his device and let the tests run. As the characters flashed by, he lowered it to his side, nodding slightly to the old man.
“I sorry for my faults,” he said, on the verge of tears now. “Can you… tell family about me?”
The Healer didn’t respond, but looked away, then down at his diagnosis. He paged to the next screen, then back.
“What is it?” Kwong asked, as the Healer was reaching for his blue pouch. Kwong stood up quickly, spun round to face the Healer, defiant. “What is it?” he said again.
The Healer left his pouch where it was, lowered his hands to his side, bowed.
“You carry a deadly virus,” he said. “If you live, you will kill anyone you see.”
Kwong closed his mouth, gritted his teeth and the Healer could see the muscles in his jaw clench beneath the sagging skin. He closed his eyes and nodded ever so slightly.
“It is over,” he said.
The Healer nodded, though Kwong did not see it.
The old soldier put his arm out again, a small trickle of blood wrapped round his elbow from the earlier pricks. He took a long, deep breath, and opened his eyes, squarely at the Healer.
Then, in an instant, his eyes twitched to the left and back, and the Healer heard the faint sound of metal grinding behind him; he spun to the side as a loud crack rang out. Kwong’s chest popped with a gushing red wound, and he stumbled backwards, onto his knees.
Shaw was standing in the doorway, pistol out, a quick look of shock and regret in his eyes as he realized what he’d done. The Healer was off-balance, but saw the gun veer towards him, and ducked down towards the kitchenette behind him.
A searing pain ripped through his shoulder, and he felt the horrible sting of antiseptic as his suit reacted to a bullet wound. He collapsed back around the corner, sliding against the wall.
Behind the sofa, the life had drained out of Kwong, his eyes glazed over with shock and confusion, and his mouth swung open and closed a few times before he toppled backwards onto the floor. Shaw cursed loudly in a stuffed, nasally voice, and the Healer could hear heavy footsteps as he marched forwards over the spoons and needles. When the gun peeked beyond the corner, the Healer was gone, a streak of blood against the wall heading into the kitchen.
Shaw turned himself with his back to the wall, the gun leading him, and slowly edged towards the opening, following the trail. His breaths were slow and quiet as the nose of the pistol edged a bit beyond the entranceway…
Before he could make his move, a crunch erupted beside him and his elbow was crushed by a powerful blow, making his hand spasm and the gun fall from his fingers.
The Healer caught it ably, coming around the corner, right arm loose and useless, his cloak dark and shiny where the bullet had passed. He left his machete punctured through both the wall and Shaw’s elbow, holding him hostage.
He paused a moment, watching his prey.
Then, almost cruelly, he shook his head from side to side, and tossed the gun across the room. The two of them stayed there another moment, the sound of Shaw’s blood dripping in a pool below him. His breathing was getting ragged and urgent, and he fought back a scream.
The Healer turned slightly, leaned around the corner into the kitchen, and Shaw felt a sharp pain as the machete shifted in the wall. He scowled at the Healer, his cheek twitching involuntarily.
Then, with a jerk, the machete came free from his arm, from the wall, and he had a moment of levity before the blade swung back around and tore through his bare neck, and he felt nothing at all.
The Healer paced back from the scene, reaching over the sofa, grabbing his grey device from beside Kwong’s body. With shaky hands, he paged the screens, back and forth, pausing at the last: “xFacto Emaciator 1.0”, it read. “3rd Generation Infection”.
He squeezed the device until the plastic creaked in his grip.