Young Writers Society

The Guardians II

“Some say the Human species won't last a year.”

His body convulsed on the metal operating table, his eyes rolling back and his mouth spewing yellow. He was about to die.

“John, John, come on, stay with me! Come on!” I said, my worn out pink nails covered in blood.

He had brown eyes and brown skin, but the exhausting gray in his eyes matched the tiles of the Hospital floor.

“Stay with me!” I practically begged. More blood followed, out of his nose, ears, mouth. If he had enough energy, he would be coughing up gallons of it.

“GET ME PROVIGIL. NOW. HE NEEDS TWO DOSES.”

“Dr. Micheals, you know the rules, we can't waste medicine on patients unless 100% necessary.”

“100% NECESSARY? THIS MAN WILL DIE RIGHT NOW IF YOU DON'T. NOW GO!”

The nurse ran out the room, leaving me alone with a dying man. The monitor, the one recording the heart beat, stopped showing a steady rythem, instead there was non stop alarm.

No. No. No.

“Come on, John, come on.”

The nurse stepped back in, and as she did, his heartbeat flattened. He was dead.

“Dr. Micheals, it's no use.” the nurse said. She was new, hadn't even finished med school yet. It didn't matter, we needed all the help we could get. “We have to call it.”

John Carlton, 32 years old, died 2:22 PM. This was the 6th time that I heard a heartbeat flat line today, all from the same disease.

The problem with the virus was how fast it spread, how it had killed hundreds only on the first day. In Asia 352 people died on the first day, America 402, Europe 370 and Oceania 423 dead. The hard part of reading this, is you forget they're more than just numbers. They are brothers, sisters, mums, dads, best friends.

My shaking legs brought me to the hazard tent, undressing the plastic that covered me, that protected me. I entered the empty break room, absorbing the quiet and sat down. Six. Six dead.

I couldn't breathe.

Before the disease, I had only seen a handful of people die. I knew all their names, all their families, their causes of death. I was ashamed to say that from the people that died in front of me today, I only knew two names.

But I knew everyone's eye colour.

At 4:03 AM, a seven year old died with blue eyes. At 6:37 AM a senior with dark brown eyes, at 9:49, a seventeen year old boy – Jackson Peters, the football star from the local High School—green eyes.

Another brown eyes at 11:22, another blue eyes at 11:47. John Carlton, gray eyes, 2:33.

“Dr. Micheals” I need another minute. “Dr. Micheals” Please.

“Yes?” I said smiling. Always smiling.

In came Peach. Peach was 82 years old. Her husband had died at this Hospital a year ago. She came to visit us often.

“You look exhausted.” she said. I stood up and faced her. At least Peach looked good. Her white curls were sprung to life, her cheeks were glowing red, her smile peachy as ever.

“Well thank you for the compliment”, I said.

“Well, it wasn't meant to be one”, she said, staring me down.

“How can I help you?”, I asked.

“I've come to help you.”

“Peach, I really don't need a make-over, we've been over this remember?”

“Don't be absurd. Our world is being torn to shreds. Why are you thinking of make-up?”

'I'm not..I just assumed...” I hesitated.

“I've been cured, Dr. Micheals, from the virus.”

“I didn't even know you had it.” I said, surprised.

“Well, I didn't have it for long. When the first symptoms started to arrive, I went to visit the handsome man downstairs.”

“Patrick from the morgue?”

“No. No. Downstairs”, she said, as if I was the crazy one.

“How did he heal you?”, I asked, hesitatingly.

“Well, there was a girl who would hold your hands and all your pain would focus on the back of your hands. It really was quite unpleasant. Anyway, then the pain vanished. All of it. Even my back feels fine and my asthma is gone. The asthma I have had since I was a little girl, Dr. Micheals.

“Show me the back of your hand, Peach.” I ordered. On the back of her hand, was a tattoo of an infinite circle.

“Peach? You went to a tattoo parlor?” I asked shocked.

“Don't be silly, no, no, I went to Hell.” before I could even react to what she had said, I heard shouting.

“ON THE FLOOR! EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR!” a man came in, a gun in his trembling hand, and a little boy hanging on his shoulder. “NOW!”

I knelled down, my hands in the air, begging that Peach would do the same. She didn't. Instead she looked at the man's dark green eyes and asked him:

“Is that boy alright?”

“NO! HE'S NOT! HE NEEDS CARE RIGHT NOW! HE'S AT STAGE THREE.” the man was shouting, but they were calls for help, not threats.

“Sir, if you put the gun away, I can help.”

I was lying. We hadn't been able to help anyone yet. Maybe slow down the process, but cure, like Peach supposedly was, had never happened.

“NO! I WILL SAY WHAT DOES AND DOESN'T HAPPEN! NOW GET UP AND HELP HIM!”, he shouted, setting the boy on the sofa, still pointing the gun at me.

“Okay...Okay...”, I said, getting up, “I need to check his heart. How do you know he's at stage three?”

“He...umh...he..he was bleeding out of his nose...oh god...umh...he had a....convulsion.”

“Why didn't you bring him in sooner?”

“BECAUSE THERE IS A NO CURE! WHATS THE POINT!”

I stood up and faced him, our heights matching up perfectly, “Then why bring him now?”

“Because I'm....Because...BECAUSE I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE. He's the only thing I have left, please, please, help him.”

“I'll try my best. I can't promise anything.”

“But I can.” Peach said, her eyes filled with determination, “I was cured. I can save your boy and I can stop you from ever being sick too.”

“How?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Peach! Stop! You can't promise that!” I said.

She stepped back, looked around the room, and grabbed the permanent marker on the desk, then started to draw a pentagon star on the floor.

“Peach? What are you doing?” I asked, hesitantly.

“SSH!” she simply said, holding a finger out to silence me. “Pass me my purse, will you dear, please.”

The man, the man keeping us hostage, passed the purse like a good grandson. Peach, rumbled through it, grabbing a small wax candle and a lighter. She lit it in the center and stepped back, grinning.

“He will be here shortly.” she said.

“Who? Who will be here shortly?” I asked, stepping back. 

The black ink, turned a fire red, silencing the room. I looked around, half of me wanted to burst out laughing, officially claiming that we had all lost it, but the other half, was dead quiet. I could not ignore the sudden cold and emptiness I was feeling.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed my foot. I looked down, only to glance a bit of gray pulling me down in the floor. 

The hospital room was empty now.