Fear of the Dark

Good morning Caesarea.

Pure air slithered through the widening gap as David’s glass bedcover detached, retracting to the ceiling. He lay there under the covers, letting the familiar radio voice of Tom Tolleran erode away the sleep still in his eyes.

It’s a steamy ninety-two degrees today, no chance of rain. Forecasters predict no end to the draught any time soon. The Order of Health has extended their call for conservation of water. Daily allowances per household are still in effect, so don’t get your hopes up for long showers just yet, and keep praying for rain.

David fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He swung one leg and then the other over the side of his bed, slouching forward. The bedcover whined impatiently and began to lower, bumping into David’s head.

“I’m up; I’m up, damn,” he mumbled, starting towards the bathroom. Behind him, the air-tight bed sealed shut. The news followed David into the next room.

A neighborhood health clinic was bombed yesterday. This is the third bombing in a string of attacks on alleged abortion clinics. The Order of Justice has yet to name any suspects, but believes suicide tactics may be involved. Top story again today, as it has been for too long I’m afraid: Plague. Reports continue to pour in from all over the country. The death toll in Caesarea alone has reached nearly one million victims in just six months.

David splashed cold water on his face and leaned forward against the sink, one hand on each side of it. The water shut off after a few seconds, and he cursed lightly. Michael, his son, must have used up their morning ration of water already. Reluctantly rubbing extra deodorant under his arms, David stared past himself in the mirror.

Despite its pandemic magnitude, scientists are still baffled as to what is behind the now trademark red swelling of the head, delirium, and eventual death of victims. The High Order urges the public not to panic, to trust in God’s plan, and to pray for His mercy. We have to go to commercial, but after the break, we’ll hear from Susan with the traffic. This is Tom Tolleran, WHMG, and I’ll be back every hour, on the hour. God bless us, and God help us.

In the kitchen, Michael was already sitting down with a bowl of cereal. He was dressed in the black sports coat and pants uniform to his high school. Golden thread spelled HSS112 across his breast pocket: Holy Savior School 112.

David, now in his dress clothes and lab coat for work, crossed behind Michael and opened the fridge, producing bread, mayonnaise, and some turkey slices.

“It’s Wednesday,” Michael said, lifting a coffee mug to his lips.

“Shit.” David put the meat away and stuck a piece of bread in the toaster instead. “And when did you start drinking coffee?”

“Two years ago,” Michael replied flatly. He unfolded a newspaper and began reading.

David stood and Michael sat without talking. When the toaster broke the silence, David jumped in unison with the bread.

“You used our entire supply of water this morning yourself,” David said, scraping butter across the burnt toast. He missed Julia. She always got it just brown enough.

“Did I?” Michael said, not looking up from the paper.

David swung around the table and pulled the newspaper down from in front of his son’s face. “I’m just asking for a little courtesy, Michael. That’s all.”

“Sorry,” he replied, snapping the paper back up.

David’s stomach turned when he saw what his son was reading. “His Voice? How can you buy that crap?”

“It’s not crap. These are the only people that will tell it like it is. Look, this article here. Every other paper in the city is reporting the plague like a ball game. All they care about is the score and when it’ll be over. His Voice is calling it a test from God. The faithful will persevere in God’s love, waiting for Him to deliver the pure. They’re saying not even to wear those stupid masks and gloves – ‘Denunciations of faith by those who no longer trust in God’ they’re saying.”

“You’re not actually considering that rubbish, are you? You have to wear protection outside.”

“It’s not rubbish, and I don’t have to listen to you, I’m eighteen years old,” Michael spat.

“You’re still in school, and you still live in my house. Wear the damn…” David began, but the doorbell interrupted him.

David looked to the front door and then back at Michael. “Wear your mask and gloves, for me, please?”

Michael sighed. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” David left Michael to finish his breakfast before school and made for the door.

He strung the filter mask over his mouth and nose and plucked a clean pair of gloves from the box next to the door, pulling them on as well. The airlock door split and slid to either side, revealing two centurions of the High Order on his doorstep.

“Dr. Magnus?” the one on the right said.

“Yes. How I can help you, brothers?”

The other centurion slid one arm from within his flowing red robe, producing a decree with the High Order’s seal visible at the bottom. “His Highness requires your presence. We are to take you to His chambers. We are to leave immediately.”

“What is this about? I was just on my way to work.”

“That’s classified, doctor. Please come with us,” the right centurion replied, pulling his robe back slightly to reveal the gun on his waist. “We insist.”

The elevator ride to the top floor of the High Order’s Citadel was just as silent, and took nearly as long, as David’s escorted drive there had been. He always got a sense of vertigo as he approached the Citadel. It dwarfed even the tallest skyscrapers in Caesarea, jutting into the sky at the dead center of the city. It reached such heights that it seemed to bend with the horizon as you came nearer. How many floors the Citadel actually housed was, of course, classified.

With no indication of which floor they were passing, David spent the ride recalling the one other time he had been so far up the Citadel, thirteen years earlier. That was five years after Julia died. Most people would never meet Patriarch Gaius in person, let alone in his sanctum. Hopefully, the Patriarch would be happier to see him this time.

On the top floor, David and the centurions passed through a large chamber which served as a waiting room where all who called upon the Patriarch gathered, waiting their turn to see His Holiness, which may never come to pass. David was beckoned in immediately.

When the doors to the inner sanctum opened, David’s breath was taken away, despite himself, just as it was last time. Patriarch Gaius’ inner sanctum was a sight to behold. The floor was one sprawling mosaic, depicting events from the Holy Book in vivid detail. Portraits of past Patriarchs lined the walls like soldiers, gazing back from beyond time. Silver candelabras – the sole sources of light in the room – spread out across the entire floor, leaving only a narrow path to walk. At the end of that path, a golden staircase with red carpet climbed up into the gargantuan depths of the sanctum’s ceiling, which lay unseen behind the blackness that the candlelight could not reach. On each step perched a pair of Little Sisters: united at birth, covered in robes from head to toe, and sworn to serve the Patriarch and God until death. At the top of these steps, illuminated by torches to either side of his ornate throne, Patriarch Gaius himself sat in meditation.

“Dr. Magnus,” the Patriarch called from atop his tower. David looked around and suddenly found himself the only one in the room not kneeling, and he begrudgingly did so.

“Patriarch Gaius,” David shouted up, a bit louder than needed, while keeping his eyes down “Closest man to God in the room, as always, I see.”

The centurions on either side of David shot him nasty looks. Patriarch Gaius held out a hand, letting out a wrinkled laugh. “Still sharp, after all these years. I like that.”

“It must be an acquired taste. I seem to recall words like “blasphemer” and “heretic” tossed around last time,” David said, raising his gaze to meet the Patriarch’s.

“How times have changed, yes? Plague besets our blessed nation, and we are powerless to ease the suffering of God’s children. One million dead, David. One million, and we are no closer to a cure or even a preventative measure than we were six months ago.” The Patriarch stood and began a slow descent toward David. The Little Sisters on each step parted as Gaius glided past them. “All our breakthroughs in medicine, studies in virology, bacteriology – all wondrous contributions guiding us toward God’s truth, sparked by you just thirteen years ago – have gotten us nowhere. It would seem we are lost.” Gaius reached the bottom of the staircase and extended his hand, lifting David’s chin. “God calls upon you once again for a miracle, David.”

“Well, if you’re still speaking for God, Patriarch, maybe you’ll be kind enough to remember that you’re the one who expelled me from the medical community and pulled me away from my own research in the first place. Maybe God should make up his mind before asking for my help again.”

Gaius scowled and turned his back to David and the centurions. “Leave us.” The centurions hesitated and then turned. “All of you,” Gaius shouted. The Little Sisters stood, beginning to cry, and filed out of the sanctum in two lines. David stood.

“Let me cut to the chase, as they say, Dr. Magnus. I am authorizing an emergency autopsy of a plague victim. It is held as an abomination by God, but I see no other choice if we are to survive.”

“Now? Now you authorize human autopsy? After all these years letting doctors fumble around in the dark when treating patients? Now, on the brink of extinction, you’re going to let us take a look under the hood? Don’t you think you’re a little late, Patriarch?”

“People are dying!” Gaius growled, “I will not let my country waste away. I will not let my people rot!”

“Don’t you mean God’s people, Patriarch?”

Gaius stretched his lips tightly across his face. “Will you or will you not attempt to save our kind? You have proven useful and eager to butcher your fellow man in the past, and your name is already spoiled. You can suffer no greater shame for this act than you have already.”

David closed his eyes. One million people.

“I’ll do it.”

David jumped back as a rock crashed against the bulletproof glass of the Citadel’s cruiser driving him to the morgue. It was the following day, and he knew it would be bad, but this was insane. It was all that ultra-conservative bullshit from His Voice that was stirring this up; it had to be. Protestors lined the streets leading to the morgue for blocks. Angry faces shouted – what, he could not hear. He could see the signs they held, though – ABOMINATION, BLASPHEMY, MONSTER.

“When we reach the front door, I’ll have my men inside the morgue open up – two centurions at the gates. You’ll only have to be out in the open for a few seconds, but move quickly,” Brother Virgil explained. He was a high-ranking priest in the Church assigned to protect David throughout his investigation into the plague.

The car pulled up alongside the building, having to move slowly to avoid running down the protestors. “Ready?” Virgil asked.

David nodded, and Virgil spoke with his centurions over the phone.

“Go!” he yelled, flinging the door open.

David was pushed from the passenger door of the car, Virgil close behind him. He could hear the car pull off as soon as they got out. The doors to the morgue pulled open ahead of him. He felt the cries and screams of contempt from the crowd wash over him. Halfway to the building, another rock whizzed by David’s face. He looked in the direction from where it came and saw a familiar face which also looked surprised to see him.

As soon as David and Virgil crossed the threshold, the doors snapped shut behind them, muffling the angry cries of the mob. David huffed for breath.

“Are you alright?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah. Yeah. My son. My son was in that crowd. He’s supposed to be at school. He didn’t know I was going to be here.”

Virgil stood for a moment in silence while David caught his breath. “This way,” he said, gesturing down the hall. David watched the priest walk away, his black robes billowing behind him down the hall, and then he followed. The two centurions posted inside stood guard by the door.

David caught up with Virgil. “I’m glad to see there’s at least one man of the cloth not quite so blinded by the light.”

“What do you mean?” Virgil asked, continuing to walk forward.

“Well, you’re here, right? There must be some part of you curious about the human body – our inner workings, the body, the mind – right?”

Virgil stopped. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, doctor. I am here because Patriarch Gaius ordered me to watch over you and your little exploration into heresy. Personally, I believe what you are doing to be an abomination, and I would like nothing more than to be outside among the protestors, but I have far too much faith in our Father and his holy link to God to do so. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Perfectly,” David croaked dejectedly. Virgil led him to the autopsy room in silence.

The airlock leading into the morgue hissed open, revealing a sterile, white chamber containing masks, scrubs, gloves, and a pair of sinks. David took off the protection he had been wearing outside and began the familiar wash-up procedure, but Virgil did not.

“Not going to scrub up?” David asked.

“I’ll do without. It was you, yes? The one behind all this?” Virgil motioned to the sinks and air-locked doors.

David wiped his hands and began to dawn his medical clothing. “Yes, I’m that Dr. Magnus.”

“I’ve been serving under His Highness for thirty years, and I have never seen him so furious as that day.”

“The Patriarch spent his entire life trying to hide the truths evident to any man with a free, thinking mind. He wanted people to go on believing they got sick because they didn’t pray hard enough; their baby died because they didn’t love God enough.”

“How do you do it? Nobody asked you to loose this forbidden knowledge. Nobody wants airlocks or oxygen scrubbers – we are merely slaves to them now for fear of what you say lives in the very air we breath! The Patriarch was only trying to preserve God’s divine word and tradition, as the people have wanted for centuries,” Virgil said.

“He was preserving lies and fairytales! Once I got the truth out, he could not hold it back any longer – the people wanted to know. I spent just ten years researching how we transmit disease and infection, and look at how far we’ve come!”

“Why yes, you’re correct. Look upon it and despair,” Virgil said. The door to the next room opened, and the stench of death surrounded them.

The morgue did not resemble any of the sterile, hospitalized rooms the outside world had come to know. Autopsies were unheard of in Caesarea, thus morgues were nothing more than storerooms for bodies awaiting burial. The floor was black and white tile, which looked like it’d never been cleaned. Coffin-sized drawers lined the walls – who knows how many dead this room had seen passing through. A single light hung from the ceiling, providing an unhealthy glow across the table in the center of the room. A woman’s body lay naked on the table.

David approached it, the anticipation of dissecting a real human being swelling into terrible excitement within him. No more animal substitutes or theory-craft – he would be the first doctor in Caesarea to witness the inner workings of the human body. He picked up a scalpel from the tray of instruments provided for him next to the table. Virgil stood a squeamish distance back.

“Let us begin,” David said, lowering the blade to the dead woman’s chest. And then he cut.

“I can’t believe you would hide something like this from me!” Michael screamed. They were arguing in the kitchen that night.

“Michael, I’m sorry; it was classified. I thought only myself and the Patriarch knew about it – I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but judging by that mob outside, somebody certainly talked.”

“Yeah, well I’m glad they did. Now your face is all over the news, and everyone can see what a disgrace our family name has become.”

“Disgrace? The Patriarch asked me to do this! More people are dying every day. He’s trying to put a stop to it.”

“The Patriarch is obviously falling out of grace with God. Our God would never allow you to perform such barbarism. My friends at the protest had all kinds of things to say about that old man.”

“’That old man?’ He’s the Patriarch; have some respect!” David’s hand went to his mouth. “Oh God, did I just say that?”

Michael slumped down into a chair at the kitchen table. “Your shameful actions make mom cry in her grave.”

David bit his lip. “If everyone had listened to me instead of ‘that old man,’ your mother wouldn’t be in a grave.”

“Whatever,” Michael said, laying his head in his arms.

“And I don’t want you hanging out with those fanatics anymore. They’re putting crazy ideas in your head. Those are probably the same sick monsters that are blowing up health clinics when they suspect a doctor is giving abortions. They’re dangerous. I expect you to be at school tomorrow, not out on the streets trying to stone your own father, for God’s sake.”

“Whatever.”

David sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry you are part of this because I am.”

Michael looked up. “If you’re sorry, then don’t do it.”

David hesitated a moment, then headed back toward his bedroom to get ready to sleep. It had been a long day, and tomorrow looked no shorter.

The autopsy turned up nothing – no trace of viral or bacterial infection. No organs damaged beyond what was to be expected by normal decomposition – lungs, heart, kidneys, liver, stomach – everything checked out fine. It was certainly overwhelming for David as a learning experience in human anatomy, but he had turned up nothing about the plague.

He had checked the woman from neck to foot, unable to find anything. When he was about to begin work on the head, Virgil stopped him.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you continue, doctor.”

“What’s the matter?” David enquired, looking up from nearly incising the ear.

“Orders from the Patriarch.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I was to let you look at the woman’s body, not her mind, the holiest of holies. If you feel you’ve found nothing in her body relating to the plague, and you’ve wasted both our time here, I am to report back to the Patriarch for further instructions.”

David did not argue. There was no point. All he could do was wait. He sat up in bed studying the anatomy of various animal brains, waiting until the call finally came. It was Brother Virgil.

“It appears you will have your victory, doctor. The Patriarch has given his consent at further dissection. I will pick you up in the morning.”

David was quiet for most of the car ride to the morgue the following day. He woke face to face with his picture in the morning copy of His Voice. It had “HERETIC” scrawled across it in red ink. He could only assume Michael did it – most of his things were gone when David checked.

“Yesterday, brother, you asked me how I do it. How I can continue to search for the truth even if it seems like nobody else is interested in finding it.”

Virgil said nothing.

“You said, people didn’t want the truth; they are just too afraid of what I say to forget it and go back to how things were, but I think you have it backwards. It’s the Patriarch that breeds fear. It’s that fear of the dark that keeps people in line. As long as the truth is kept from them, they’re forced to believe whatever the man in charge wants to tell them. When you’re in the dark, false truths are more reassuring than the unknown.”

The Citadel cruiser began its run down the gauntlet of protestors – more than yesterday.

“You’ve got it all wrong, David. It’s not fear the Patriarch and the High Order wish to sow among God’s children. It’s hope. You offer them your version of the truth – scientific explanations for things people used to consider miraculous – but what do they gain? Nothing but despair and confusion. People seek comfort in the Order. What is more comforting? The idea that your loved one is part of God’s plan and was chosen join God’s side in the next life, or the idea that your loved one had a one in eight chance of catching the plague and, too bad, she was unlucky?”

David grimaced. “It’s not about luck and comfort. It’s about helping people. Did the Patriarch ever tell you why I became so obsessed with my studies in virology and bacteriology? I watched my wife, Julia, die of infection in the hospital after giving birth to our son. I had been saying for months that doctors should wash their hands between treating patients because of research I had been doing on bacteria, but people laughed at me. After Julia died, I became consumed by my work, and I stockpiled evidence until it could no longer be written off as coincidence. Doctors started washing their hands in the hospital, and guess what? Patients stopped dying of infections they didn’t have when they walked in. I’m not concerned with fostering hope in mankind – I’m concerned with keeping it around a bit longer.”

“We’re here,” Virgil said.

David had done it. He had found the cause of the plague. Shortly after starting work on the ear canal of the body, he took a nerve tissue sample from deep inside the ear. Studying it under the microscope on his equipment tray, David had to muster every ounce of control not to jump at what he saw. Bugs – tiny, tiny mites infesting the nerve tissue. Who knows where they originated, but it made perfect sense. The swelling, the delirium, they were the effects of the mites chewing away at nerve tissue around the brain. Enough inflammation would eventually put enough pressure on the brain to cause death. They didn’t show up on any tests looking for viruses or bacteria because they were neither. He had his answer.

“What do you see?” Brother Virgil asked.

“Nothing,” said David. He set the slide aside for later. He’d be damned if he was going to give Virgil another excuse to halt his progress in the autopsy. If he showed him what he had found, he may call a stop to the brain dissection, proclaiming the answer already found. David reached for the circular saw.

Virgil’s phone rang.

“I see,” Virgil spoke into the phone. He looked up at David. “They say one of the protestors approached the door and refuses to leave. He claims that his name is Michael and that he is your son.”

David set the saw down, unsure of what to do. Did Michael had a change of heart after running away? He couldn’t turn him away – he may never come back.

“Virgil, tell them to let him in. Please”

Virgil gave David a very suspicious glance, but nodded, relaying the message to his centurions.

David stepped through the airlock, took off his medical garb, and washed up. Virgil stayed behind to watch the body. After cleaning himself, David stepped into the hallway to meet a haggard looking Michael. He didn’t have his mask or gloves on.

“Mikey, I was so worried about you. I thought I’d lost you forever the way you left this morning.” David swept his arms around his son.

“Dad, I love you.”

“I love you too, Mikey.”

“Please stop what you’re doing here.”

David opened his eyes, which had been shut tightly attempting to hold back tears, and looked at his son.

“You know I can’t, son. People are depending on me. I’m going to put an end to this plague, I promise.”

“Dad, please, just leave with me right now. God will forgive you. Please leave while you still can.”

“Michael, what are you talking about?” David asked, pulling away and putting his hands on his son’s face.

“Walk down the hall and through those doors with me. Come back to God. Please dad, for both of us.”

David dropped his arms and his gaze. “I’m sorry Mikey, I can’t. What I’m doing is too important.”

Michael’s eyes sunk, and he turned around. “So is what I’m doing,” he whispered, beginning to walk down the hall.

David watched him go, and then turned around, his throat tightening up. The children of God better damn well appreciate the sacrifice of his own son to save them. He wondered if any of them even cared about saving their mortal bodies, or if all that mattered to them was some immaterial dream of an immortal soul. He’d never know.

He went back into the dank morgue, the stink of death stronger than ever.

“What was that all about?” Virgil asked.

“Nothing. It’s just… nothing.” David took his place next to the cadaver and reached for his instrument.

The airlock door shot open, startling both David and Virgil. Standing in it, the two centurions grappled with a snarling man, David recognized him from the crowd outside. They tried to get their arms around his right hand. David had just enough time to see that the man’s jacket was unzipped, revealing enough explosives strapped to his chest to level the building. The centurions were trying to wrestle away the detonator in the man’s hands, but he managed to free one hand long enough to jam his thumb down on the button.

“God,” Virgil whispered.

“Julia,” David whispered.

]]> http://www.shockinglyliterate.com/fear-of-the-dark/feed/ 0