“Is Doctor Death accepting patients without appointments?” I wasn’t sure if I had spoken, or if I had fainted and was currently dreaming.
Blood slicked through my fingers as I endeavoured to hold myself together. The world moved in front of my eyes as if it were dancing and theman in front of me turned black and white like an old movie. He stood armed with his comrades in a pack of guards to keep the hospital free of corruption.
This year they had set up in a gymnasium and had drawn the line of blood around the building in the dirt.
This line was an uncrossable line.
One side was the Execution Battle where rules and laws did not apply, on the other side was the hospital. No one was allowed to fight in the hospital. More Soulless code, just like their white flags for trade. Once you paid for medical treatment and received it on the other side of the line, no one was allowed to come inside and attack you.
The evil bastards had given themselves at least some order.
A man hung out the front with a noose around his neck. His chest had been cut down its centre by a surgical scalpel and opened up like a story book. His crime read above in his own blood on the brick wall: Improper Payment.
Doctor Death would only see you if you could pay.
“Get in line,” the man said. “She’s currently doing a skin cancer check.”
They were not officers, but personal guards of Doctor Death.
She was paid exceptionally well by the inmates and in turn paid certain Soulless inmates to be her personal guards.
A fantastic business as evidenced by the line of at least a hundred waiting out the front of the gymnasium. Luckily, two people in line decked into a fight and one killed the other out of irritation and so now there were only ninety-nine waiting in line.
I turned back to the man. “Excuse me, but I would like priority. I am currently dying.”
“Try to die slower.”
“Oh, yes, I will. Thank you for the advice. But is it at all possible to book an emergency appointment?”
“Sorry. She’s booked up for the rest of the Battle.”
“I have payment.”
“We don’t want any more food.”
I held up my packet of cigarettes.
Doctor Death also had a nicotine addiction.
“You’re dying.” Doctor Death lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in my face.
Oh. I was dying. My diagnosis had been accurate. Maybe I should have gone to medical school.
“Can… can… can you… do… anything about it?” Black spots consumed my vision. My hands shook.
“Sure.” She blew more smoke in my face.
I focused on breathing—onstayingbreathing—and fell back into the table which she was using as a bed for patients.
The gymnasium was huge and void aside from Doctor Death, her wheely chair, the table and a small tray of supplies that were sterilised with a bottle of vodka. There was also a pink fluffy teddy bear. Not sure why, but I liked it.
“I’m going to have to operate.” She tapped ash on the floor. “But I don’t have any anaesthetic so it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”
“I can handle pain well.”
“I do have some aspirin. It will cost you a kidney.”
“No thank you.”
