The Flesh Tailor
My name is Dr. Neil Cameron. The hospital I work at is the only in the area, for twenty, maybe thirty miles in any direction. We get a lot of traffic, most of it fairly typical. If you've ever watched one of those ER reality shows then you've already got a pretty good idea of what goes on around here.
But not tonight. Tonight something very different happened, something that I'm not sure I should be making a record of. Of course, I would start off by saying that the night began like any other, because it did. It wasn't ten minutes after I arrived that a motorcycle accident victim was wheeled, moaning and groaning, looking like he'd been dragged over the world's biggest sheet of sand paper.
My team and I got the guy stabilized and off to surgery to be put back together. He had some broken bones and severe abrasions but he'd be all right. The next few hours were much the same; with the exception of a few in-and-outs like kids with cuts and a broken finger or two. Up until I received a call, relayed to me by the head nurse. The voice on the other line was rigid. The kind of speech you'd expect from a cop or something.
The voice asked if I was Dr. Cameron. I said I was. It then asked for my birth date and home address, which I gave. Apparently convinced that I was who I said I was, the voice requested that I make my way to the local sheriff's office. The sheriff's office. I repeated the term back to it in the form of a question to confirm. Yes, the sheriff's office. But why? The voice wouldn't answer, it simply repeated it's order, with a firm 'Now, Doctor' tacked onto the end.
I hung up.
I want to say I followed the order out of professional courtesy, but I didn't. I drove the four miles through rain and traffic lights because I was curious. Morbidly curious. The voice sounded Federal or perhaps Military. The voice was purposely secretive. I'm certain any further inquiry into why my services were required would only afford me more evasion and an even more urgent direction.
It took my ten minutes to get to the precinct. I hurried out of my Honda and through the glass double doors. I was greeted by the Captain and a man I black. He was wearing a rain-flecked blazer and had his sunglasses tipped up into his hair. They both greeted me (I recognized jacket guy's voice as the one on the phone) with handshakes before turning to lead me to the back, to one of the holding cells. The gentleman in black had 'FBI' written in large yellow letters on the back of his jacket.
We made our way through bleach-white halls lit with harsh fluorescent light to what must have been the most remote part of the precinct. That room that nobody wants to make the journey to when it's gotten late. We came to a dull, navy door. The was a tall, rectangular window in the door positioned just over the handle. Through it I could make out the figure of a man, head down, arms in his lap, sitting slouched. His hair covered his face.
While the sheriff unlocked the door the agent turned to me.
“Stay outside the door,” he warned. The sheriff twisted the metal handle downward and pulled the door open. I could now see the man behind it fully. He looked up, allowing me to see his face through the dirty blonde hair that fell over it when he'd been watching the floor. He looked about my age, young, and in serious need of sunlight. There wasn't much color to him at all. I stepped forward, careful to stay just beyond the threshold. This was it? Just some guy? I shifted my attention to the Sheriff.
“If he's sick, just bring him to the ER,” I told him. I suddenly felt as though my time had been wasted on something mundane. The agent cut in before he could reply.
“He doesn't leave this building until containment procedure can be arranged,” he barked at me. I tilted my head, brow furrowed. Containment procedure? I wondered what that meant and conveyed as much.
“That's none of your business, Doctor.” The agent replied. I pried a little but only met more resistance. Giving up, I returned my attention to the cell's sole occupant. Inching my way closer to the threshold I gave the guy a real good once-over. I couldn't tell what was wrong with him. After giving the Sheriff an inquisitive raise of my eyebrows he went about explaining why I'd been called.
wip
