Necros Laboratory: Meet the Doctor

The tang of iron rustles the hairs of my nostrils and the buds of my tongue. It kicks me awake.

I don’t know where I am.

My vision is blurred. My hearing is muffled. My taste and smell are muddied with blood. I can only rely on my touch.

Invisible hands weigh down my limbs, leaving them sluggish. I settle for wiggling my fingers. They feel restrained, stroking only at the cool metal they appear bound to. This is frustrating. I want to scream for help, twist, turn, struggle, find a clue, find help, find anything.

Someone help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help.

I start falling asleep again…

AH!

A jolt of surprise adrenaline snakes its way through my veins. All of a sudden my heartbeat erupts in action, thumping at an insane rate. The mugginess that masked my senses dissipates, revealing…so little.

The room I’m in is dimly lit, aside from some otherworldly glows clawing in from the corners of my eyes. I can make out shapes of basic furniture and unusual equipment. Casting my vision downward I find that my limbs are bound by leather clamps to a metal chair. My hands are strapped up at the wrists, allowing me to move them with some shred of freedom. Just to test their strength I rock my body with all the force I can muster coming out of my sluggish state. The chair doesn’t so much as budge. So much for that plan. The longer I think the more aware I become of my situation.

There’s no mistaking this. Someone or something has trapped me here. I don’t know for what but I want out. Now. I attempt to muster a scream again.

“SOMEONE, ANYONE, HELP! I’M STUCK IN HERE!”

It comes off a little scratchy, and my throat is sending me distress signals like someone hauled a rake through it. However, as it echoes in the penumbra I hold a spark of hope for a response.

Seconds. Minutes. I have no accurate source of time measurement. I grind my teeth to count. Its uncomfortable. Enamel scraping on enamel. Scrape, scrape, scrape. I lose track of the sensation as the reality that no one is replying dulls my senses. My head lulls back as I lose focus.

It lands with a slump on something soft. The familiar touch of fabric on the back of my neck. That feeling that should be so homely rings alarms in every fibre of my being.

But I can’t move. I can only lie still as my head rises and lowers gently with the breath of whatever towers behind me.

“No need to be so loud dear” the figure murmurs. His tone is masculine, gentle and disconcerting. There’s a strange inflection to his tone that I can’t determine between sadism, sincerity or sadness. The mystery man places two cold hands on my shoulders. The prick of a needle taps on my collarbone along with his fingers. A yellowish liquid drips onto my shirt.

“Now then, why don’t I check your charts?” the man states, as professional as a doctor might but with more enthusiasm than is what’s acceptably comfortable. He tightens his grip for a brief moment. The needle’s point pokes an almost unnoticeable hole into my shirt. He then lets go, sliding his icy hands slowly away. My senses now pulsing, I find myself focusing on the thud of his shoes making their way round from their obscurity. I am sat helpless, only able to wait in agonising anticipation as the figure shuffles into my field of vision.

He doesn’t look at me. Instead he makes straight for the what I assume is the desk placed a few paces away from the chair. In the gloom his silhouette feels distorted. I would gather he’s human, to some degree.

But…everything else…it just…it feels reminiscent of a nightmare. Like, one of those early era horror films.

The stench of unwashed clothes, indeterminable lab coat stains, unkempt hair. He mutters a few things, shifting around paper. His voices sounds guttural. I wince at the clanking sound of rusted metals. My heart slams repeatedly against my rib-cage, shrieking for an escape. I, too, shriek.

I wail, scream, screech, pounding my feet as hard as my heart does in my chest. Repeated cries for help, over and over and over, all immediately silenced by the interruption of a dangerously delicate voice.

“You’ve got quite a set of lungs on you. I’d very much like a look at those”

He turns around to face me. Any strength I had left to struggle becomes frozen. I can’t move anything except my eyes. They fixate on the three things I am almost certain could equate to a fatal triple threat.

The scalpel in his left hand. The mysterious machine in his right. The sick, sick smile illuminated by inflamed eyes.

Is this what it is to be paralysed by fear?

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Character created by Josh Troke.