Chapter 1 Hospital Fighter - Origins

• I am a lead pipe and brass knuckles guy and I fight on the night streets; did this ever since I got fired from the hospital I worked at. This town is going crazy with this new trend that came from nowhere; first, it was my co-workers walking off their night shifts without prior notice and now my neighbor. He'd grab me and keep gibbering about a certain something whose impending arrival would destroy us if we don't repent and dedicate our lives to it.
• As more and more people gave in I realized that all of them had connections to the local healthcare industry; hospital workers of all levels from doctors to admin staff. I would then stakeout there and mostly get attacked by what could only be called zealots and mindless drones wielding syringes full of something I dread to think and long knives. I'd get away with nothing more than bruises and cuts; nothing lethal.
• My opponents would not give me any answers; most were unconscious or foaming at the mouth insane; still trying to kill me. So I broke into a hospital in search of the truth; what is really eating our healthcare?! Clutching my pipe, I began to hear voices; it was a chorus of monotone voices that seemed to be in pain.
• "Give it to us!"
• "We are born guilty!"
• "Guide us!"
• It was unsettling, my skin began to crawl and my eyes began to tear up; something truly sinister was here.
• 2 A.M, a hospital at night may just be among the scariest places; especially when something sinister is affecting healthcare across the city, further accentuated by sounds of robotic chants. Adjusting my brass knuckles (I wore on both hands) that were covered in blood from the fight outside; I walked down the pitch-black hallway to the droning voices. “The first one to leap out gets a busted jaw!” I thought trying to fight off the eerie vibe that slowly crept into my mind; my eyes were filling with nervous tears and my spine felt like shattering. While I was an experienced man who was fighting on the dark streets during the hardships of the 1980s era; facing corrupt police and local criminals (sometimes in gangs) this was different.
• Suddenly, the hallway was shaken by a blood-freezing scream; like that of a baby’s but emitted by an adult; what is it about baby cries that scare the human mind? I quickly ran down the hallway; busting down doors and trying to fight off the fear. It did indeed come from the pediatric ward where things took a turn for twisted and screwed up. Crayon drawings of rituals and sodomy graced the walls where both featured the same “character;” whom I seen moments later. A fat man who looked to be in his late 20s dressed in patient garb sat on the floor; working on another drawing; I deciphered that he drew himself in all his pieces. He noticed me and backed away; I lowered my hands to show that I meant no harm; maybe he was abused and managed to escape.
• The man crawled towards a toy chest; reaching his hand inside, however, before I could let him be; he pounced at me; the same suspicious syringe in hand. By reflex, I sent him flying backwards with a heel kick. The man curled up and nursing his core, he began to cry while breathing heavily. I wasn’t going to hurt him anymore; especially when the floor rattled with many running steps. Here it comes; they are going to cut me up if I fall. The ward was full of long knives and syringes now; whatever they were chanting to has disfigured them horribly; deep lacerations on the face, angry red eyes and green veins protruding out.
• The baby-man I disabled started to wipe his tears and point at me; complaining to the livid horde that started to move closer to me; it was then I slugged one in the jaw; he knocked over those to the side as he fell. Side-stepping the incoming lunge, I DDT’ed (a wrestling move where the opponent is in an inverted headlock and thrown down or backwards so he hits the floor) my attacker into the hard floor ; stopping another kick with my elbows and tackling the next attacker so I am on top of him. Quickly, I turned him off with a snap-punch to the nasal bridge.
• The fear was gone with every punch, kick and throw as the angry horde fell apart where some strewn on the floor and others running away like a dog that was disciplined. My hands were red with blood and my eyes working overtime in case I missed a spot. The horde was vanquished with the last one learning to fly as I threw him out of the nearby window. However, I was still curious about what happens here and the baby-man seemed to have more grasp on reality than his friends; maybe I could make him talk. To my dismay, he was gone.
• The hospital, now felt dead as pin-drop silence flooded the halls; no chants, no steps; only my breathing was heard in the darkness as I moved from ward to ward in search for clues. Was it the only hospital that lost it? I contemplated as I walked into another wing. Lots of patient rooms with dim lights pointing at the rickety beds with dirty mattresses and even restraining devices were presented as if on cue. People were still chained to the beds; hard to say if they are sane; I decided to enter one room to check, maybe they were hostages.
• Opening the door, the bed-ridden patient’s eyes suddenly sprang to life and followed me as I came closer; they were scared and confused. “You….you gotta help me, man!” he whispered weakly, as if each word was costing him life, “Its inside me now.” I was taken aback, from all the insanity I seen tonight, it felt strange to hear normal speech. “What is inside?!” I demanded, “Who did this?!” The man took a breath as if he surfaced from underwater and with all his strength, he screamed, “OBEDIENCE!!!!!!” only to collapse back onto the bed lifelessly. I felt his pulse; he had none. The man seems to have died from saying this word.
• Leaving the accursed room, I scanned around for a sign that lead to the hospital archives; maybe I could get something there. Something I could bring back to show and warn others; something sinister is going on with the Soviet healthcare system. My train of thought was derailed by a door opening in the dark hallways; followed by voices that seemed normal and professional. “There was a break-in at the hospital at Chapayev St.” a voice reported. “Proceeding to check it out.” Police, but why now considering I’ve been here for a couple of hours; something is sketchy here.
• “HOLD IT!” I heard behind me, “Get on your knees!” I complied and with a corner of my eye I saw a police officer training his PMM handgun on my head. I spied a tattoo on his hand; it was a lighthouse; a prison tattoo meaning “Desire for Freedom.” It wasn’t a cop, rather a hired thug disguised as one so without further hesitation, I rapidly twisted to my right, driving my right back-fist below his ear; instant knockout. I didn’t loot his body; knowing the owner, the gun could have been used to kill many others hence; I could be framed for said killings.
• There was one more thug on the move; the one I heard prior to this moment; motivating me to use shadows for cover since he would shoot on-sight. I dealt with former prison inmates before in my street fighting career and they are all-too eager to kill using any means; usually with a knife or a pistol so he would be trigger-happy as all of them. I was right; another thug was moving down the hall, handgun ready to fire, he looked nervous. “Hey, Yurets!” he yelled, “Quit screwin’ around!” I did my best Sylvester Stallone impression from the Rambo films my father brought back from one of his trips to America and grabbed the thug from cover; neck under control. The thug was not as resilient; he lost consciousness from my control and fell back.
• After traversing the dark hospital to the archives, I started digging through patient records; nothing strange aside from a few cases of drug overdoses; something unheard of before. Then, reaching more recent records, I found a pattern where records stated that patients suffered mental disorders and hence was brought by force. (The record specified the orderlies’ names that did.) Patients were mostly young adults and were directed to the same type of treatment; identified as “calming therapy.”
• It started to make sense now, young adults that rebelled against the Soviet way of life were branded as “mentally unstable” so brought over here for treatment; the baby man flew back to my mind; he was totally pacified and thus easily controlled. The man dying on the bed screaming about obedience was referring to that; he died to some kind of trigger which could have come from the therapy stages. Finally, everything relating to this treatment had the secret police stamp alongside a TOP SECRET branding; this was a government psi-op!
• Looking through more files, the secret police insignia progressively, grown in abundance as the details written within straddled the line between ethical and unethical while being ever more graphic; I discovered that orderlies were now armed and had full authority to use force alongside the full support of rapid-response squads - who were not affiliated with the hospital. I got to know this as files reported on requirements of lethal force where, according to the report, tactical squads opened automatic rifle fire, leading "patients" at gunpoint and even cases where orderlies worked as plain-clothed secret "police" where people could be grabbed and carted off to the hospital.
• So far, the hospital effectively had a private police force - something I never saw while I worked there. Many patient records had familiar names; my neighbors, my friends and even the guy who bullied me through childhood during our times playing in the yard: busted his head open on his cell wall according to the records - grabbed by plain-clothes orderlies in broad daylight too.
• Suddenly, my nose picked up a strong smell as if someone smashed a Vodka bottle - a nostril-piercing alcohol mixed with something else to increase potency while adding more side-effects. I stood up, balled my fists to unleash a right hook before whoever could react and listened on; slow, heavy footsteps were heard in the distance accompanied by lighter ones. Dropping the files, my ears began tracking the sounds through the wall to plan my sudden strike; from now on, everyone in the hospital is hostile if I don't, I will end up chained to a dirty mattress and worse yet, be completely neutered like the baby-man I saw before.
• "One." Taps on a glass, post-World War 2 syringe were heard.
• "Two." Some quiet moaning heard; like a child who was disciplined.
• "THREE!" Using the room door as a weapon, I forced it into the incoming silhouette's face and in quick succession, launched a drop-kick to his companion.
• Both fell, a tall man in dark green surgical garb and my old friend, the baby-man; the latter crawled away in fear while the former groped around for something: a good time to get some answers. I picked him up by his collar and with a knee strike to the rib, I sparked a conversation:
• "What's inside the injections?!"
• The surgeon attempted resistance; to which my hands went for his throat, thumbs on his voicebox: choking the boldness out of him.
• "Resist and I crush your larynx!"
• The surgeon, choking and coughing, fired off names of chemical compounds I never heard of, causing me to drive my forehead into his nasal bridge, "IN PLAIN WORDS!" I raged.
• My captive, defeated, answered, "Chemicals made to suppress brain power and testosterone to enforce obedience." I listened on. "The mixture also has control drugs that respond to pre-programmed triggers set during therapy stages - each with unique parameters!"
• That response disturbed me, especially the trigger part: what could they have set?!
• "You are coming with me!" I ordered; only for the surgeon to suddenly, started coughing blood. I stepped back as he grabbed his throat, collapsed back and continued to choke on his blood and stopping in moments. Was that one of the triggers? Possibly since he was dead as no pulse was felt and the body was cold. Did the secret police program everyone involved to kill themselves? In this case, everyone from doctor to janitor undergone this. Are all hospitals programmed?! To find out is my next step, I thought to myself as I headed for the exit. No point of lingering in this hospital now. The nearest one was a bus ride away and at this time, the buses are not running this late; guess I'll go back home to study what I found further.
• 5 AM. Carrying my findings, I reached familiar territory; brutalist buildings; dimly illuminated by the few streetlights, sounds of a drunk vagrant screaming gibberish at the sky while he lay on his back: home sweet home. My street was not what could be called a "bad" part of town but it had its share of anti-social elements whose population increased almost yearly. A group of homeless people digging through trash, drunks fighting and even ex-convicts congregating on the benches; all fairly common sights around here. However, something was wrong this time, I caught sight of some windows being hastily closed and curtains getting pulled down behind. Ignoring that, I continued to the entrance of my building; as I opened the creaky door, I ran into 2 police officers. "Good evening." one of them greeted me in a formal, regulation manner, "I am Sergeant Gurov." he finished as he saluted me. (A regulation greeting by any police officer) The other cop looked nervous yet alert and ready for anything.
• Recalling my run-in with impostors back at the hospital, I looked at both officers for giveaways; prison tattoos, inconsistencies with uniforms and rank chevrons. They appeared normal so I decided to act natural. "How can I help you, Sergeant?" I replied.
• "Where were you just now?" Gurov asked as he scanned the bruises on my knuckles and blood on my clothes; something I completely missed!
• My findings swirled around in my head, but I had no trouble coming up with a logical excuse: "I was with my friends from school years and we disagreed on things; so one of them got drunk and started a fight."
• Gurov didn't look like he was buying it, so he said something that terrified every citizen regardless of age to the core: "Come with us, please." I had to be smarter here so I complied; Gurov's partner stepped behind me as I followed the Sergeant outside. As my head went into thinking about fleshing out the excuse further, I noticed something strange on the Sergeant's neck; a big hole that was still bleeding; soaking through the bandage that showed itself from the uniform. As the lawman lead me, his hands began to twitch as if getting ready to spring.
• The cop was fixed, I thought to myself, he must have been sent to detain me. However, despite my revelation, I kept walking to see how far this goes: maybe I'd get away with a few questions. "Get in." Gurov gestured to a parked yellow-blue police Volga car as his partner opened the back door; I complied. "So, you had a fight that went too far?" the Sergeant began questioning. The other cop's eyes burned through me as he looked for more clues.
• "Yes, comrade Sergeant," I replied as calmly as I could. "My friend got really drunk and pulled a knife."
• "Right, and why did he do that?"
• "He has a history of mental issues, the Recruiting Commission (recruiting for the mandatory military service) said he had schizophrenia."
• "We need to make a protocol and record the incident since this is Assault with Intent," Gurov answered, "You need to ride to the station with us."
• Then and there, I realized that they ARE here to detain me, people with mental issues are not charged but committed to an institution; they tried to dress this up as textbook interrogation and arrest. The Sergeant knew that I was lying so he wanted to lock me up in a temporary cell, interrogate me and force a signature tying me to whatever crime they conjur up; common practice of the Soviet police force that grew ever more corrupt. Comrade Police Officer now thinks "Screw you, Got MINE!" as he beats confessions out of petty thieves and vagrants; admitting to murder and conspiracy charges while forcing them to choose prison.
• The other cop, like lightning, snapped handcuffs at the both of us; daisy-chaining us together.
• "What are those for?" I asked.
• "Standard procedure, relax; you got nothing to hide right?" Gurov replied as he started the cruiser.
• The Volga pulled up to the police precinct, a run-down relic building from the 1960s whose white bricks were turning yellow as the iron bars on the windows rattled in the wind. I've been here before and it was more lively back then. Now, there are no cruisers in the driveways nor are there any lights in the windows: the whole precinct was out. My escorts pulled me out and led me inside; both my hands were chained behind my back.
• Gurov's partner guided me to a broken chair as the Sergeant himself went towards a staircase, probably summoned by the chief. As I sat, I studied possible escape routes and looked for signs the precinct was fixed. Could I use this chance and show my findings to a senior officer? He's probably the KGB's proxy so that's out' may even be accused of conspiring against the Soviet system.
• My train of thought got derailed with a crash and a loud thump of a body hitting the floor; I saw a young man in handcuffs, covered in bruises and blood. He was squirming against his restraints as 2 huge masked men in black entered the premises; OMON operators. OMON is a special police unit made to counter more serious criminals and conduct high-risk arrests, provide rapid-response to terrorist threats, and riot control: composed of Soviet army veterans and formed in 1979. OMON are deadly close-combat fighters and won't hesitate to use force; I have to be more ruthless to get out of this.
• The Precinct livened up as 3 more cops came to the commotion; "Throw him into the monkey-cell" (slang for temporary containment cells) one of the OMON operators instructed. The cops complied and picking up the suspect, they herded him around the corner. I began analysing my possible escape route; no point of waiting for Gurov as he would detain me anyway.
• "So what, monkey, you gonna make faces by yourself or should we help you?!" I heard one of the cops around the corner, hammering the cell with his nightstick.
• "What right do you have to spy and conspire against the regime?!"
• The screams of pain continued as I shifted myself to get up, cuffs still on me, OMON operators are now gone (I noticed them walk down the hall) and this is my chance. What spring I had, I used it and darted towards the exit, didn't even notice that I knocked down a cop who tried to stop me; shoulder-spear to the chest put him down for a long time. Running as fast as I could since they will open fire, I reached some dense woodland areas; not a soul in sight.
• So I got away albeit in handcuffs; now to get them off and return to the city to investigate other hospitals; I had a way of removing them - a guy who works in a garage could rip it off with a circular saw. Sergei, the guy whom I was going to see about them was a car mechanic all his life: working on old Pobedas and Zhigulis (Soviet-made cars) the senior citizens brought in to the new and shiny Mercedes that the "elite" drove; paid very well and doubled it to ensure nothing left the garage. Lucky for me, his garage was indeed on the outskirts of town so, I could drop by undetected by authorities - a guy walking around with hands behind his back will surely get me a following of baying fans in the city.
• The garage was a series of steel structures where people locked their cars for security, fenced off by a chainlink fence with a heap of scrap. Jumping the fence, I studied my surroundings to ensure I wasn't followed nor was there any rogue eyes hiding out and progressed towards an open steel dome.
• "Sergei!" I called out
• "Yeah, what is it?" a nonchalant voice replied, "The LADA won't be ready till tomorrow: come back later."
• A man of average height in blue-black (from the oil) overalls walked towards me, rubbing his hands on a raggedy piece of cloth "Oh, it's you." he relaxed, "What's up?"
• Should I tell him the whole story? Should I trust him? Those thoughts raced through my head as I turned around to show him the cuffs. "A drunk cop thought it would be funny to arrest me for hooliganism." I half-lied.
• "Sit over there." Sergei gestured towards a steel chair as he rummaged through his tools, fishing out a heavy-duty circular saw.
• Testing its action, he gently brought the swirling blade to my hands and after 5 minutes of high-pitched grinding, my cramped hands could breathe again.
• "Need to sharpen it," Sergei commented.
• "Thanks very much, you saved my hands here!" I replied.
• "So, you are working in the big city, tell me how it is." the mechanic asked as he tapped the blade teeth to check sharpness.
• I replied, "Things are going crazy, the police are standing on their ears; the day is not complete unless 2 patrol officers show up."
• Sergei gave me a puzzled look, "Just the other day, I had an officer pay me a visit, he asked me about....a very angry and dangerous old vagrant who stabbed cops for fun;" just when things could not get any more twisted and confusing. "The officer said he comes out of nowhere and approaches with random questions." Sergei finished, listening for any sounds outside.
• A crazy old guy, my mind jumped to the secret police files I stole; there was a case where an "elderly patient needed intrusive brain surgery" with a side-note of a transfer as well as his homeless status; with an emphasis on him not having any family or associates. He was among the first prototypes that have gone rogue; attacking police officers because they represent the system.
• I sat down, nursing my hands and shaking them back to life as they were still numb while pondering how should I get to the next hospital as well as the endgame for my crusade, what happens when I find the next clue? I can only wrestle with the government and dodge the law for long. In the modern life, reporting on your neighbor is a growing trend now where everyone was guilty before proven innocent. I remember my childhood where a kid who I hung out with became the first in our apartment block who got a video game system, a rare and expensive luxury of the time. I never met his father but I discovered he was detained later that month on "smuggling and spreading anti-regime propaganda." There would always be a loophole through which I will get caught. However, I was not raised to give up midway through the task so, it's not like I got anything else to do or anywhere else to go; not like I can get another job since escaping from police custody is a serious offense; enough to make me a wanted fugitive.
• As Sergei continued working on a Volvo, I spotted a sawn-off double barrel shotgun sitting next to a toolbox.
• "What's the gun for? Expecting guests?" I asked, pointing at it.
• "Oh that, it sat there for 3 years now, found it under a car seat of a Mercedes." Sergei replied, "Want it? Less hassle for me."
• "Don't mind if I do," I replied, taking the gun and a bandolier of shells next to it, I can use a better weapon.
• Tying the bandolier under my leather jacket, I fashioned myself a sling from a belt; hanging the shotgun, which was sawn-off to be the size of a slightly bigger handgun, off my shoulder for easy access and a hidden panic button. Do I have to start killing everyone who looks at me funny? Probably but at this point, there's no other way.