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DrRose

(Continued from http://mousehole-mouse.blogspot.com/2015/09/im-long-passed-point-of-not-caring.html The blue text is from the original book)

Judy had heard similar words in the same tone before. So had most of the admin staff, in the last few years, since everything stopped making sense. She didn't know what one thing had happened, but was well aware with who the buck stopped in a visceral sense.

Sometimes she managed to get there, offer a hug, or a cookie - surprising how much a simple treat from a collegue can mean, at a critical moment. Sometimes she didn't, and nobody else did either, and it was time to rearrange the schedule and make it just a little bit harder for everybody who was left.

As the hospital's head of admin, Judy knew by heart how far most of the medical staff lived; in Patrick's case, too far. Calling 911, given everything else that was going on, would've only added to the backlog.

Dr. Rose picked up the phone by reflex, expecting the administrator's dry voice to try to talk some hope into him. "Judy, listen, I really-"

"Not Judy. Listen. The ultimate fate of the Earth might depend on your actions in the next three minutes."

He looked at his other hand. There was a pistol in it. Loaded, safety off. "Who is this? What are you talking about. It's all going to Hell anyway. Might as well beat the rush."

The voice on the other end was that of a young woman, a little nasal, uncertain... no, tired. Dr. Rose listened. She sounded more tired than he felt.

"Custodial Arrangement of Telecom Systems. We were monitoring your call. You are essential medical personnel, and your file shows a high probability of-"

"So they are listening in!" Dr. Rose felt like shooting the phone, instead. But. One round.

"God is always listening in. Carpathia, sometimes. If we let him. Who's worse?"

"It's not like there's other options. Leave me alone."

"And this is why we called. We're the third option. Now, our psychohistorian says that there's a 68.71% chance you're holding a gun and are contemplating suicide. Why? You're going to Hell anyway, right? Why hurry that up?"

"At least it'll be on my own terms. We're all trapped one way or another. It's the one decision I get to make."

"First do no harm, Doctor. You took that oath. You meant it. Mean it now."

"How dare you! You don't know what it's been like!"

"We've been trying to keep the power and comms running through multiple divine terror attacks. We know what it's like. Now think about who you really want to aim that gun at."

First do no harm. As supplies dwindled, Patrick Rose had to make a number of hard choices, more and more each month. He told himself it was still doing the least amount of harm. But now... He looked at the gun. Don't aim at anything you don't want to destroy, the safety mantra went. Who did he want to destroy?

"You're essential medical personnel, and your file indicates a high likelihood of... I don't think "narrative control" would mean anything more than "psionic potential" to you, eh? Dammit, they keep changing the terminology. Anyway. Please. Think. Who's responsible for all this?"

"Carpathia. It's his fault! It's all his fault! I believed in him!"

"He had at least the sense to get us to help with making trains run on time. Think about it. Something's preventing you to reach a different conclusion. Push past it. When did this start? Who started it?"

Patrick stood up. Who was to blame? Who started this? He shook his head. Think. Do a diagnosis. Assign a cause. What started this? The disappearances. Who-

Who took his wife and child?

Dr. Rose shook his head again, and this time it helped.

"What do you want me to do, shoot God in the face?"

"We want you to help us. We've tried 39 times. We failed 39 times. But we will continue trying. You're not trapped. You can fight. We will probably lose, but you get to fight. If you fight, or don't, you end up in Hell anyway. So..."

Dr. Rose slowly walked to the little crucifix that his wife had hung on the wall, an eon ago. He could've sworn he'd gotten rid of it - he had too many mementos already.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get mad! Channel it. Own it. God gave you lemons. Throw the lemons back!"

Dr. Rose was twitchy enough that he'd managed to miss the tiny Christ on the crucifix at point blank. He threw the gun at it, ripping it and the nail off the wall, so that only the bullet hole remained.

"Dr. Rose? Are you still there?"

"I am."

"Now, listen well. God's started to micromanage. Get out of there. Make sure nobody you've talked to recently sees you leave, or the NC field in your area will superimpose your dead state on you."

"What, like Shroedinger's Cat?"

"You catch on quickly. That's been happening more and more as we enter the endgame. If you see your own body, don't touch it, don't look at it. Leave, walk north to the next crossroads. We'll pick you up in 45 minutes."

Patrick had a long walk in which to wonder if he was a ghost. He saw Princess whimper at the spot on the floor where he almost... A few times he'd step out of the paved road just to make sure he was leaving footprints. Hell's supposed to be a big lake of fire, like in cartoons, right? Not something more psychological like walking alone on a road forever -

The pickup truck used to belong to a cable company, the pentagonal logo of the GC's communications branch stenciled on sloppily. A wiry man called Dr. Rose up with the horn after braking a few yards ahead of him. There were sirens and blue lights in the distance, that Dr. Rose had completely missed.

"Hello! You're Doctor Rose?"

"Uh... basically."

"Run!"

Dr. Rose's thoughts came back to the concrete after seeing that he was solid enough to run to the truck, open the door and throw himself in the cab. No real urgency, but slamming a door and feeling a bit of burn in his legs from the sudden sprint, and hearing his heartbeat, made him feel alive.

"We're going to have to put you to work pretty quickly, I'm afraid. There's a field hospital eighty kilometers from here. Send someone for your dog tomorrow. If you have any questions, ask away, while I drive."

Patrick stared at the man. He was smiling. The bow tie made him look like a discount version of Bill Nye. Questions he had plenty - where to start.

"Can I see my family again? Why - when I slunk off one of those kids was moving something out of my bedroom, who - what was that?"

Patrick found himself playing with a can of WD-40 that was in the glove compartment as the telephone repairman answered the second question exhaustively.