Lazaretto
A short story, back from the dead
The man’s pale blue eyes opened the way a child checks under their bed—slowly, reluctantly, already knowing something terrible is lurking. The headache waiting behind them confirmed he’d been right to hesitate. He blinked against the dull ache, his vision adjusting to the unfamiliar space around him. Blankets, old yoga mats, and fraying pillows hung from the walls, their once-bright colors dulled by grime, muffling the sound within. The smell hit him next—a stale cocktail of bleach, mildew, and something far less antiseptic.
When he tried to sit up, he felt the tug of restraints on his wrists and ankles. A narrow gurney held him flat, each breath a negotiation with its hard surface. He could make out only the walls of this makeshift room—no windows, just layers of frayed cloth hanging like sagging skin over grimy tiles.
A deep, scratchy sigh rattled out of him. He’d woken up in rough places before, usually after nights he couldn’t remember, but this was a step beyond his usual bad decisions. His mouth was dry, and his body felt like it hadn’t moved in days.
Though he’d never been one to care much for mirrors, even before opening his eyes in this waking nightmare, the man had a fair idea of what he looked like—a compact, wiry man with pale blue eyes that had seen too many bad nights. He was somewhere north of middle age, though with the worn face of someone who’d lived harder than his actual years might suggest. His gray hair was a thin, uneven mess, and what hair remained on his head had given up the fight, leaving a shining bald spot in the center. A heavy five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, bordering on a short beard, unkempt and scruffy, like the rest of him. His nose, bent in an awkward angle from an old bar fight, sat at odds with his otherwise well-shaped face, giving him a permanent look of irritable suspicion. He wasn’t tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for in the stubborn set of his expression.
His wrists flexed against the worn canvas straps as he tested their hold, drawing another breath. Scruffy took in his surroundings with the resignation of someone who had long since given up on things going right.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shuffling noise near the door, and a figure appeared, stooping to enter. The man wore a wrinkled, ill-fitting white coat with smudges that could have been anything from shit to dried blood. He had a frantic look, his eyes darting like a bird’s, fingers twitching as he braced himself against a wall of loosely hung blankets. The sight of Scruffy seemed to startle him, his face tightening in a look of confused relief.
“You’re awake,” the man murmured, his voice barely a whisper as if he’d forgotten how loud he could be. He looked down, frowning as though his eyes couldn’t quite believe what they saw.
Scruffy grunted. “Thanks for the warm welcome. Think you could get these straps off me? Or am I just the guest of honor around here?”
The man—Doctor, Scruffy supposed, given the coat—ignored him. Instead, he tottered over, eyes narrowed as he peered at Scruffy’s wrist, muttering to himself. His breath smelled of stale coffee and copper, his hands shaking as he adjusted the straps just enough to let the blood flow again.
Scruffy frowned. “You, uh, got a name, Doc? Or is mumbling at tied-up patients just your bedside manner?”
The Doctor seemed to look through him as he inspected Scruffy’s wrist, squinting as though searching for some clue under the skin. His lips moved in a steady murmur, words that made sense only to him. Scruffy jerked his hand back, irritated.
The Doctor just smiled, a tight, unsettling expression, then turned away, limping to the far wall. He adjusted his coat, revealing a dark stain spreading from a wound on his leg. When Scruffy opened his mouth to ask about it, the other man lifted a finger to his lips and froze, glancing nervously at the door. Scruffy followed his gaze, straining to hear, but all he caught was a distant, shuffling sound—a dragging noise accompanied by the low, inhuman hum of something that shouldn’t be moving.
The Doctor’s eyes tightened, hand moving to cradle his wound as he looked back at Scruffy with a wry, almost apologetic smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “They can’t get in here. Yet.”
The wounded man moved closer, his face inches from Scruffy’s, eyes unsettling. The makeshift infirmary was quiet again, save for the soft drip of putrid water leaking from somewhere. Scruffy’s wrists ached from the restraints, and the man’s intense stare didn’t help.
“What?” Scruffy muttered, shifting uncomfortably against the gurney. “You lose a contact lens or something?”
The Doctor’s mouth twisted into a faint smile as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on with a hand that trembled ever so slightly. “I need to check your pupils,” he said, almost absently. “Just… hold still.”
Scruffy squirmed, but the light hit his eyes before he could protest further. The Doctor studied him with clinical detachment, his free hand pressed firmly to his wounded leg, wincing occasionally as he shifted his weight. He leaned in closer, the light nearly blinding, muttering phrases like “normal dilation” and “ocular response” to himself as if checking boxes on an invisible clipboard.
Finally, he flicked the light off, but his gaze didn’t waver. Instead, he tilted his head as if scrutinizing a painting with something just a shade off. “Your memory,” he said slowly, “should be clearer by now.”
Scruffy raised an eyebrow. “Should be? Last thing I remember is drinking the worst cup of coffee of my life in a bus station… could’ve been yesterday, could’ve been a year ago.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Memory’s not really the strong suit these days.”
The Doctor’s face twisted with faint irritation, and he pulled back, muttering to himself again. “Memory gaps, minimal cognitive coherence…” His voice trailed off as he tapped a finger on the edge of the gurney.
Scruffy snorted. “Look, Doc, if this is some kind of experimental therapy, you’re not selling it. I’ve been through detox, but I don’t think they usually tie you down and shine lights in your eyes.”
The Doctor looked at him sharply, a glint of excitement—or perhaps desperation—flashing in his eyes. “This isn’t detox,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “You, my friend, are… let’s say… in recovery. But the particulars are unique. You’ve been through something… far beyond anything modern medicine has ever encountered.”
Scruffy’s eyebrow quirked upward, unimpressed. “Far beyond, huh? Like, what—yoga?”
The Doctor’s lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh. “Sixteen months,” he said slowly, as if testing the words in his mouth. “You’ve been… elsewhere. Gone. And now—” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Now you’re the first one back.”
A chill slipped down Scruffy’s spine despite himself. He knew he’d been down some questionable roads, but even at his worst, he’d never been gone for sixteen months. He shifted against the straps again, giving them a determined tug. “Listen, Doc, you’re not making sense. And I don’t appreciate the suspense.”
But the other man seemed almost giddy with his cryptic statements, eyes shining as he whispered, “You’re cured. We managed to cure you.”
“Cure me of what?” Scruffy’s voice dropped, a growl of frustration bubbling in his throat. “Sixteen months of what?”
The Doctor’s smile faded, replaced by a glum shadow. His fingers tapped the gurney’s edge in a nervous rhythm. “It’s… complicated,” he said finally, struggling with the words. He rubbed at his leg, his fingers coming away slick and dark from the wound. The smell of it hit Scruffy’s nostrils again, the tang of infection masked under faint traces of disinfectant. The Doctor glanced down at the stain, almost as if surprised by it.
Another sound drifted in from beyond the tattered, padded walls—a hollow, dragging noise, closer this time. The Doctor froze, his head snapping toward the doorway, his lips pressing into a thin line.
The tension snapped in Scruffy. “Are you going to explain anything, or are you just going to keep muttering to yourself while I’m strapped to this thing?” He yanked at the restraints, hard enough this time to make the gurney creak.
But the Doctor didn’t look back. His gaze was fixed on the door, where the faint, shuffling sounds grew closer, now accompanied by something low and guttural, like a strangled breath trying to speak. The Doctor’s hand reached down, resting on a rusty pair of medical scissors lying on a tray nearby, fingers hovering.
“Stay quiet,” he whispered, barely audible, eyes wide with an edge of fear. “They’re looking for blood.”
The words hung in the air, sharp as the silence that followed.
Scruffy’s eyes flicked from the Doctor’s trembling fingers to the doorway, where the noises were becoming more distinct. The shuffling was louder now, joined by the occasional scrape of something heavy against tile.
“Looking for blood?” Scruffy echoed, his voice a dry, rasping whisper. “Who’s looking, Doc? Your fan club?”
The Doctor didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the door with a faraway terror, his hand gripping the medical scissors so tightly that his knuckles went pale. After a tense, breathless moment, he blinked, as if remembering Scruffy was still there, strapped to the gurney beside him.
The Doctor released a shuddering breath, glanced down at his bloodied leg, then back at Scruffy. “We don’t have much time,” he murmured, finally lowering the scissors. “If they find us here—if they see you—”
Scruffy’s patience snapped. He yanked hard against the canvas straps, the metal gurney creaking under the strain. “What? If they see me, then what? You keep talking in riddles while I’m tied down like a side of beef. Either spill it or get these straps off.”
The Doctor looked at him, his face lined with a mixture of fear and… pity? It was a look Scruffy didn’t like—too sympathetic, too unsettling, like he was a fragile, breakable thing. But the Doctor didn’t hesitate this time. He set the scissors down, his fingers fumbling as he worked on the straps around Scruffy’s wrists, muttering in a low, barely coherent whisper.
“You don’t understand… you’ve been gone. You weren’t here, not like the rest of us. You were… somewhere between life and…” He stopped, shaking his head as though trying to shake off the thought. “But they found a way to bring you back. A chance, however slim—a prototype, maybe—that we could all be… cured.”
The last word hung heavy between them. Scruffy didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Cured? He hadn’t felt sick, exactly, just dazed, like he’d woken up in the wrong century after a long, bad night.
The Doctor freed his last wrist, and Scruffy sat up, rubbing his raw skin. “Look, Doc, whatever you’re on about, it’s not exactly adding up. I’m not sick, I’m just—”
His sentence ended abruptly when he looked down at his right hand. A flicker of metallic glint caught his eye, something cold and solid extending from his wrist to his fingers, like a piece of machinery bolted onto him.
He swallowed hard, raising his arm slowly. His hand was metal, his fingers skeletal and cold, an amalgamation of steel and cable, as though fused to his bones. He flexed his fingers, feeling an unnatural weight shift in his wrist, he could feel it thrumming through the skeletal framework, a pulse that wasn’t quite mechanical, wasn’t quite alive.
“What… what did you do to me?” he asked, his voice steady but taut.
The Doctor looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “We didn’t have a choice. It was the only way to bring you back with some semblance of… control.”
“Control?” Scruffy spat, his voice a low, bitter hiss. “What am I supposed to be? Frankenstein’s little brother?”
But as he swung his legs over the side of the gurney, ready to plant his feet on the ground, he froze. His left leg landed with a dull, metallic clunk, the impact sending a jarring sensation through his spine. He glanced down, and his breath caught.
Where his leg should have been, a crude, mechanical limb extended down to his ankle—a makeshift construction that looked patched together from spare parts. Rough welds and bolts held the apparatus in place, and the crude design forced his knee to remain slightly bent, the limb stiff and heavy.
Scruffy pressed his fingers against the jagged edge where metal met skin, feeling a wave of revulsion rise as he took in the brutal handiwork. The limb was industrial, cold, and far less refined than his arm.
“Hell… you call this a cure?” He grunted, standing on the makeshift leg, wincing as its weight shifted clumsily under him. “Feels more like someone raided the junkyard.”
The Doctor’s eyes flitted briefly toward the door, then back to Scruffy with a grim resignation. “It was all we had,” he murmured, a faint edge of regret in his voice.. “The leg? That’s just steel and springs. But this…” He reached out as if to touch the arm, then pulled back. “This is something else. Something older and newer at once. The nanites need a proper home, you see. Can’t just pump them into dead flesh. Need something… architecturally sound.”
A loud bang against the infirmary door silenced them both, a heavy thud that rattled the blankets and mats pinned against the wall. Scruffy’s gaze darted toward the sound, then back to the Doctor, who was frozen, one hand hovering near a shelf piled with haphazard supplies.
The Doctor whispered, barely loud enough to hear, “They’re here.”
He backed away from the door, his hands shaking as he motioned for Scruffy to do the same. But before they could so much as breathe, another bang sounded, then another, the impacts coming closer together, shaking the walls and sending flakes of plaster drifting from the ceiling.
Scruffy leaned in, voice low and urgent. “If you’ve got any last-minute plans, Doc, now would be the time to share.”
But the Doctor only shook his head, his face drained of color. “Just… just keep quiet,” he stammered, clutching his wound as the banging intensified. His voice dropped to a quivering whisper. “It’s the others. They smell the blood.”
The door rattled, and the first tear appeared in the fabric lining it.
The fabric covering the doorway shuddered as something heavy slammed against it. A jagged tear opened in the cloth, revealing only darkness beyond, and Scruffy glimpsed a flash of movement—something gray and decayed, its form twisting as it clawed at the torn fabric. A faint, foul stench seeped in through the rip, a smell that mingled rot and rust with something feral, something alive in the worst way.
Scruffy’s eyes darted from the door to the Doctor, who was backing away, his face a mask of terror, breath shallow as he whispered, “They’re following my blood trail. They… they’re relentless.”
“Maybe don’t bleed so much next time,” Scruffy muttered, forcing calm into his voice, though his pulse hammered in his ears. His metal hand flexed, the cold weight of it more unsettling now with the thrashing sounds outside.
Another loud thud reverberated through the room as the thing beyond the door threw itself against it, a wet, guttural growl echoing through the infirmary. Scruffy swallowed down the rising tide of panic, casting a glare at the Doctor, who looked pale, hollowed-out.
“Any chance you know how to stop them?” Scruffy hissed, voice tinged with a sarcasm that barely masked his fear.
The Doctor swallowed hard, his gaze locked on the door as another tear formed in the fabric. Through it, Scruffy could make out a face—or at least what used to be one. Half of its jaw hung loose, skin shredded, eyes dull and empty but filled with a disturbing hunger. The creature’s gray, rotting hands clawed desperately at the rip, stretching it further, fingers curling around the fabric and tearing it down in chunks.
“They’re here for the blood,” the Doctor whispered, more to himself than to Scruffy. He shook himself, refocusing. “They’re drawn to it. If we can distract them…”
Scruffy’s patience snapped. “Distract them? With what? Got a steak lying around?”
The Doctor bit his lip, eyes darting wildly as he fumbled through the items on the makeshift shelf. His hand settled on a metal tray, slick with old blood, and he clutched it like it was a lifeline. “Stay back,” he muttered, though it sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself. “I can… I’ll try to lead them away.”
“Great. And what’s that mean for me?” Scruffy asked, his voice biting as he glanced at the heavy door, now buckling slightly under the pounding force of the undead outside.
The Doctor turned to him, face set with a grim determination. “It means you’re going to have to get out of here. There’s a chance—small, but there—that you can find others. There are survivors out there, some of them like you, some still… whole. They might have answers.”
Scruffy narrowed his eyes, suspicion bubbling in his gaze. “What do you mean, ‘like me’? What am I?”
The Doctor’s mouth opened as if to answer, but then he froze, a raw, visceral fear sweeping over his features as the door splintered, and a clawed hand broke through, scrabbling against the wood with a screeching sound that set Scruffy’s teeth on edge.
“You’re…” The sad, grungy Doctor hesitated, his face twisting with something like regret. “You’re our only chance.”
And with that, he moved toward the doorway, pressing the bloody tray to his leg wound and staggering forward. The creatures beyond the door seemed to sense his approach, a low moan filling the air, their hunger increasing as they caught the scent of fresh blood. The Doctor glanced back at Scruffy one last time, his face pale but resolute.
“Find them,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “If anyone can… it’s you.”
Before Scruffy could protest, the Doctor shoved open the door, and a wave of rotten, shambling bodies surged forward. Their eyes latched onto the Doctor immediately, their twisted forms lunging toward him with an unholy fervor. The Doctor stumbled back, using the tray to lure them, his figure disappearing into the dark corridor as the undead pursued him with frenzied snarls.
In the fleeting silence that followed, Scruffy took in a shaky breath, the only sound left was the faint, steady drip of water echoing in the room. Then, from somewhere in the dark, he heard a scream—raw, terrified, and unmistakably the Doctor’s—cut short by a sickening crunch.
Scruffy stared at the doorway, his mind racing. The Doctor’s last words hung in the air like smoke.
And then the silence broke, replaced by the sound of heavy footsteps, dragging closer, still hungry.
The dead were coming back for him.
Scruffy forced himself up from the gurney, his legs stiff and unsteady. As he shifted his weight, he felt an unnatural, jolting sensation in his left leg, Unlike his arm, this leg felt like an afterthought, slapped together and left to creak with every step, forcing him to shift his weight awkwardly.
The makeshift limb dragged slightly as he staggered forward, and he winced at each thudding impact that reverberated through his bones, the sensation both numb and sharp at once.
His right arm—a cold, alien weight of metal—seemed to anchor him as he staggered forward, his mind reeling from the Doctor’s parting words and the horrified screams still ringing in his ears. He hadn’t asked for this—a broken, pieced-together body, a supposed “cure” from something he hadn’t even known was wrong. And now, his only ally was likely torn to pieces, leaving him stranded in a place he barely understood.
He pressed on, moving as quickly as he could with the rough prosthetic grinding beneath him, its mechanics loud in the quiet of the gym’s darkened corridor. He passed a wall plastered with posters for “Body Blast” and “Spin Cycle,” their colors faded, edges curling as if they, too, had given up.
A thud echoed down the hall. Scruffy froze, shifting his weight onto his good leg, hoping the sound wasn’t loud enough to alert whatever might be lurking nearby. But a shadow shuffled from the end of the hall, its face twisted, eyes dull yet intent, its form jerking forward with a low, guttural moan.
Scruffy scanned the room, looking for anything he could use. His eyes landed on a rusted metal bar—the support from a dismantled piece of equipment—propped against the corner. Grabbing it, he hefted its weight, unnerved at how light it felt in his hand, especially compared to the heft of his unfamiliar metal arm.
Another noise from the hallway, closer now—a hollow scrape and groan, a stifled moan rising in pitch. He needed to move. He slipped quietly into the corridor, his back pressed against the cracked, graffiti-scarred tiles, feeling every nerve fire in anticipation.
He was nearing the double doors that led to what he hoped was the exit when he froze. A figure lurched out from the shadows ahead, its skin gray and flaking, eyes dull and empty but fixed on him. The creature paused, head tilting as if sizing him up, then staggered forward with a low, hungry groan.
Scruffy’s heart hammered. He gripped the rusted bar tighter, the weight of it both reassuring and useless in his shaking hand. “Hey, pal,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Not here for the workout, alright?”
The creature’s response was a guttural snarl as it lunged. Scruffy swung the bar, the metal striking with a hollow clang that echoed down the hall, but it barely slowed the creature. With a desperation he hadn’t known he was capable of, he brought his metal hand up, slamming it against the creature’s chest. The impact sent a shock through him, and he felt the unnatural strength of the limb as the creature stumbled back, its mouth opening in a horrible, guttural moan.
For a heartbeat, Scruffy stared at his own metal hand, half in awe and half in horror. But there was no time to think. The creature regained its balance, snarling as it lumbered forward again, reaching out with decayed fingers.
Scruffy pushed past it, stumbling down the hall as more shadows emerged from the corners. They came toward him, drawn by the noise, the scent, maybe even just the thrill of something alive. His footsteps quickened, echoing as he half-ran, half-staggered, his breath ragged as he darted around a corner and nearly crashed into a vending machine that had been tipped on its side, its shattered glass spilling out bags of stale chips and candy.
Behind him, the groans and snarls of the undead grew louder, a cacophony of hunger and decay closing in. Scruffy pushed himself forward, every instinct screaming at him to run faster, though his body felt weighed down, slow and unsteady.
He reached the double doors, his hands fumbling as he shoved them open. Cool, damp air hit his face, carrying with it the smell of rain and rot. The outside world stretched before him—a bleak wasteland of twisted metal and darkened buildings under an endless gray sky. But there was no time to take it in.
As he stumbled out into the open, he heard the heavy footsteps and snarls from behind, the doors creaking as the creatures shoved through after him.
His lopsided, erratic gait hammered the pavement as he attempted to make his escape. The world outside had been fractured by calamity—buildings loomed in warped shadows, their windows shattered, dark streetlights choked with vines, abandoned cars with doors hanging open, overgrown sidewalks strewn with debris, and, everywhere, the quiet, unmistakable hum of rot.
Behind him, the guttural growls grew fainter, though he knew better than to slow down. He gripped his metal hand tighter against his side, the unnatural cold of it pressing into his ribs.
He turned a corner, darting into a narrow alleyway lined with dumpsters that reeked of stale waste, and ducked behind a rusted fire escape. For a moment, he pressed himself against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The muscles in his right leg burned, every fiber of his being itching to collapse, but he stayed upright, listening to the low, ominous moans drifting down the street.
But there was no time for hesitation. The creatures had sensed something, and their shuffling became faster, more determined, their focus sharpening as they moved toward the alleyway. Scruffy slipped further into the shadows, his gaze scanning the buildings around him. Above, the fire escape ladder hung just within reach if he jumped—a risk, but better than becoming zombie lunch.
He crouched low, eyeing the ladder, gauging the distance. With a final glance at the approaching horde, he pushed off the ground, reaching for the bottom rung with his metal hand. It clanged against the metal, louder than he’d intended, but his grip held. The strength of the arm propelled him upward in a single, dizzying pull, muscles straining as he scrambled onto the first platform of the fire escape, dragging himself up just as the first few zombies shuffled below, their heads tilting upward at the faint noise.
Scruffy pressed himself flat against the platform, trying to silence his breathing. He watched the creatures below, their faces twisted, expressions frozen somewhere between rage and hunger, their jaws slack, drooling. They hovered at the base of the fire escape, sniffing the air, their dead eyes scanning the darkness as if searching for a sign.
With a soft exhale, Scruffy leaned back, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. For now, he was safe. But as he looked out over the bleak landscape, he felt the weight of reality sinking in.
The strange Doctor’s last words echoed in his mind. “Find them… the others… the survivors…” A grim smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He’d never fancied himself the hero type; he was more of a keep-your-head-down-and-don’t-get-involved kind of guy. But as he peered out over the desolate streets, the distant, shadowed buildings, it didn’t look like he had many options left.
If he was going to survive this, he’d need to find these so-called survivors, figure out what had happened to the world, and why he’d become some twisted science project. Until then, the only thing that mattered was keeping one step ahead of the undead.
Steeling himself, he continued to climb the fire escape, his sights set on finding answers.
END
***
Fun fact, the character voices here might strike you as familiar, and that’d be because I started this as a House MD x FRINGE crossover some time in 2012. Have occasionally thought about reconstituting it as a short zombie film, but since that’s not gonna happen, here you go. Happy Halloween, weenies. -n
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