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Hospital Fighter Ch. 8 "We Don't Exist..."

I write classic "good vs evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.


Draw Baryga out, whatever it takes; that’s the plan considering I can’t think of anything better anyway. An arrest resisted and a hospital burned – I am as good as imprisoned therefore, I will raise the stakes. “If you’re going to sleep with someone, might as well bed a queen.” As my grandfather used to say before making drastic decisions; he was indeed a brave man who loved taking risks; even if it didn’t make my grandmother too happy in the long run; there was no such thing as middle ground.

The main challenge is finding a dirty hospital and the only way to do so is word on the street, while I still believe most if not all were corrupt; some would have a number of innocent patients whom in all honesty, I’d hate to gun down while going for the bad apples. Luckily, intelligence didn’t make me wait long…


“Hey, I got the best in chemicals in town, want morphine?!” I heard from a shady alley I was passing.

“What?” I enquired while mentally preparing to shove yet another attacker face-first into a wall.

“You look like hell, bratan, (RUS: colloquial for brother) and morphine is the only thing that will ease the pain.”

Suddenly, it hit me; I could leverage this guy into giving away his supplier, “I’d like the green poison!” I replied, “Can’t find it anywhere!” chancing my luck to possibly get more information.

“Oh, the police is going hard enforcing the dry law, many sellers are getting jailed and even gunned down in public!” the dealer nervously replied while scanning the area. “Guess some are only good for fulfilling other people’s plans, nothing else.”

“Got the green stuff or not?” I asked again.

The dealer reached into his coat pocket and pulled out several familiar syringes, “if you come here often, I will hook you up; my inside man at the rehab on Krasnykh Orlov 20 St.”

“Great, my previous dealer got dragged away the other week so you saved me here!” I replied walking away. “The best gift a spy could get is a blabbermouth” old saying rings true. Rehabilitation centers in small towns can be a scary place, especially if it’s under-staffed; crazed drug addicts with minimal control are as bad as asylums with the cells open. That’s why shotguns were invented. A rehabilitation center creating more addicts, just to the drugs the system deems “correct.” Since I am a wanted terrorist in the eyes of the police, I will gun down everything that walks in that building.

Its 3:41pm now and scaling a shaky yet sturdy fire hazard ladder that almost all Soviet buildings have, I figured this is the best way to enter since my face is on notice boards and shootouts with police is not something I want. Climbing off the ladder and into a window, the place was dead; just silence most graveyards would envy and barely audible mumbling of people who clearly suffered a lot.


“No staff?” I asked myself readying the sawn-off and resting it on my left forearm, analyzing the immediate area through the gun’s sight. “This isn’t a medical institution; it’s a cabinet of curiosities outta the Kuntskamera museum.” I continued to ponder as I carefully walked forward. The place was trashed with broken chairs, bloodstained walls and other random garbage. This place won’t be missed by anyone except Baryga but I don’t have the means to burn it down however, step one is reduce the USSR’s junkie population.

As I finished the thought, something turned a corner and stared at me, it lost all its humanity to chemicals and a desire for more. Dead eyes looking at me for the next hit, this creature bolted at me at full sprint. I put it down instantly; the gunshot took the creature’s head off, leaving the lifeless body grabbing at the dirty air of the room while shambling towards me before collapsing. One shell is what it took.

The other rooms livened up to reveal more former humans; desperate addicts who hallucinated syringes like someone stranded in a desert seeing an oasis at every step. On impulse, I fired my last shell at the closest junkie – punching open its chest cavity. No time to reload, I holstered the shotgun and retreated towards the windows – my handgun only had half a magazine remaining too, I wasn’t going to waste it on unarmed junkies.

I went for the windows on purpose, smashing one with my elbow gave me a cutting and stabbing weapon; a very thick and sharp glass shard. Face to faces with 3 hopeless addicts reaching for me, grabbing at something that isn’t like them, me or them. Glass shard in my right hand, I shoulder-speared the closest one and drove him into a wall. Turning around and by accident, my shard went right through the neck of my next victim. The final junkie was thrown out of the broken window. However, my kill streak came to an abrupt end as like whiplash, a pistol grip flashed in my eyes and before I knew it, I was kissing the dusty, dirty, blood soaked floor. My hands were pulled backwards as I was forced still by what felt like 3 men.

“Stand him up and search him!” a voice commanded as the 3 men pushed me to a wall after lifting me up. The subordinates threw me back first only to follow up with a sharp punch to my core; first time in several years I felt like throwing up from a gut punch. My shotgun, pistol and bandolier were ripped off my body as the un-identifiable thugs continued to pat whatever resembled a pocket.

“Standard procedure says I should identify myself.” The leader showed signs of humanity, “However, I don’t officially exist nor am I a part of any Soviet organized forces so, even if you cry out; the Prokuratura (RUS: prosecutor’s office) won’t look for yesterday’s weather and tell you to shut up!” he finished as I got dragged away with no power or strength to fight back.

“Stow him in the boot!” I heard the commander call out.


© 2019 Jake Clawson