Everyone in this
Ward is Dying
by Michael S.
Collins
The ward was
Hell. Not through strict regime or
authoritarianism or bleak walls, but Hell none
the less. It came in the deaths. Everyone died
here. The whitewashed walls and permanently lit
rooms, the smell of fresh paint and doctors
lunches in the air, hid the stench of Death. For
everyone died eventually, and this was the Lepers
Ship ward of the hospital.
Drop off place
for the terminally dying.
The Professor
sat in the waiting room, a cold coffee nearly
finished by his side. He glanced through the
cheap magazines on the table in front of him. Of
little use to an academic mind, they peddled in
cheap gossip and horoscopes.
A timid
looking Doctor entered the room and sat down next
to him.
“Are you
Professor Samuels” he asked.
The Professor
nodded.
“I am.
You must be Doctor Andrews. I came at once.”
“Thank
god.” The man held onto the wall for support.
His wire moustache and balding head made him look
the most serious and misfortunate of men.
“Professor
Samuels” He started.
“Please,
call me Jim.”
“OK. Jim,
we need your help. Everyone is dying!”
Jim’s
eyes narrowed together.
“Everyone?”
he asked.
“Everyone.”
Repeated the Doctor. “Not just the patients.
Family members, nurses, orderlies. Everyone in
this ward is dying.”
“How can
that be?”
“I
don’t know. That’s why I sent for you.
They’re all dying. Dying in their sleep.”
To die in
one’s sleep, such a peaceful way to go. The
best way to go. That’s how the adages go.
“Everyone
who falls asleep in this ward dies” said the
Doctor.
“When was
the last case?”
“An hour
ago.”
“Victim?”
“The
charge-nurse. Only took over from his predecessor
ten months ago. Jack he was called. Stern man.
Only fifty.”
“Cause of
death?”
“Can’t
tell yet. It’ll be the same as the others
though.”
“What was
the cause of the others then?”
The Doctor
turned to leave, and Jim got to his feet to
follow him.
“It’s
best if I show you. They haven’t picked him
up yet.”
Professor
Samuels followed the Doctor into the staff room.
The body lay across a large sofa, with a
makeshift shroud – a blanket – covering
him. At the Doctors insistence, the Professor
took back the blanket.
“Good
lord!” He cried, and dropped it back.
He turned to
the Doctor. “All of them?” he asked,
fear beginning to rise in his voice.
“Every
last one of them.”
At the point
of death, it is better to sleep, than to
experience it awake.
“They all
died like this? With that look of utter terror on
their faces?”
“Every
last one of them. But there has been some joy to
come out of it.”
“What’s
that?”
“Waiting
lists have gone down.”
“Well, I
suppose out of every supernatural event,
there’s economic salvation.”
Death had to
take him asleep, for if he’d been awake,
there’d have been a fight.
Death had to
take him awake, for if he’d been asleep,
there’d have been a fright.
There’s
an evil wind in mysterious places. Evil,
depending on your financial point of view.
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