Dr Morgan Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Terry M. West

  Published by Pleasant Storm Entertainment

  Visit the author at http://www.terrymwest.com

  Originally published under the title All of the Flesh Served

  All rights reserved. No part of these stories may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Also by Terry M. West

  GATE 4

  Dead Aware: Before Gate 4

  GRUESOME

  Night Things: The Monster Collection

  Baker: Demons and other Night Things

  What Price Gory?

  Journals of Horror

  Dreg

  Check out Amazon.com for more Terry M. West tales!

  Like the official Terry M. West Facebook page!

  Follow Terry on Twitter!

  For my hero, Rod Serling

  For my other two heroes, Regina & Terrence

  Special thanks to

  Michael C. Schutz for helping me whip this novella into shape

  And also Zachary Walters, Hunter Shea, Timothy Hemlin, John T.M. Herres, Tony Harlan, Jeff Rausch, Mitch Workman, Kelli Gilmore, Christina Cooper, Fans of Modern Horror, Andrew Liebling, Bob Milne, Heather Omen, Kurt Marquart, Jonathan Woodrow, Shaun Hupp, CA Hoaks, Valerie Hemlin, Betty Rocksteady, DS Ullery, Chad Lutzke, Vitina Molgaard, Matt Molgaard, Michael Donner, Kerry Black, Donna Marie West, Becky Narron, Tim Meyer, Jeff O'Brien and too many others to list. It can be a lonely trip, but these friends make me smile along the way.

  “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.”

  ― Voltaire

  For God and the 45th!

  I pledge thee my life!

  And if I should fall

  do not mourn.

  My ascension is guaranteed!

  Death will not end my duty

  for all of the flesh serves!

  Let my empty vessel strengthen you

  on the battlefield.

  God bless the 45th!

  God bless the Red Guard!

  God bless the Soviet Union of America!

  We shall make the world great again!

  -Oath of the Red Guard

  Dr. Morgan had no first name. His title was a label affixed to his tube when he was engineered. His lifebrand was medicine, though he suspected a clerical error had occurred. He felt mercenary would have been a more appropriate calling. His large body could be quick and violent.

  Dr. Morgan’s temperament was wrong for his job. But his superiors forgave the rough edges, for he had outlived every field doctor in service. He was not as tolerant and compassionate as he could have been. His anger could boil. He often envisioned himself unleashing his rage upon another in a glorious and grotesque fashion. But, bloody fantasies aside, Dr. Morgan played the cards in his hand like a good and obedient soldier. The inhibitor buried at the base of his skull insured his compliance. It was an internal shock collar that he no longer tested.

  Even though his hide wasn’t an always comfortable place, he knew there were worse skins in which to dress. Hell, he could have gotten a bad shake from the vortex mixer and ended up front line fodder for the Red Guard. The Screaming Short Cutters, they were called. Couldn't wait to strap on bombs and fling themselves at paradise. Mental, they were.

  But deficiencies didn’t spare you, Dr. Morgan realized. Because all the flesh served and there was no wasting it in these dark times. He had watched many soldiers become corpses and long pigs, and he could see where stupidity fit in all this. Still, he envied the dim men who could kill.

  Killing was something he was sure he could be proficient at. He was a doctor, after all, and so he was familiar with the brush strokes of death. His hands were grossly overqualified.

  Dr. Morgan was with the Red Guard troop 468 for a month or so. The group cobbled survivors from three other subunits. The squad had started with twelve men and was now down to five. Reinforcements were coming, but not for a day. The enemy was called many things. Children of Cain and topsiders were the names the Chancellor used. The boys in the field used the more colorful slur of mutards. It was frowned on by the Ministry. But it wouldn't land a soldier in the brig.

  They were sweeping the capitol again. It was the headstone of a dead nation but still the Ministry refused to let it endure mutard occupancy. It was holy land.

  The hot wind lashed the angry sand into a storm with teeth, but it kept the sun off of them. He switched the goggles of his mask to night mode, but still saw little more than the soldiers ahead.

  Dr. Morgan made out the dark remains of the Constitution Hall beyond his comrades. The pillars had crumbled and the stone eagle ledge lay on the steps. He left the symbolism there to wiser men.

  "Ridgway, turn on your thermal and see if we're alone," Timpone, the commanding officer, spoke on the commlink.

  Ridgway fiddled with the controls on his wrist pad. He smacked the side of his helmet and shook his head. "Fucking chem-light battery I got going here! Can't get readings in this shit storm," he said. "But if the mutards were around, we'd know. By their stench if nothing else."

  "We're chasing our asses out here," Timpone decided. "It's time to hat up. Woodrow, find us a place to ride this out."

  Woodrow broke off and disappeared in the brown haze.

  "The Godless whores have given up," Carmichael spoke into the commlink.

  "Not likely," Timpone said.

  "This place holds no reverence for them. Why provoke us?" Carmichael said.

  "How long have you been out of the pod, Carmichael?" Timpone asked.

  "Six weeks, sir," the soldier replied.

  "They know it distracts the Chancellor. The topsiders come back every time we get too close to their core refuge," Timpone explained. "It keeps us busy and gives them time to find a new sanctuary."

  Dr. Morgan watched as Carmichael, ten or less yards away, regarded something on the ground.

  "Sir, come see this!" Carmichael said, excitedly.

  Carmichael bent down.

  Dr. Morgan reached toward the soldier and his lips formed to issue a warning. He couldn't see the bait that Carmichael had tugged from the earth, but he knew what it tethered. The soldier disappeared in a blinding flash of heat. The force of it threw Dr. Morgan to the dead earth. His head slammed against the hard soil. Frantic voices overpowered the commlink.

  Finally, after a long howl from Ridgway proclaiming, Fucking rookie, things calmed.

  Dr. Morgan stared up at the churning brown air and a high pitched drone rang his head.

  Timpone's gas mask stared down at him. "Morgan? Are you okay?"

  Dr. Morgan nodded. It started a rally of pain in his skull. He offered his arm and Timpone helped him up. The commanding officer handed Dr. Morgan his med kit.

  "I've pissed myself," Ridgway confessed in the commlink.

  "Who was hit?" Dr. Morgan asked. Smoke still permeated around them.

  "Carmichael, the poor bastard. And what you caught of it," Timpone said.

  "Take me to him. Let me see how bad it is," Dr. Morgan said.

  "At ease, soldier. Carmichael has ascended."

  Dr. Morgan and the rest of the troop gathered around the blast area. Carmichael lay scattered in burnt pieces. The corpse looked like a half digested offering spit back from the devil's belly. A taunt from Hell. Nothing inspired a rumination of the infernal regions stronger than a tour of the holy land. There was comical irony in that. But Dr. Morgan's head ached
too heavily for a proper snigger. And it was a tad sacrilegious. The capitol wasn't a good place for that.

  "Carmichael has ascended. But his duty does not yet end," Timpone said.

  "For God and the 45th! Private Carmichael has ascended!" the men said together.

  Woodrow returned and stared at the dead soldier.

  "Did you find a place, Woodrow?"

  "Yes, sir. The front wall's given out, but it'll be easy enough to defend."

  "Bring what you can to build a fire and collect what is still edible of Carmichael. Let's make camp, boys."

  ***

  Woodrow took them to a small brick structure with a large gap for an entrance. There were no windows, so the men didn't worry over the light of the fire. The men were black on rations and hadn't eaten in two days. Seeing a brother felled was always a sad but mouth-watering event. Choice cuts of Carmichael blackened over the fire.

  Death was handled very differently by the non-military personnel of the 45th. Most preferred cremation. A burial in the dirt was forbidden and looked upon as a crime. But on the battlefield, soldiers were expected to pledge their corpses to their comrades.

  Dr. Morgan looked around the building his unit used for cover. He could not say what the structure had been. The place was gutted and there were no clues. Ridgway was at the hole, keeping watch. The rest were hugging the warmth. They had shrugged their masks and gear off.

  "I heard that the mutards will hobble their own to cover retreat," Woodrow said, the fire dancing in his pupils. "They'll drug the weak ones and tell them the Red Guard will skin them alive if they are captured. They'll chain them to a post and give them an XT-97 and tell them to pocket the last slug for themselves."

  "That's complete bullshit, Woodrow. I've no love for topsiders but they are loyal to their own," Timpone said, picking Carmichael out of his teeth.

  Dr. Morgan's head still throbbed, but he had to add to the discussion. "They bury their dead."

  Woodrow's eyes rose above the fire and found the doctor. "What? You mean they put them in the earth? That's insane."

  "I've seen cemeteries. Crude gravestones carved with pagan symbols."

  Woodrow cringed. "That's disgusting, isn't it? Sacrilegious. What do they eat?"

  "Not their dead," Dr. Morgan said.

  "No wonder God hates them. Taking away the glory of the last supper," Woodrow said. He motioned to what was left of Carmichael.

  "Go ahead," Timpone said. "It's starting to burn, anyway."

  Ridgway came back and addressed Woodrow. "It's your turn to watch. Now go on, rookie. Find us a grid square."

  Woodrow rose, grabbed his rifle, and chewed on Carmichael as he crossed the room.

  "Gentlemen," Ridgway said, taking Woodrow's warm spot. He dug for a cig.

  "You still smell like piss," Timpone teased.

  Ridgway gave his commander the V sign and grunted. "Shut your crumb catcher! I still smell better than your cunt, now don’t I?"

  Timpone laughed and stoked the fire.

  Soldiers had a harsher demeanor than other lifebrands. They were encouraged to be vulgar and cruel. They were permitted lust, as well. It wasn't purged from the testosterone the bloodthirsty bastards needed to serve. But they could only spend their seed on Ministry approved holoporn. Dr. Morgan spent his credits on the holo booth as well. But he used it to see pictures and videos of the world before the great war. Lush postcards mailed from the dead past. He had stood upon the highest crest of the Himalayan. Studied the Notre-Dame Cathedral from the Eiffel Tower. Traveled to the angry mouth of the Mauna Loa volcano. He often dreamt of that world and saw himself in it. Dr. Morgan hated waking out of those wonderful dreams.

  He rubbed his neck and winced at the pain.

  Ridgway noticed. "You okay, doc?"

  "I'll live," Dr. Morgan said.

  Ridgway chuckled. "Death lost his marker on you, didn't he? How many troops have you been assigned?"

  "More than I can remember," Dr. Morgan said.

  "You are the biggest Band-Aid I've ever seen. A titan must have jizzed in your dish," Ridgway teased.

  They were quiet for a moment. They pointed their thoughts at the fire. Ridgway spoke again.

  "So, you know about biology and shit, right, doc?"

  "You'd be well screwed if I didn't."

  "How do the topsiders breed like they do? With all the poison still out here? Shouldn't it have killed them off by now?"

  "Genetic compensation. They evolve to survive the conditions," Dr. Morgan explained.

  "The devil is in their blood," Timpone added. "They aren't pure in design, like us. If we let them, they'd rape our women, contaminate our line, and erase us."

  "Too bad mutard bitches don't do it for me. I'd return the favor," Ridgway said.

  "You're a grunt. You can't breed. Not even with a topsider. Imagine what nightmare that would spawn," Timpone said.

  "Well, there's always the holoporn," Ridgway said.

  "You'd save a fortune in credits if you had an imagination," Dr. Morgan said to Ridgway.

  Ridgway scoffed. "And what would a saint like you know about slapping the bald-headed lap chap?"

  "I'm not a eunuch, Ridgway. I've been issued the same hardware as you," Dr. Morgan said with a smile.

  "Picture that!" Ridgway said to Timpone. "This one having a whack in a holo booth!"

  The men all laughed.

  Silence caught them once more. They watched the drama of the fire until Ridgway spoke again.

  "Doc, do you think…"

  Woodrow fell back inside. He landed flat on his back. His upturned eyes reached for the hole in his head.

  "Fuck me!" Timpone cried out.

  He and Ridgway both caught a slug in the head. It whizzed into them like angry wasps. Their melons sprayed pink mist as they fell and died.

  Dr. Morgan stood and waited for his turn. Shadows grew from the hole. He raised his hands.

  "I'm unarmed," he said, confident it wouldn't matter. He didn't have the capacity to fight them and there was nowhere to run. He was a goner.

  The topsiders came, their stolen Red Guard weapons longing for him. He had never been this close to them. Dr. Morgan had only caught frenetic glimpses in battle.

  They wore animal skins woven together with scraps taken from the uniforms of fallen Red Guard. The women among them clutched weapons and appeared as formidable as the males. Their complexion was as red as Old Nick's. Their skin was hard and thick. He counted eight of the savages. Five males and three females. Some of their rank went to Dr. Morgan's fallen and scavenged their meager belongings.

  One of the men approached him. "What is your name?" he said, and Dr. Morgan had never heard more than screams of rage or death from them. The brute almost sounded civilized.

  "I am Dr. Morgan, a medic. My lifebrand prevents me from harming you. Or anyone else," he said. His heart battered his chest and he cursed the inhibitor in his head. He'd have rather gone out taking one or two with him.

  The topsider grabbed Dr. Morgan's med kit and brought it to a man with fiery red hair. The man took the case and regarded Dr. Morgan.

  "You are a healer?" he asked.

  "Yes," Dr. Morgan said.

  The man turned to his people. "Bring him."

  Two of the men grabbed Dr. Morgan by his arms and pulled him out of the building and into the sandstorm. They didn't give him a chance to put on his mask and helmet.

  He couldn't catch his breath in the storm. His face tortured by the blistering wind, he closed his eyes as the men pulled him. Dr. Morgan opened his eyes when the sand stopped slapping him and the howl of the storm died away. He was in a building. He gazed up at a round and grand high ceiling. He had no opportunity to admire the holy art. He was dragged to the lower floor of the building. The air grew cold and damp as he navigated down flights of stairs.

  Dr. Morgan was ushered into a dark cavernous room, which was lit by wall torches. More of the topsiders waited. They stood when they saw Dr. Morgan. They cal
led for his blood.

  The red-headed leader motioned for silence. They quieted quickly.

  "This one is a healer. Do not harm him," he commanded.

  The leader, still carrying the med kit, took Dr. Morgan's arm. He guided him through the hostile crowd, which parted for them. Dr. Morgan noticed rats, in cages of wood and wire mesh. The savage bastards bit and clawed at their traps. The man led Dr. Morgan to two forms that glowed in the warmth of a campfire. One was a man, his body still, and the other was a child, a girl, who shuddered in fever.

  "Help them," the leader instructed.

  Dr. Morgan knelt to the man on the ground. He turned his eyes to the chief. "I can't help this one."

  A dark haired topsider, stood next to and larger than his master, bellowed at Dr. Morgan. "Fix him!"

  "I can't fix dead," Dr. Morgan said. "Now let me move on to the girl while I can still fix her."

  The angry bastard started to move at him. The leader held him back, his eyes finding Dr. Morgan again. "Help the child."

  Dr. Morgan went to her and opened his kit. He put a digital thermometer to her forehead. She was burning up. He poured water from his canteen over her forehead. He then looked to the hideous wound on her arm. "What happened?"

  "She was bitten by a rat," the leader answered.

  Dr. Morgan took out a needle pen. He showed it to the leader. "This is Palmerial. She needs it to fight the infection in her blood."

  "Give it," the man instructed.

  Dr. Morgan administered a shot to her shoulder. Too far away in her fever, she couldn't feel it. He then cleaned and dressed the bite.

  When he finished, he noticed a woman next to the child. She clutched a string of beads around her neck. She rocked, her lips moving in prayer.

  "Will she live?" the leader asked.

  Dr. Morgan nodded, closed his kit, and stood. "She should. The wound needs to be periodically cleaned and redressed. But the infection has been halted."

  The leader looked to the dead man on the floor. "Bury him."