WAR: WIIGF 18 (Patreon)

Chapter 18: The Clinic

I hate this. 

The sun had barely dipped below the shitty, smog-stained horizon when they arrived at the clinic, the place looking no different from any long-abandoned building in the Narrows.

Shut down five years back, that’s what his mom had said. Bad blood transfusions led to some kinda outbreak that wiped out a bunch of patients and made no one want to use the place anymore. Where else would vampires set up shop, right? That’s what he told the father and it made sense to him, too. 

It looked the part too; broken windows had stared back out at them as soon as they showed up, the sign over the door barely hanging on thanks to one rusty trusty bolt.

Bludhaven Narrows Free Clinic. 

Inside, though…

Well, the whole place was straight out of the suspense-addicted minds behind any of those shitty anxiety-causing horror games. I hate this.

All of them had slipped into the building through a busted side door minutes ago, moving as quiet as possible. Going in through the front just screamed stupid, but then again… how was fighting vampires not stupid already?Suicidal, maybe, but probably not that stupid.

After a few twists and turns through hallways that all looked the same (peeling paint, water stains, and a bunch of broken glass everywhere) they finally made their way towards the actual heart of the clinic. God, I hate this.

He’d never seen a place more designed by Satan himself (or one of his greatest soldiers) just to make you wanna jump at your own shadow. Half the fluorescent lights (that shouldn’t even be on at all) still worked, kinda, but they flickered like an old man’s heart beat; one second bright as hell, the next choking out into nothing but static buzz.

It only made everything look worse.

The only thing missing was yellow tape and chalk lines but the floor was already a crime scene on its own; the whole place stained with old footprints and dirt crusted deep into cracked linoleum tile. The walls were no better, not with paint peeling off them in long curls, the color edging into smoker’s-lung-black.

It was one thing to be fighting vampires in an alley or a fucked-up old fish packery, but this… this survival-horror creepwalk BS was not something Ken liked at all. 

Ken raised his stupid little Magic Pen thingy that had popped into his hand the other day, using its glow as a flashlight while everyone else pointed the cold hard beams of their actual flashlights into the dark. Booted feet did their best to keep silent on the tile, a dozen pairs of them somehow managing it as everyone walked like ninjas through dark and empty hallways.

Three groups moved all together, nobody taking more steps than they had to; his crew Marcus’s, and the nuns. Strength in numbers, right?

Sure, strength in numbers but he was number one.

Him and Tyke, at least. They were both taking point in front of everyone else; just them standing as the shield against the suffocating dark that was probably full of so much fucking terror. Stop bitching… No, he knew that the two metas taking the lead was the smart idea, honestly. Still doesn’t feel fair, though.

Not that they were disposable, they were just the heavy hitters. And because they were the team with the heavy hitters, Lionel (not very lucky right now) and Mei Mei had to stay tight on their asses, both of them with their weapons ready. 

Behind them, Marcus’s own killsquad, him and three guys whose names Ken didn’t know, walked quietly; faces hidden behind the same black balaclavas as they moved with all the cop-swat-special training he only thought Marcus had. 

And right up in the rear, the four nuns. 

Sisters Killjoy, he mentally called ‘em, the psycho stabber Sister Lucy part of them. Armed with pistols holstered thigh-high, shotguns that looked big enough to take down a rhino held across their chests, and what had to be actual katanas strapped to their backs, they were all ready to take down anything with red eyes and pale skin. Nunjas.

The word made him want to laugh but he couldn’t afford to.

The silence was the worst part. Not just with the fact that they had to stay quiet to hear anyone coming, but they could barely hear anything at all. Hospitals were built with thick walls and clinics weren’t all that different, at least not the ones built right. And for a clinic built in the shithole that was the Narrows, this one was at least built right.

Down where they were, city sounds didn’t filter this deep.

No traffic.

No sirens.

No street noises, no nothing.Too quiet was always bad, especially in a city. Too quiet meant nobody was around. Too quiet meant anyone else around could hear you if you made a noise.

The too quiet felt way worse when you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. His red eyes made the light in his hand almost unnecessary (not that he was gonna pocket it anyway), all the adrenaline in his veins making that single tomoe spin like it was getting paid for it.

Faster and faster, he could almost feel his Sharingan going, red eyes painting the world in hyper-real detail even with the dark.

He didn’t waste them, making sure to scan every shadow with his contrast on high, every flicker of dust in their flashlight beams, every dark corner that seemed to twitch. The chakra drain wasn’t all that noticeable either, just a low, constant sip from his reserves, no problem at all. 

Manageable or not, he wasn’t about to turn it off now.

Not in here.

The signs twisted them around, white letters on that same liver-sick green pointing toward Morgue and Pathology, older ones underneath so faded his Sharingan could barely pick them out even when he focused. Who the hell designed this place? 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was on purpose; the way every turn almost doubled around on itself until Ken wasn't sure if they'd passed the same water stain twice.

Tyke’s fist went up and Marcus’s followed half a second later, both of them throwing shapes in the dark; silent commands rippling back through the group. Ken glanced back to see the older twins making faces; Sister Agnes mouthing something to Sister Agatha as their flashlight beams swung low and careful. 

They kept going.

Deeper. 

Always deeper into the guts of this place as his chest went tight, ribs squeezing in as the hallways narrowed and the walls pressed closer; mildew-rot stink from upstairs twisting into something sharper. 

Blood. Lots of it, old and fresh all mixed together until the smell coated his tongue as they finally came to a stop at the end of the hallway.

All of them stood in front of a heavy door, the thing dull gray under a dozen flashlight beams, a faded stair symbol next to it.

...fuck.

Basement.

Course it's the basement. Ken's eyes rolled even though nobody could see him past Lucky's shoulder. Where else? 

Bloodsuckers weren't exactly big on the sun, and every window upstairs was busted wide, letting in Blüdhaven's weak-ass excuse for daylight. Down made sense. Down was always where the bad shit lived.

The stairs groaned under their weight, each step colder than the last until Ken's breath fogged in front of his face. The wrongness hit him halfway down, that same sick pulsing energy from the blood-splatter sigil in the alley only stronger now, thicker. 

He caught Tyke's eye when they hit the bottom.

The big man gave him a slow nod as they turned and looked forward, both sets of eyes on the double doors. Heavy, windowless, the kind that belonged in a morgue freezer.

Ken reached out and, with a gentle push, the door cracked open.

Maria sucked air behind him as Lucky made a wet sound that died in his throat as a tight whisper left his lips. "Oh, that is... that is fucked up, man… b-beyond fucked up."

Ken couldn't blame him, mouth hanging open as his Sharingan’s single dot burned the memory in front of him into his brain.

Dozens.

Dozens of vampires.

Thirty of them, easy, packed tight into what used to be a morgue. Steel tables caught the flickering fluorescents from overhead as body lockers lined the far wall, half their doors hanging open.

But the vamps weren't hiding in the lockers, and they weren’t waiting to jump them either.

Why would they be?

This wasn't their trap.

They were too busy feeding for that. 

All of them, at once, faces buried in necks, in wrists, in whatever part of the bodies strapped spread-eagle on the gurneys they could reach; mouths sinking deep into flesh and vein as they drank. The people under them were twitching, still alive as they jerked against the restraints, whimpering as blood dripped everywhere, pooling and smearing across vampire faces and hands and clothes.

Don't puke don't puke don't—

"Deus Vult," one of the feeders moaned as it pulled back from a victim, voice thick and wet.

"Christ have mercy." Sister Agatha's whisper barely made it past Ken's shoulder, prayer and curse tangled together. The safety on her shotgun clicked off, loud as a gunshot as he snapped his head around, eyes wide.

The vampires looked up slow, like they were pulling themselves out of warm water, faces smeared dark-red as their eyes found the doorway. 

Glowing red met spinning red, pupils wide and hungry as they smiled.

"Intru—intruders," one hissed, voice climbing higher as it stared directly at Ken, smile stretching wider until its fangs showed. "A lamb for the sacrament! Our Lord will be pleased!"

"Oh fuck—"

He wasn’t sure if that was him or Lucky but it didn't matter; the world exploded.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Ruh Roh Raggy II – 150 NP

You just keep on stumbling, huh?

ROLL: [Greater Immunity – Ars Magica] – 400You gain complete immunity to one hazard or source of damage. Your choice may not be broader than, for example, iron or heat. However, you are immune to both mundane and magical versions of your chosen threat. This may be taken multiple times, choosing a different hazard each time.

Greater Immunity (Blood-borne Harm): You are completely immune to any injury, corruption, or effect caused by contact with or manipulation of blood not your own, whether mundane (disease, poison) or supernatural (blood magic, vampiric influence, or sympathetic link).

Nexus Points: 200