room he looked into was equipped with what appeared to be an operating table and a large white cabinet that looked like his upright freezer in the garage at home. Curiosity finally getting the best of him, Chuck opened the door to one of the rooms and approached the cabinet. He tugged on the handle and the door swung open, a frosty cloud obscuring the contents. He felt his metal skeleton contract slightly as the super cooled air washed over him. As the cloud of frozen mist cleared, he jumped back, slamming into the operating table, sending it flying. He stifled the noise that wanted to escape from his mouth. A face stared back at him. A frozen face. A naked girl stood upright in the freezer, supported by metal brackets holding her in place.
At first glance, he thought she looked like a normal little girl, maybe about ten years old. Then, he saw her hands. Clad with claws and scaly skin, they reminded him of the hands of the Gypsum thing he'd fought earlier. He stuck his head in closer and looked around her back. Her scaly tail hung limply behind her. Chuck felt the metal of his naked skeleton shudder and grow colder. He backed away from the girl and slammed the door shut, not really knowing what to do next.
Chuck looked around the room, contemplating whether or not to do a bit more searching. Approaching a smaller cabinet, he pulled the door open tentatively, not wanting to repeat the surprise he'd gotten earlier, but breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering that the entire cabinet was filled with files. Pulling one out and opening it, he saw a photo of a man who looked about forty years old clipped to the inside of the folder. "Must be his medical records," Chuck muttered.
The first page of the file held the usual information - name, address, phone, intake date. The discharge date was blank. "Your name is Dave. Looks like you got in, but never got out." Chuck flipped the page, accidentally tearing it with his metal fingers. "Damn it," he grunted.
The next page contained one entry field, titled Treatment. A series of numbers and letters were written on a line, none of which Chuck could make sense of. He flipped the page and stared at the photos, almost dropping the file. The images were shocking. Dave at intake. Dave during treatment, hooked up to tubes, obviously in great distress. Chuck flipped the page. Dave in various stages of transformation, his skin tearing, bones protruding from pulverized flesh, his face contorted in pain. Chuck could almost hear the screams that must have come from Dave's mouth.
Chuck quickly paged through to the end of the photos. He felt the purest anger he'd ever felt, seeing the last of the images of Dave, his skeleton now revealed, his body stripped of flesh, his bones metallic, gleaming in the overhead lighting. Chuck looked at his own skeleton. "This is what happened to me," he said. At the very end of the file, one note was written. Deceased, 90 days.
Chuck dropped the file folder and reached into the cabinet for another. He guessed there were about five thousand folders in front of him. Frantically pawing through them, page by page, he felt assaulted by the photos of men, women, and children, each transformed into a horrific creature, all now deceased. A few lived for ninety days, some fewer than fifty, most under five. Many of the patients never made it through the transformation. He tore through the documents at a frantic pace, looking for evidence that anyone had lived more than a few months. He needed some indication that he wouldn't suffer the same fate as they did, but he found none. Chuck glanced through the window, seeing another cabinet in the next room. He walked across the hallway silently, making sure he didn't have company, and entered the room. "There has to be someone alive yet," he said, aware that he wanted to cry, but couldn't.
Chuck pulled a pile of files out of the cabinet and set them on the floor, the clanging of his skeleton against the tile echoing through
At first glance, he thought she looked like a normal little girl, maybe about ten years old. Then, he saw her hands. Clad with claws and scaly skin, they reminded him of the hands of the Gypsum thing he'd fought earlier. He stuck his head in closer and looked around her back. Her scaly tail hung limply behind her. Chuck felt the metal of his naked skeleton shudder and grow colder. He backed away from the girl and slammed the door shut, not really knowing what to do next.
Chuck looked around the room, contemplating whether or not to do a bit more searching. Approaching a smaller cabinet, he pulled the door open tentatively, not wanting to repeat the surprise he'd gotten earlier, but breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering that the entire cabinet was filled with files. Pulling one out and opening it, he saw a photo of a man who looked about forty years old clipped to the inside of the folder. "Must be his medical records," Chuck muttered.
The first page of the file held the usual information - name, address, phone, intake date. The discharge date was blank. "Your name is Dave. Looks like you got in, but never got out." Chuck flipped the page, accidentally tearing it with his metal fingers. "Damn it," he grunted.
The next page contained one entry field, titled Treatment. A series of numbers and letters were written on a line, none of which Chuck could make sense of. He flipped the page and stared at the photos, almost dropping the file. The images were shocking. Dave at intake. Dave during treatment, hooked up to tubes, obviously in great distress. Chuck flipped the page. Dave in various stages of transformation, his skin tearing, bones protruding from pulverized flesh, his face contorted in pain. Chuck could almost hear the screams that must have come from Dave's mouth.
Chuck quickly paged through to the end of the photos. He felt the purest anger he'd ever felt, seeing the last of the images of Dave, his skeleton now revealed, his body stripped of flesh, his bones metallic, gleaming in the overhead lighting. Chuck looked at his own skeleton. "This is what happened to me," he said. At the very end of the file, one note was written. Deceased, 90 days.
Chuck dropped the file folder and reached into the cabinet for another. He guessed there were about five thousand folders in front of him. Frantically pawing through them, page by page, he felt assaulted by the photos of men, women, and children, each transformed into a horrific creature, all now deceased. A few lived for ninety days, some fewer than fifty, most under five. Many of the patients never made it through the transformation. He tore through the documents at a frantic pace, looking for evidence that anyone had lived more than a few months. He needed some indication that he wouldn't suffer the same fate as they did, but he found none. Chuck glanced through the window, seeing another cabinet in the next room. He walked across the hallway silently, making sure he didn't have company, and entered the room. "There has to be someone alive yet," he said, aware that he wanted to cry, but couldn't.
Chuck pulled a pile of files out of the cabinet and set them on the floor, the clanging of his skeleton against the tile echoing through
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