The place was more reminiscent of a butchery than a surgery. It was a steel slaughterhouse, with matte metal walls and a floor covered in soiled tarpaulins and sheets. The sheets were stained with poorly cleaned blood. Shelves and trolleys were littered with various tools and implements which looked more at home in a mechanics garage than a doctor’s workplace. The center of the chamber was dominated by an iron chair, which Simon was sure had been a torture device before a career change brought it here. In this chair, Alex writhed in pain. He was sweating and straining in vain against cutting leather cords.
Simon could hear his brother’s teeth grinding and hacking at each other, while his fists collapsed in on themselves, his fingers gouging at his own wrists. All the while, though, Alex’s eyes stayed fixed, resolute.
Over Alex lurched a bald, stocky figure, who was clearly once toned and muscular, judging by the portions of his torso on display (there was a disturbingly large quantity of visible flesh, considering the supposed need for hygiene). The man’s physique had decayed with age and gravity, so that he now sagged in unflattering places. Tattoos ran like liquid down his neck, chest and arms, and grey hairs sprouted from every inch of skin. Biting gently on his tongue as he concentrated, and wearing ridiculously oversized goggles, the ‘doctor’ looked discouragingly dim witted. He did little to inspire confidence within his patient, and even less in his spectators, Simon and Luke. Every facet of the workshop and the workman screamed the truth behind his employment: he was cheap.
No longer able to hide his concern and disgust, Luke snapped, “For God’s sake, can’t you see he’s in agony? Is this surgery or an interrogation?” both hands clutched his shaved head as he continued to do laps of the room’s length.
Doctor Medez looked down at his patients face and seemed to notice for the first time there was a person attached to his work. The ex-military, presumably tank mechanic, shrugged nonchalantly.
“He looks alright to me,” Medez’ mouth hung open, and furrows webbed his forehead as he struggled to comprehend what his customer was suggesting.
Luke laughed frantically and gestured with disbelief at the dumbstruck doctor. He looked to Simon for support, hoping that between them they might explain to the surgeon this seemingly alien concept of pain.
“What, this? This is nothing!’ he chimed in a singsong tone that would have been extremely comforting if he were evaluating a vehicle after a fender-bender, “He is holding up well. Twenty minutes and not even a peep from him! You should be proud. I had one lad, a severed hand incident like yourself, couldn’t last thirty seconds through the procedure. The first little nick with a drill and he was out of here. It was hilarious. The boy ran out screaming, ‘On second thought, arms aren’t really that useful after all.’” he cackled loudly and alone, slapping his knee as he pictured the youth’s face and recalled his moment of panic, “Even better, he came back a year later, forced by some new filly of his. This time he got fifteen seconds through and shot out of the door like a bullet,” he now guffawed uncontrollably, quite undeterred by the silence in the room, and the bewildered faces of his audience, ‘I tell you. It’s moments like that which really make the job worthwhile, you know?’ with that, he picked up a screwdriver and resumed work on his subject.
Luke stood with his mouth agape, disbelief rooting him to the spot. He held this pose for a few minutes, then, quite sure by this stage that Medez had thoroughly lost interest in him, he returned to Simon’s side and resumed mourning the loss of his precious car, sacrificed so that Alex might walk again.
The procedure was long and arduous. An hour or so through, Luke and Simon excused themselves and went outside to watch the spattering of misty drizzle that wafted through the streets, indicating heavy rainfall high in the Summit above. They perched on a rotting wooden balcony on the fifth floor of a hundred-and-twenty storey building. The balcony had clearly been cobbled together, and largely decayed, long before wood became a rare commodity.
Luke clumsily fumbled around in his pockets, searching frantically for some cigarettes. With a sigh of relief, his hands found their mark. He shakily withdrew a crooked rollie from a shabby tin case and hungrily placed it between expectant lips. Simon watched from against one of the termite ridden pillars as his brother continued the ceremony by toying with a lighter for another minute or so, cackling to himself when he finally produced a flame from the cheap plastic device. Luke gratefully inhaled a lungful of the fouled air and lent on the creaking rail, watching people below desperately scurrying to avoid the damp.
Tartarus was victim to harsh and changeable weather, the price paid for centuries of industrialisation. By the time the technology had developed to create ecologically friendly machines and vehicles, the world had plummeted into such a state that reversal was impossible. With the reduction of landmass and the disappearance of coastal regions, the residents of Earth began to panic. Eventually, through disaster, people were forced to unite. The people of the planet came together in just a few vast metropolises, to live as one beneath a collaboration of former world leaders. That was around two hundred years prior to Simon’s lifetime, but he knew the story well; this fairy-tale piece of propaganda filtered down even to those with an education as poor as his own. Some denominations still steadfastly held to their previous nationality, shunning those who originated from elsewhere, but most were content to think of themselves simply as children of Tartarus. With race and religion much less of an issue, the biggest source of discord and violent crime stemmed from the numerous gang factions, who choked the lower classes and manipulated them like puppets to do their bidding. Between these syndicates, who held the manpower, and the ministers, who held the money, justice had firmly been removed from the qualities of humanity, and become a nostalgic myth. This was what Simon pondered as he watched people jostle for space beneath a highway that cut through the neighbouring building.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Amidst loud yawns, Luke scratched maniacally at his bald head, He ended the musical ensemble with a deep sigh.
“I feel bad for leaving him in there, man, but I had to get out of that place. I mean, the stench alone…’
“Don’t worry about it. He seemed fine.”
Luke frowned, “Yeah, he certainly seems to have a lot of tolerance for pain.”
Simon caught the edge to his oldest brother’s statement, “You don’t think he misses mum and dad?”
“Oh no, I do. I bet he misses them just as much as any of us. It’s just…”
“I know. Off putting, isn’t it? He’s so composed. I guess that’s just his way of dealing with grief?”
Luke nodded slowly, “Yeah. Maybe.”
An awkward silence followed, which was thankfully cut off by the piercing tone of Luke’s phone. Luke hastily plucked the device from his jacket pocket, bringing the phone before him to check the caller identification.
“Anthony,” he motioned towards the phone with his head and then pressed a miniscule silver button on the side of the device, “Hey. What’s up?”
Simon could hear the faint muffling of Anthony’s voice but could not discern what was being said. He quickly shifted his glance to the floor, attempting to convey complete disinterest.
“Ok, man, we’ll be there,” Luke said as he hung up the phone and pocketed the chrome rectangle.
Simon waited patiently.
“That was Anthony. He’s been snooping about the factory. He reckons he knows who sent dad to those thugs. He’s waiting for us at Mckarnaby’s restaurant,” Luke took another drag, “We’re gonna pay this guy a visit.”
Simon nodded, and then fell silent, staring out at a column of unbroken, flowing rain. Everyone knew that they were reaching the point of no return, and it clutched at their hearts like a vice.
It took a further hour before Medez finally emerged through the rusted iron door, a grim smile on his face revealing yellowed, chipped teeth. He looked between the two, scrutinising them as if this were their first meeting.
Impatiently, Luke gestured towards the room with a cigarette-burdened hand, “Well?”
Medez’ smile extended, so that all of his molars were now on display, “Your brother is just recovering for the moment. The operation was a success. Both his hand and leg appear to be fully functional, but I shall run him through some basic exercises when he wakes up. He needs to get used to thinking of the replacements as his own.”
Simon nodded, “How long until he’s on his feet.”
“Heavens, that will be a few days yet. The mind must adapt first. It is difficult to convince a brain that it has all of its toys back,” he chuckled, wiggling his fingers.
“Can we see him?”
“By all means, but don’t expect much from him. I may not have the anaesthetic preferred for such an operation, but I provide what I can in order to ease the pain,” Medez said, swigging from an unlabeled bottle.
Tentatively, they followed Medez back through the door, to the blood-stained floor of the operating room. There were several other empty bottles of “anaesthetic” dotted around the place.
Alex was slumped in the chair, breathing heavily. His upper body was a rosy colour from where Medez had made a poor attempt to mop up the vast quantity of blood. Where previously his arm had come to a halt after the elbow, there now extended a mechanical skeleton of a bronze-coloured material. The proportions were as close to his other hand as was possible, but nonetheless the appendage appeared menacing, like the head of a wicked hammer, with a handle of straining muscular flesh. Likewise, the leg was now a pillar of metal. Sheet metal had been used here, giving the leg a comparatively solid look, almost like it was sheathed in armour. The alloy of the foot rested heavily and awkwardly on the floor, draping off the seat. Alex’s body was not yet used to countering its tremendous weight. Modern synthetic limbs were engineered to be the same as existing or former limbs in every respect; dimension, weight and mass were all as close as possible to the human part being replaced. However, in the Pits of Tartarus, you got what you paid for. Alex’s body was grotesque, but it was functional. It was everything Alex required.
Medez stood next to his creation, waiting expectantly for praise.
Luke was once again scratching his head, whilst Simon stared fixatedly at the mass of skin and steel that was his brother. Alex’s sweat strewn lids began to tremble, quivering open to reveal his one dust-grey, bloodshot eye. His lips curled at the edge in a weary smile.
“It’s perfect,” Alex said, his head gently tilting to the side as he slipped into a content sleep.
Luke involuntarily let out a short, shrill laugh, and shrugged. He reached into his wallet to pay Medez the second installment of cash.