Stepping inside Zongman Lark’s room, Jonan closed the door behind him. He’d had to pull out a lot of stops to get it done, but he’d managed to secure a small block of time where he was totally free from any commitments, and could unravel the mystery of why the hugely popular R&B singer had tried to kill himself. The stops Jonan had pulled mostly consisted of cutting to the chase in one way or another, mostly by telling patients to their face that they were going to die, and their loved ones were going to die, and that he and everyone else was going to die, and that there was nothing he could do for anybody other than prescribe painkillers, and even then, there were hardly any painkillers left.

Was it petty to obsess over Lark’s failed suicide attempt?

Yes.

Did Jonan care?

Not in the slightest.

One of the rules Jonan lived by was that, save for the one, exemplary exception, if a mystery existed, it was his job to figure out where it slept and slice its throat.

Jonan didn’t trust mysteries. They caused nothing but trouble. He wanted them sussed out and solved, and, if push came to shove, he’d drag them into the Sunlight, kicking and screaming.

More than anything else—more than even the deaths themselves—Jonan couldn’t stand the fact that he had no answers for the victims. He couldn’t tell them where the Green Death had come from. He couldn’t tell them why the disease was untreatable. He couldn’t even explain why their memories were getting ripped out of their minds.

It made him want to go out, find a mushroom, and stab it. Repeatedly.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough time for that in his schedule.

So, Jonan settled for solving the mystery of Lark’s suicide. Unlike the fungus, Jonan could talk to Lark. He could get the answer straight from the source.

As he liked to tell Ani, “I can take all the chill pills I want once I’m dead. Until then, it’s forward, march!”

He hoped they’d be able to have sex again before they died.

Jonan sighed into his rebreather unit.

Lark lay in bed. The man did not look good. It had been barely an hour since Jonan and I had determined the singer was suffering from a nasty case of failed suicide attempt. Worse, Lark had the Green Death, and the plague was very much doing its thing; the singer’s condition had visibly degraded since Jonan had last seen him. His skin was wan and graying, and his facial features had sunken in, likely due to dehydration.

The Green Death was murder for your hydration levels.

Walking up to the bed, Jonan added a second bag of hydrating solution to the IV drip. He tried to not notice the fungal filaments advancing through Lark’s skin. They’d already climbed over the top of his hospital gown’s collar.

Lark’s eyes followed Jonan’s every step.

“Hey,” he said, as Jonan stepped up to his bedside, “look who’s back.”

Clearing his throat, Jonan raised his head to look the singer in the eyes. “Just so you know,” he said, “what I’m about to ask you is very much out of character for me,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Lark said, “I can keep a secret.”

“Good,” Jonan said, “because I need to ask you for a favor.”

Lark’s brow flattened. “Needy white man wants what?”

The quip made Jonan smirk. “You tried to kill yourself,” he said.

“Yes,” the singer replied. “But…” He glanced at the restraints binding his wrists to the bed. “…did you really need to put me in restraints?”

“Yes,” Jonan answered. “Dr. Marteneiss is a real stickler for doing things by the book. Also, people are turning into zombies, so…” he sighed. “Yeah.”

Lark’s eyes bulged in his sunken sockets.

Jonan took the opportunity to pull up a chair—though not too close.

“Why sit so far away?” Lark asked.

“Social distancing,” Jonan answered.

“Isn’t it a little bit too late for that?” Lark asked. “Or does it come with perks that I don’t know about?”

“Yeah, it’s probably too late,” Jonan said, “but… you never know, social distancing might help keep you from turning into a zombie.”

Feeling a tickle in his throat, Jonan wondered if this would finally be the moment that marked the start of his own decline toward memorylessness, coma, and death. He was 99% sure he was infected by this point. By now, everyone was, and—like content on the internet that did not yet have a pornographic version—if they hadn’t been, they would be.

“…zombies?” Lark asked.

“Yep,” Dr. Derric added, “they’re a thing now, apparently.”

“Really?” Lark asked.

Jonan narrowed his eyes. “Have you not been paying attention?”

“I mean… it’s kinda hard to do that when I’m spending all day thinking about killing myself,” Lark replied.

“About that,” Jonan said, raising his finger, “thank you for reminding me.” He sat down in the chair. “So… I pride myself on my general excellence.”

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Lark scoffed. “You? Excellent? I never would have guessed.”

Jonan flexed his eyebrows. “They never do…. Anyhow… I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to have to sit back and watch as billions of people die and/or turn into one of several different varieties of monster and not be able to do anything about it. If I wanted to get nothing done, I’d have become a lawyer.” He shook his head. “Really, just take it from me, it is not pleasant. I don’t like that.”

“So?” Lark said.

“So…” Jonan said, “I’m going to figure out why you tried to kill yourself.” He clenched the chair’s armrest. “If I don’t get to do something that has an ending other than ‘they died’, I think I’m going to turn into a zombie, or worse. To that end, for my favor, I humbly request you spill the beans. So…” Jonan leaned forward, hunching his back, “…why’d you do it?”

Lark coughed, pursed his lips, and then pressed his fingers together in the pyramid of evil contemplation.

“A favor for a favor, then,” he said.

“Alright,” Jonan nodded, “what do you want?—other than not dying, obviously.”

“Could you put on some music?” Lark said. “I kinda can’t, not with my hands bound like this.”

“Did you try asking ALICE?” Jonan said.

“The computer lady?” Lark said. “Yeah. She said she was busy.”

“ALICE, put on Biluše,” Jonan said.

“I’m sorry,” the AI replied, “but I’m busy at the moment. I will try to get to you later.”

“Exactly,” Lark said.”

“Well… I’ll be glad to help,” Jonan said, nodding eagerly as he rose from his seat.

Though he could have done it using the console on the swinging table at Lark’s bedside, for social distancing’s sake, he walked up to the console on the wall and brought up the music selection screen. One of the perks of being in a hospital owned by the same company that owned 80% of the global music industry was that said hospital had access to a truly stupendous record collection.

He looked over his shoulder at the singer. “Any album of yours you want to hear?”

Lark’s eyes widened, as if Jonan had just asked to copulate with him. The singer shook his head in dismissal. “Oh, hell no.”

Jonan furrowed his brow, confused—worried he’d said something wrong. “Oh—alright. W-What would you prefer?”

Lark half-closed his eyes. “If you tease me, I swear to your Angel, I will cough in your fucking face.” He glowered. “I mean it.”

Jonan pursed his lips. “I sense something nefarious on the horizon.”

Lark chuckled, but that chuckle got strangled by a pained, raspy cough. “No,” he said, “just… unpopular taste.”

“Oh?” Jonan asked.

“This is a DAISHU hospital, ain’t it?” Lark asked.

“You know,” Jonan said, “that’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me that question. But, yes. Yes it is.”

“Put on the soundtrack from Kathaldri’s Biluše.”

Jonan blinked in confusion. “The old movie?”

“It was an opera before it was a movie,” Lark said, “and a stage play before that—though, no one really remembers the stage play, on account of it being in Polovian.”

“If it floats your boat,” Jonan said, turning back to the console on the wall, only to pause. “Angel, this is embarrassing,” he muttered. He looked over his shoulder again: “How do you spell ‘Bilooshay’?”

“B as in boobs,” Lark said, “I as in ice-cream, L as in love, U as in ‘it’s unfucking believable you don’t know how to spell the name of the greatest movie version of the greatest opera ever written,’ S as in sunshine, but with the diacritic on top that looks like angry eyebrows,” he made a V with his fingers above his brow, “and then E as in end.”

Jonan typed out the letters and hit enter.

And there it was.

Lark smirked. “Finally, a miracle!” he quipped.

Jonan let the music roll.

Jonan had seen the movie, once, on the DAISHU Classic Movies channel. His mom liked it. It was one of the stronger memories he had of her before her… decline. He only remembered the plot’s general contours. Biluše was the daughter of a minor Polovian noble who refused to convert to Lassedicy during the First Crusades. Her father and her estate got destroyed as a result, but she fled to the countryside and was raised by a hedge witch in a peasant village, fell in love with some guy, and then raised an army to oust the Trenton Empire. The scenes with the witch had left the strongest impression on him, mostly because Jonan remembered asking his mother why there was a witch and tree spirits in what was supposedly a real-world, historical event.

The other thing that had impressed him?

The music.

It wasn’t to his taste, but, shit, it sure was beautiful.

The room filled with the sound of the overture, which opened with the ringing of a small, high bell. The music that followed was uncrushed and noble, like a grand old tree. As Jonan listened, he found himself remembering bits of the movie.

It had opened with an aerial shot of Polovian woodlands—forests of ancient green spreading out as far as the eyes could see. Solemn chords hushed in the strings as a horn solo played a half-formed, yet achingly beautiful melody. Then the full orchestra took up the tune, making Lark’s room feel like a cathedral filled to the brim with somber worshippers.

Were they mourning? Praying?

Or, maybe both?

Then a drum crashed and the brass spat and everything suddenly sped up. The strings tumbled down a staircase of wild figurations over an accompaniment of a syncopated rhythm.

“I remember this part,” Jonan muttered, softly.

He looked at Lark, who nodded.

“The fire,” the singer said, softly.

Jonan was surprised by Lark’s reaction to the music. It was not at all what Jonan had expected. It was like the singer’s upper body had become a marionette, and the music was the puppetmaster pulling the strings. He bobbed his head, beating his arm in time with the music’s primal rhythm.

Bum ba-BA bum BA bum bum bum. Bum ba-BA bum BA bum bum bum.

And then the singers entered. Their notes were short and strong, heavily martial, managing to sound elegant while also mimicking a scream. They hopped down long intervals, and then another voice joined in, and another, singing the same melody, but at a different pitch. All of the lines eventually dissolved into a mêlée with the underlying rhythm.

Music for a battle.

Briefly, Jonan’s gaze met Lark’s. The singer’s eyes twinkled beneath the room’s fluorescent lights.

Jonan wanted to comment, but he held his breath until the music reached its end, the singers sustaining a stratospherically high note above the orchestra’s punched thunderclaps, only for everything to die into silence in an aural fade-to-black. Then and only then did Jonan muster up the courage to press the pause button.

“I see you feel strongly about this… opera,” Jonan said.

Slowly, Lark shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it.” His hands clenched his bed’s thin blanket. “Seriously, that was just the opening number. Where most operas would have some asinine jibber-jabber among servants or whatever, Biluše starts with a bang. Fire! War! People getting cut down where they stand! But the best parts are yet to come. The arias, fucking god, the arias. It’s like god is giving you a blow-job, only it’s somehow in your ears, and it doesn’t suck.”

“That… is an image,” Jonan said. He cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “Just say ‘Console, play Biluše,’ and it will do it for you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Lark said, “you’re a lifesaver. Now,” he glanced at his restraints, “if you could just loosen these restraints, here.”

“If you tell me what’s going on,” Jonan said, “maybe I will. But before we start on that,” he added, sitting back down in the chair, “do you mind telling me why you don’t want people to know you’re listening to opera?” Jonan asked. “You could have just asked a nurse, you know.”

“I don’t trust them,” Lark said. “I don’t know if they’re fans. They might not understand the horrible, horrible consequences that would happen if people found out I liked opera.”

“Most people are dead now,” Jonan said.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Lark said. “Doc, nothing’s gonna change the fact that opera just isn’t cool. Opera is at the bottom of the awesomeness list, along with anteaters, protractors, and going to church.”

Jonan crossed his arms. “That’s an excuse, and I’m not buying it. You have no reason to fear news of your music preferences souring your fan-base. At this point, I’m probably like 5% of your entire fan-base, and, let me tell you, I have no problem with you liking opera. So, what gives? What’s really going on?”