Marcus had finally succumbed, leaving only Eric, Jude, Tim Tom, Cassie and myself to take care of those who were affected and the other patients who probably never would be due to their nearer catatonic state. I know, as a Doctor, I had to try and take them with me, I also know, as a human being, that I would be putting my life at risk, as well as the lives of the other survivors. But I could put mine at risk, I suppose, after all, it was only a matter of time before I slept. I knew that the forgetting drugs were a shot in the dark, after all, they only made memories duller, they didn’t erase them.
As I watched the affected that we had locked in the rooms on our floor I hoped that I would see some sort of change. I was hoping that eventually the effects would wear off. After all, if this phrase was something that the Norse used to go into a berserker rage, or that Greek women used to go into a Dionysian ecstatic state before tearing animals apart with their bare hands, then it must wear off at some point. There was nothing in classical literature or Norse history indicated these manic states were permanent. But, I saw no changes in our resident affected.
Perhaps the phrase was different now; translating had made it more dangerous. Maybe the effects would be different in different languages, although it was clear that it had affected other countries. Maybe there were some that were less affected. But the words are so simple, so universal, and there’s no grammar to complicate translation, just a string of nouns. It should translate so easily into any language. Surely every language, at least today, has words for moth or rye or fig or any of the other words. But did the Norse know what tigers were during the viking era? Would they have substituted some other big cat they were familiar with? They knew about lions surely. Lions were in the coat of arms of many European countries. But what if there is a language, some small primitive tribe, that didn’t have a translation for all the words of the phrase? One could only hope that somewhere humanity would still have a chance.
Maybe in ancient times they had only used a part of the phrase for their effects. Or maybe there were was a counter phrase. God, I could hope, going through everything I could find about Norse mythology and ancient Greek mystery religions and the work of the linguist in Oxford. I wished and wished I could find something else, some other, shall I use the word, incantation, that might bring people out of their rage. Even if one existed, what are the chances the Oxford linguist had translated it, much less put it out on the internet somewhere? There was also the possibility that the ancients would get drunk before hearing the phrase, and that this somehow spared them the long term effects. In both ancient Norway and Greece it was apparent that alcohol was a big part of the rituals involved in going into a berserker or ecstatic state. Maybe getting black out drunk kept you from remembering the phrase in the long term. Though that wouldn’t explain why we had to sleep before it affected us, the phrase would have to work faster than it seemed too to put them in a rage state after they were drunk but before they sobered up. Unless, the phrase was actually more potent back then, or in their native languages, and worked faster, allowing them to get drunk, hear the phrase, go into a rage, then sleep it off after the battle was done or the orgies had ceased, not remembering anything, including the phrase, the next day. It was a valid theory, but how to test it? The only person here who we can be sure hasn’t heard the phrase is Cassie. And I don’t have any alcohol, although I do have tranquilizers. Dear God, I can’t believe I’m even thinking such a thing, much less writing it.
They would get quiet when left alone, the chanting barely audibly while staring at the wall or out the window, in a near catatonic state, some of them even rocking back and forth. Occasionally one of them would get worked up for no discernible reason and start mutilating their own face or body; pulling out hair, biting their fingers or hands or clawing at their faces. One had already torn his cheeks off, and another had managed to tear her ear off. When they did this we tried to direct their attention towards us, or put some food through the slots, something to redirect their rage. Of course, then they would often start banging against the door with the hands and head until those were bloody, and we would leave so they could eventually calm down.
I hoped beyond hope to see some change, some indication that it would wear off eventually. After all, that meant that once we were in the boat, I could be bound and fed for a few days until the rage wore off. But as yet, I had seen no indication that this was not a permanent state of being.
I was as quiet and cautious as I could be when peeking in to watch them, trying to study them, but sometimes they still caught me and went mad, clawing at the door. I had lost two more who wouldn’t stop banging their heads against the door, even when I slipped food in. After that I kept food spiked with tranquilizers handy to try to avoid losing any more…test subjects. I guess that is what they were now. My God, they aren’t the only ones losing their humanity.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
From the journal of Jude Guerrero
12/25/2012
We ate and drank a bit before implementing the next part of the plan, we were going to need our strength for this. After some good lucks from the rest of the crew Tim Tom and I headed back down the stairs and to the delivery truck. They keys were hanging in the dock for the vans, and the delivery truck already had them in it, so they wouldn’t have a problem getting out of here when the time came. We had to wait a bit to make sure no affected were too close to the gate, then I ran to open it and Tim Tom started up the truck and drove through before I closed it up and jumped in, and barely in time.
Of course, the noise of the truck brought them right to us, so I took the wheel and just started plowing through them, there wasn’t much else I could do. The truck was big but I still worried about busting a tire, but we made it through the crowd just fine and I gunned it to get over to the State Police station, having just looked at a map before we left.
Another pack was heading our way but we had some momentum now so we got through them no problem and soon we were at the station. The windows were at about the right height, as we thought they would be, so I backed right up to one of them, the back of the truck actually hitting the wall, then pulled up just a hair and we both leapt up and headed to the back.
We pulled the door up on the back of the delivery van and saw we were in luck, the windows weren’t even barred, we could just bust the glass and be in, and that we did.
I wasn’t surprised to see we were alone in here, but I was still relieved. I figured all the troopers would have been called out to deal with the riots, and I was right, but someone was here. As soon as we entered I could hear them, and braced myself to go check as Tim Tom started looking for guns and ammo. They were locked up in one of the cells, emaciated, mutilated, but still angry as fuck. Affected, definitely, and it looked like they had been eating each other to stay alive, there were bones and dried crusted blood on the floor. Three of them were left, and two bodies were in the other cell, already dead. Just like our affected upstairs, they had mutilated themselves out of rage and boredom and who knows what else and why they really did it. None of them had much hair left and they were all missing ears, and some of their noses, and had clawed at their own faces before gnawing the fingers down to pulp nubs. Christ almighty.