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“..So what happened?”
Brock takes heed stepping over an outstretched arm of stiffened half curled in fingers. The body lays crumpled to the side, his sidestep almost collides him into the only other live being in the entire hospital: the dark robed figure walking in easy strides no matter how chaotic it looks now. His hood is pulled over just enough to conceal anything the mask can’t, and Brock’s more than okay with that, he knows whatever’s under there isn’t for the faint of heart.
It’s the long beak protruding from the facial design that reminds him of images he’s seen in numerous history books that yammer on about the doctors that try to tend to victims of the plague. There was only one of him though with no indication of others.
“It is the Pestilence. We have run out of time here. I have only found you, my dearest.”
Brock doesn’t acknowledge the endearment, mainly watching the way the cloak moves with the man, almost like it’s a part of him, like an extension of muscle and tissue. He’s not sure if his eyes are playing tricks when he’s been out for so long but it even seems to breathe with him, material heavy and possibly made of wool, he’s unsure and too wary to be touched by it.
“I was in an accident.” Brock recalls, fragments of his memory coming back. The word coma floats front and center in his mind and he assumes it’s why he didn’t know any of this was going on. “I don’t even remember how long I’ve been out fer. Can’t be jus me around ‘ere.”
“Only you.”
It’s ominous and so sure.
He spies a thin hospital robe hanging on a hook close to the door of a room and he sneaks in to take it, there’s an unmade bed with no one in it, but feet peek out on the floor next to it bearing no movement.
He’s beginning to think he just might be.
“I tried to cure them, unfortunately like wildfire, it spreads. They should have brought me here sooner.” He holds a gloved hand out and Brock stares at it a long moment before his eyes go past his shoulder just to see the same effects outside. The aftermath of chaos and destruction. Corpses lying about and there’s things he assumes are zombies, wandering around aimlessly, two a foot away and paying them no mind. Brock finds that a bit curious considering what he’s learned from movies but says nothing and thanks his luck.
The hooded figure is patient, hand still extended and staring at no one but him. Brock still hesitates, trying to piece things all together. “So why me? Why am I still alive? Why ain’t ya killin’ me like the rest of 'em instead of offerin’ to keep me ‘ere with you?”
Brock stares out again to all the death and decay, the undead roaming mindless without an ounce of rhyme or reason around them. It’s numbing and there is no urge to feel upset. He doesn’t miss the world it was so he can’t feel anything for the world now.
For some reason Brock imagines the being smiling behind the white ceramic (even from this close he can’t tell how much it covers.), simple and serene-like, it goes with the way his green eyes shine behind the mask. “You did that yourself, my darling. You are free of disease. A specimen of peak perfection and I wish to forever keep you.”
Brock holds his gaze and seconds chip away before he’s slipping his hand against the touch of rough leather. He feels the pulse against his. “This should kill me.”
It’s more of a realization than a new fact.
“No need to cure what does not need curing, my love. For you are perfect and we can be perfect, together.”
Brock finds he likes the sound of that, fingers curling around his.
“Now let us leave, we have much work to do. I have a strong suspicion I can still be of help to the next town over and we both know my cure is most effective.”