Plague Doctor!

"Damn it!"

Dr. Joseph's shout echoed in the sterile air of the operating room, sharp and filled with dread. He released the rope he had been holding, his fingers trembling, and spun around to face Luther. His pale face betrayed the terror simmering beneath his stoic facade. Grabbing Luther by the arms, he shook him hard, almost desperately.

"Luther, you must have seen it wrong! Tell me you were mistaken!" His voice cracked, pleading against the grim reality he seemed unwilling to face.

But Luther's expression was grim, unyielding. "No, Dr. Joseph. I saw it clearly. The man's breathing was labored, his face was cyanotic, and… and he was vomiting dark green mucus."

Dr. Joseph's face twisted, a mask of horror turning into something savage. With a swift, violent motion, he kicked the spittoon on the table, sending it crashing against the wall. It rebounded, and the foul contents splattered across the floor, spilling at Luther's feet.

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Luther's heart pounded as the weight of the situation settled over him like a shroud. He felt a growing unease, a gnawing worry. This sickness, this unknown plague, it was worse than anything he had ever encountered, more terrifying than any illness he had read about in his medical training.

Beside him, Carol, the youngest apprentice, was pale as a ghost. She knelt down slowly, hands trembling, and began to clean up the filth that had spilled from the spittoon. Her fingers shook as she worked, her face contorted in sorrow and fear. Her voice was barely a whisper, yet the words struck the room like a thunderclap.

"It's… it's the blood plague," she stammered, her voice quivering. "In the big cities, they call it distemper. But here, we know it as the blood plague."

The words sent a chill down Luther's spine. Blood plague. The name alone was enough to conjure horrors; visions of rotting corpses, streets littered with the dead, and entire towns wiped out as if by the hand of some vengeful god. He had read about it in the clinic's archives, in records that filled half a room. The disease had been all but erased from memory, a relic of a dark past, something spoken of in whispers, as if saying its name might summon it back.

But now, it was here. And the fear of it had resurfaced in Luther, clawing up from a place he thought he'd buried long ago. He had hoped, prayed; that this particular nightmare would stay buried. But luck, it seemed, had abandoned them.

A memory sparked in his mind, sharp and vivid, recalling a morning not too long ago. He had woken up that Monday, feverish, drenched in sweat, his breathing labored. At first, it seemed like any other fever. But within the hour, he had been gasping, his chest heaving, feeling as though his lungs might burst. His vomit had turned a sickly green, thick and foul. He remembered collapsing to the floor, clutching his throat, convinced he was moments from death.

But then, something else had happened. In the corner of his vision, he had seen a tiny exclamation mark, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was a strange reminder of his status as a time traveler, as one who had come here from a different world, with a system embedded in his very being. Focusing on the mark, words had flashed before his eyes:

[World Logic Error]

[World Logic Error]

[Farming System Binding Successful]

[Host: Luther]

[System Repair in Progress]

Somehow, against all logic, the system had acted, repairing him, restoring his body. If it hadn't, he'd likely be dead already. But now, it seemed, the system had its own complications, its own malfunctions and it was still in the process of repair.

The silence in the room grew heavy, pressing down on them. None of them dared to speak. Dr. Joseph and Carol wore expressions of raw despair, the weight of helplessness hanging around them like a fog. Luther, though pretending to be just as terrified, felt a twinge of comfort. He had survived the blood plague once, perhaps he had a fighting chance to survive it again, if he kept his wits about him.

But then, Dr. Joseph's voice cut through the silence, low and filled with grim determination. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes held a manic fire as he spat his words.

"If this is truly the blood plague, we can't just sit here and wait to die. We have to act, take charge of the situation." He leaned forward, eyes wild, his hand gripping a surgical saw like a weapon. "I am the only doctor in this town, and you two are my apprentices. There's no running, no hiding. You're in this with me, whether you like it or not!"

He looked ready to enforce his words with that saw, to cut down anyone who even hinted at fleeing. Carol's face went pale as a sheet, and she nodded hastily, her voice a feeble whisper, "I… I won't run, Dr. Joseph. I'll stay."

Luther gave an exaggerated shudder, allowing a hint of terror to flash across his face. He wiped at his eyes, feigning fear, and stammered, "I-I won't leave either… please, don't make me go…"

Inwardly, however, he was calculating his options. He knew that if he tried to escape and hide deep in the wilderness, he might have a slim chance of evading the plague. But here, in the confines of this infected town, he knew he was walking a knife's edge.

For now, though, he would play along, keep himself close to Joseph and Carol, and act as the loyal apprentice.

If he stayed, Luther thought, he might gain valuable protection or, better yet, learn crucial techniques to combat the blood plague from Dr. Joseph, an experienced and licensed physician. Joseph's confidence hinted at hidden knowledge, perhaps even a method to ward off this terrible disease.

"Very good," Joseph said, nodding with approval at his apprentices. "Just follow my lead; no questions, no complaints. Do as I say, and we might just make it through."

Joseph's sharp gaze lingered on Luther and Carol, a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. He seemed pleased with their silent obedience. With a smile that seemed almost out of place amidst the grim atmosphere, he checked on the recovering patient in the corner, offering a reassuring word before urging him to rest.

"Come with me," Joseph instructed, motioning for them to follow. He led Luther and Carol down a narrow hallway to a dimly lit storage room at the far end. The floorboards creaked underfoot, adding a sense of foreboding with each step. Joseph reached the door and unlocked it with an old brass key, ushering them inside.

The storage room was cluttered with crates, cobwebs, and dust; a place long neglected. Joseph headed straight for an ancient-looking chest nestled against the back wall. It looked sturdy, built to last, and bore a strange, intricate keyhole. With a sense of reverence, Joseph pulled out a ring of keys from his coat pocket, sifting through them until he found a particularly worn one. He fit it into the lock and turned it with a soft, satisfying 'click'.

The chest creaked open, and Luther caught a glimpse of what lay within. His eyes widened, and a thrill of recognition shot through him. "Is that… a Plague mask?"

"Yes," Joseph replied, lifting the mask with the long, curved nose, the symbol of a plague doctor. "This is Doctor Bird's Beak."

Luther stared in awe, memories flooding back. In his previous life, he'd read about the infamous "bird-beak doctors" who had battled the Black Death centuries ago. They had donned these eerie masks and strange suits, risking their lives to care for the infected, fighting what was believed to be an unstoppable force of nature.

"These doctors were legends," Luther murmured. "Facing death every day, refusing to abandon their patients."

But he had never imagined that he would one day lay hands on one of these infamous suits, much less wear it himself. His heart raced at the thought.

Joseph reached into the chest and pulled out three full sets of protective gear, each consisting of a waxed linen cloak, thick leather gloves, a wide-brimmed black hat, and the ominous beaked mask. Joseph handed each apprentice a set, explaining, "These suits have been passed down from my grandfather. He, too, faced the blood plague, though none of us thought we'd see it return in our lifetimes. Yet here we are."

He spat in disgust. "Damn those disciples of Hermann… this disease should've stayed buried."

Luther noticed the bitterness in Joseph's voice as he muttered about Hermann's disciples, whoever they were. It seemed the blame went deep, rooted in a hatred Luther didn't yet understand. But Luther was too entranced by the suit to ask questions. The cloak felt heavy and stiff with wax, its scent a strange blend of age and preservation, mixed with the musky smell of old fabric and dust.

Luther pulled on the thick cloak, feeling its weight and the odd, slick texture against his skin. It was stifling, almost suffocating, like wearing layers of damp wool. He ran his fingers over the mask's smooth beak, feeling both a sense of dread and a peculiar reverence. This was no ordinary attire; it was armor against an unseen killer.

Joseph watched his apprentices don their gear, his voice cutting through their silence. "It's not just the beak mask. The full outfit includes the hat, gloves, and a staff." He held up a thin wooden rod. "The staff is for distance, to help you keep infected people away without touching them."

His expression turned stern as he looked from Luther to Carol. "Listen closely, both of you. From now on, you stay by my side and follow my orders precisely. You do 'not' wander off, you do 'not' question me. This isn't a game. The blood plague shows no mercy, and neither will I if you endanger yourselves or me. Do you understand?"

Both apprentices nodded, trying to hide their fear. "Understood!" they answered in unison, though the tension in their voices was unmistakable.

The three of them finished adjusting their beak suits, Luther glancing sideways at Joseph to mirror his actions, making sure not to seem too eager or too skilled in putting on the strange attire. When they were finally dressed, they looked less like a team of doctors and more like a group of harbingers, cloaked in black, with empty beaks staring into the unknown.

Joseph, holding his staff with an air of grim satisfaction, struck it against the floor, the sharp sound echoing in the small room. He turned to Luther with a hardened expression.

"Luther," he ordered, his tone cold and deliberate, "go to my office. Call the mayor and tell him the plague has reached our town. You'll find his number on a note by the phone."

Luther swallowed, nodding. "Understood, Doctor."