Blood Plague!

Using the hand-crank telephone was surprisingly straightforward. With just two tries, Luther managed to dial the mayor's number, the steady rhythm of the crank echoing softly in Dr. Joseph's quiet office.

The line crackled, and finally, a voice answered on the other end.

"This is the office of Mayor Riley Berman. I'm Lehman, the mayor's secretary. How may I assist you?" The secretary's voice was polite but slightly strained, as though he wasn't used to receiving calls from Joseph's clinic.

"Hello, Mr. Lehman," Luther began, his voice steady but carrying the urgency of his mission. "This is Luther, an apprentice at Dr. Joseph's clinic. I need to speak with the mayor on behalf of Dr. Joseph about a matter of utmost importance. Could you help connect me with him?"

There was a pause, and Luther could almost feel the secretary's hesitation over the line. "Joseph's Clinic, you say?" Lehman echoed, his tone uneasy. "All right… please hold."

As he waited, Luther leaned back in the leather chair, fiddling absentmindedly with the bird-beak mask in his hands. The mask was fascinating, both macabre and awe-inspiring. The eye sockets were covered with thick, translucent glass that gave a distorted view of the world, and the hard material was something he couldn't quite identify. He traced the silver diaphragms on each side of the beak, noting the small linen capsules sewn inside, intended to hold medicinal herbs. Dr. Joseph had explained that these herbal sachets, refined over generations, were said to filter out deadly pathogens.

Luther wasn't sure how much faith he placed in the mask's protective properties, but in this world, he had little choice. He would have to trust that whatever knowledge had been passed down was rooted in some truth, no matter how tenuous.

Finally, the line crackled again, but this time it was a different voice; a young girl, fresh and light.

"Hello? This is Halle Berman. Are you looking for my grandfather?"

"Yes," Luther replied, clearing his throat. "I need to speak to Mayor Riley Berman. It's urgent."

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically, "Grandpa is in a meeting with some officials who arrived from Grendel Province. They're discussing something important and can't be disturbed."

Luther felt a pang of frustration but kept his tone steady. "In that case, Miss Halle, please deliver a message to him from Dr. Joseph."

"Yes, of course," she replied, a bit more solemnly now.

"Tell him," Luther said slowly, each word weighted with the gravity of the situation, "the blood plague is coming."

There was a pause, a momentary silence that seemed to stretch longer than it was. Then her voice, soft and uncertain, came through the receiver. "Understood, Mr. Doctor. I'll tell him."

The line went dead, and Luther set the receiver down with a sigh. He took a deep breath and held the bird-beak mask up to his face. The mask was heavier than he had anticipated, and he adjusted the metal strap that looped around the back of his head, securing it tightly. The mask's glass eye covers dimmed his view, and a musty scent filled his nostrils as he inhaled. He could smell the ancient herbs tucked inside, faint and dry, mingling with the old dust embedded in the fabric.

Turning to the mirror on the wall, Luther took in his reflection; a shadowed figure draped in the thick, waxed linen coat, the mask's beak jutting forward ominously. The black hat sat low over his brow, and white gloves covered his hands, one of which gripped the oak stick firmly.

In that moment, he realized the transformation was complete. He was now a plague doctor.

But there was no thrill, no sense of triumph in the reflection. Instead, he felt the crushing weight of responsibility, of duty. He had donned the uniform not just for protection but as a symbol, a promise to face the unknown horrors ahead. Despite the strange abilities he possessed as a time traveler, despite the changes in his own body, he still felt the core of his humanity, that deep-rooted empathy and resolve to heal.

And with it came the grim realization, this town, quiet and unaware, was likely doomed. The blood plague was a relentless enemy, and he was stepping into a battle that few could survive. There would be no gunpowder, no sound of swords clashing; only the silent, unseen enemy of disease. It would be a war of attrition, a race against the shadow of death.

The weight of his duty pressed heavily upon him, but he could not turn away. Somewhere within, the instincts of a doctor pushed him forward, overriding the fear. He reminded himself that he was in a different era now, an era filled with darkness, ignorance, and suffering. Here, the people had little hope, and compassion was a scarce commodity. Poverty, disease, and cruelty thrived, and death was an ever-present companion.

Just then, a sharp knock broke his reverie, and he turned to see Carol standing at the doorway, her expression haunted.

"Luther," she called softly, her voice carrying a note of despair, "Dr. Joseph asked for you. It's time for us to go."

Her words were heavy, filled with resignation, as though she already understood what lay ahead. Luther took one last look in the mirror, straightening his mask, feeling the weight of history pressing down on him. This was no longer just a suit. It was a symbol of the fight he was about to undertake.

Taking a steadying breath, he nodded to Carol. Together, they would face the unknown, cloaked in the cold, heavy garb of bird-beak doctors, ready to confront the blood plague with what little power they had. And though despair lingered in Carol's voice, Luther's resolve was firm.

Luther stood there, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts, yet strangely, he felt hollow. He adjusted the collar of his bird-beak suit with meticulous care, as if he were preparing a body for burial. Each movement was precise, almost reverent, like a final ritual.

He didn't want to die. Deep down, he knew he had a chance to flee, to escape the nightmare looming over this town. The blood plague was closing in, and he had an out; a way to disappear and avoid the horrors that awaited him here. But something held him back. He had walked the path of a doctor in both his past life and this one, and he realized that some instincts were too deeply ingrained to ignore.

With a heavy sigh, he walked to the door and opened it. The hallway was dim, the shadows long and eerie, and there, in a corner, was Carol, squatting against the wall, his entire body trembling. Fear had carved deep lines into his face, and his eyes were glazed with terror.

"Let's go, Carol," Luther called, his voice calm but firm.

He took a few steps forward, his movements deliberate, feeling the weight of each step as if gravity itself was pulling him down. But Carol didn't move. He stayed crouched there, shivering, his eyes wide and unfocused, fixed somewhere far beyond this hallway.

Then, as Luther neared the stairwell, he heard a sudden crash, the sharp, unmistakable sound of breaking glass. He spun around just in time to see Carol's bird-beak mask lying on the floor near the shattered window. A gust of wind rustled through the broken glass, carrying the scent of old oak and fresh leaves from the tree outside.

Carol was gone. She had escaped through the window, using the large oak tree as her ladder to freedom.

Luther stared at the broken glass, feeling neither anger nor surprise. He understood. Fear could break even the strongest souls, and not everyone was meant for this kind of sacrifice. Not everyone shared his compulsion to stay. For a moment, he simply wished Carol well, hoped she might survive in whatever direction she ran. And then, quietly, he muttered under his breath, "Coward." It was less of an insult, more of a release of his own pent-up frustration.

Downstairs, Dr. Joseph was busy sorting through bottles and jars on a cluttered table. His expression remained oddly calm as Luther recounted Carol's escape. Joseph didn't flinch, didn't scowl. He simply continued with his work, arranging various medicines with an almost eerie focus.

Luther felt a sense of strangeness in Joseph's demeanor. The doctor, usually so prone to irritation, seemed almost serene now. Gone was the fiery man who would grumble over every minor mishap; in his place was someone solemn, resigned.

It wasn't until he had filled the last box with medical supplies that Joseph finally turned around. Through the small glass lenses of his own bird-beak mask, Luther could see the red veins creeping into Joseph's eyes, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Joseph's voice, when he spoke, was raspy and slow, each word labored as though something were stuck in his throat. "Luther… I was going to let you go."

Luther blinked, caught off guard by the quiet confession.

"That's why I sent you to make that phone call," Joseph continued, a bitter smile pulling at his lips. "It was a signal. A chance for you to slip away. But you stayed."

He laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound that turned into a hacking cough. "You're a fool, you know that? A damn fool for not running."

The words stung, but Luther felt a strange warmth mixed with the discomfort. Joseph had been trying to protect him. The stern doctor, who had drilled them with orders and criticisms, had quietly offered him a way out. But Luther, driven by his own sense of duty, hadn't taken it.

"Well," Joseph said, wiping his mouth, his smile turning almost nostalgic, "maybe it was for the best. Carol… I told her to run too. Signaled her to escape. At first, I thought about dragging both of you down with me, but then I realized; this world is hard enough. It's a miracle any of us survive at all."

He gestured to the bird-beak suit Luther wore, his voice soft. "Take it. Use it. And go if you still want to."

Suddenly, Joseph lurched forward, coughing violently. His hand flew to his throat, as if trying to choke back something rising from within. The noise was harsh, wet, each cough more desperate than the last. Luther instinctively took a step back, his hand reaching for the small knife hidden in his coat. His other hand brushed the door handle, ready to make a quick exit if things turned dangerous.

"Cough—cough!" Joseph staggered, his body convulsing with each ragged breath, his face contorting in pain. Dark, thick liquid began to seep from the corners of his mouth, the same sickly green that had marked the first plague victim.

"Doctor!" Luther called out, alarmed, but Joseph's eyes were already glazed, barely focusing on him.

Joseph tried to take a step forward, reaching toward Luther, but his foot caught on the edge of a box, and he crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud. A sickly gurgling sound filled the air as he lay there, gasping, his body wracked with spasms. Dark green liquid pooled beneath him, spilling out of his mouth and nose, staining the floor with its putrid color.

Luther watched, horror twisting in his stomach. He took another step back, his mind racing, every instinct telling him to run. Joseph's hand twitched, reaching weakly toward him as if grasping for help, for salvation that Luther knew he couldn't provide.

"What… what is this?" Luther whispered, barely able to recognize his own voice through the shock.

But he knew. This was the blood plague in its final, brutal stages, claiming yet another victim.