Contaminated
The plague spread like pouring holy water from the chalice in an angel's mouth.
It ate away at the skin until holes formed and the soul escaped away from them.
Plague doctors running left and right; making the air seem infected with the sheer suffocation of their masks.
And yet, one of them stood out. No gloves on his hands. The Black Death entered his body quickly; and there was no point of hiding away hands that touched the infected. With the same dirty hands he prayed, hoping that he'll escape. But the mask stayed on. People never looked at anything below the head. Not until they decide to snap your neck. Not to kill you, but to find your essence an escape route.
He saw himself stronger since he got infected. When people fell around him like shot, he never felt better.
The needle pokes through the patient's skin as the syringe he holds turns into a gun, like the ones he keeps at his hip, rather than something supposed to heal. Disgust twisted his face, but invisible to anybody who looked at him. Hidden behind the mask, while the Plague itself sat beside sick humans, with sick pleasure in his gaze. The liquid drained in the individual's arm, like pouring holy water in Satan's mouth; cold and bitter, slowly burning in its power.
Soldiers fighting along him, infected with the plague who made monsters act civil. Yet no one fighting for him. Alone in his own infectious pleasure, the herbs in the beak of his mask felt like drugs, slowly made his actions feel like a machine's broken mechanism.
He reached out for the healing syringe, but instead he grabbed the gun, shooting at patient's arm. Blood painted sacred patterns on the walls, as if a cathedral's murals were depicted with ichor.
His body started trembling, sunlight falling on his masked face; his eyes burning from the brightness of the moment. His gloved hands touched the skin of the victim; pulling on their arm until it ripped. He relished in the feeling, keeping the arm as trophy.
He walked away, the sound of his combat boots still ringing in the victim's ears; like death's church bell.
A lush forest with tall trees came into view, his steps measured but heavy. He tossed the forelimb on the grass, the turf engulfing the dismembered arm like nature reclaimed its prized possession. He knelt down beside it, pulled out the syringe, and injected the plague.
Its veins slowly turned a sick shade of purple, before the palm clenched into a fist. He watched with a calculated fascination, as if he himself had no idea what was bound to happen.
The blood vessels suddenly popped, the infected cruor spraying everywhere like an unholy baptism.
Silence corrupted.
From the blue skies, white doves descended like a sacred curse; eating away at the detached limb like wild predators rather than birds representing peace.
One culver, with its little beak stained incarnadine,and those beady eyes staring at the Plague Doctor like it personally knew he was the author of this horror; tilted its head, a clever look surrounding it.
The Plague Doctor didn’t react visibly, but stood still,his shoulders slightly hunched. The bird snapped its head back to its meal, like a paradox of a demon pretending to be a saint.
He let out a long shigh, his hand resting against the holstered rifle, before shaking his head and standing up. He didn't bother cleaning up, he had to report this new effect the plague seemed to have.
