The Dark Files of Lazarus: Fee or Favor

June 13th, 2041

MODERN-AGE DOCTOR FRANKENSTEIN

WARNING! THIS PERSON IS STILL AT LARGE! IF APPROACHED BY SOMEONE CLAIMING TO BE A DOCTOR, LEAVE IMMEDIATELY AND NOTIFY AUTHORITIES! DO NOT ENGAGE! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND BY YOURSELF! HE IS WANTED FOR BLACKMAIL, COERCION, EXTORTION, AND SUSPICION OF MURDER!

• Harrold Lars Bonman, writer of Lazarus Insight

That was my article from five months ago. It was the most eye-catching headline upon the front page of the newspaper, certainly grabbing my attention while I lay strapped to a gurney in the upper floor of an abandoned hospital.

My life was already hectic nine months ago; despite our leaps and bounds in technology, the newspaper still remained in production and delivered to all corners of the city of Lazarus, built upon the ashes of Los Angeles. The year was 2041, and World War Three was firing off its first shots from halfway around the world. I wish that the horror stayed over there, out of my sight and off of my paper. At the same time, I anticipated being sent over into the trenches, no offense for the figure of speech. Being a journalist, I was expected to chase big stories, and that war was a big story.

At least, until a young nurse came to us with a tale of an old man.

She was a nurse named Beth Clarrence. Before the hospital where she worked was shut down due to almost all the doctors and nurses being forced to go overseas to keep the soldiers alive (we got stuck with those who looked like they were steadier at surgery during the Civil War), she was assisting one Doctor Zechariah Mengele. Both of them escaped the draft because of their age; she was in her forties, and he was about eighty-one. This confused me, so I inquired of her why her hospital kept someone working as a surgeon instead of having him retire. She said that her employer was too afraid to let him go. When I asked why she would risk coming to us to talk about the doctor, I'll never forget her answer:

"I didn't. He told me to tell you everything."

Zechariah Wormwood Mengele was born in 1961, and his life was pretty ordinary. Perhaps too ordinary, in the opinion of the nurse. During his high school years, he took his science classes pretty serious, especially during the dissection of frogs and the organs of cows. The curiosity would turn to obsessing over the inner and outer workings of the organic beings, including humans. Nearly a decade of medical schooling from USC (University of Southern California), and then starting out at California Hospital Medical Center. For any other doctor, this was a highlight, the peak of their career.

Obsession of the human body, especially in going above mere treatments and medicine, does affect a man after some time repressing such desires.

During the late 80s, he was something of an unsung hero. Wounds that were deemed fatal were treated by him, and the receivers walked off of the hospital grounds as if they never had such inflictions upon them. Diseases that had crippled many were soon clearing up, with people showing little to no symptoms in the aftermath. There were even times when someone suffered a horrible accident and amputation was to be the most likely outcome to save their lives but, somehow, Doctor Mengele went to work upon them and not only saved their lives, but saved the limb that was diagnosed as unsalvageable. Some thought he was touched by the grace of God; others thought him a spawn of Lucifer, especially with the coinciding reports of missing persons as well as found persons with missing organs or body parts.

After a couple decades and many appearances in court, there was no evidence of the doctor having performed any sort of illegitimate medical procedure, nor did any of the missing person cases link back to him. He was free to return to his career, but the damage was done; suspicions were cast upon the entirety of the hospital with patients even reporting the strange behaviors of the staff. One patient, who would remain anonymous as the nurse promised, stated that someone actually died in the same room as he was in, and that he personally saw Doctor Mengele perform an unauthorized autopsy upon the bed with the cameras supposedly shut off (the patient claimed to pretend to be under the influence of drugs so as not to arouse suspicion from the Doctor).

The hospital name had stuck with me, as I recalled that hardly anyone had gone there for years because of some controversies arising from that place. Eventually, it had to declare bankruptcy, and Beth was the last person to leave the Doctor's side. She remembered that, when she said goodbye to him and wished him well, he confessed that he did do the autopsy upon the deceased patient years ago and only lied so as to save the hospital's reputation. He then promised her that he would still be around if ever anyone needed him. She also remarked that, as she was leaving the room, he uttered, "for a price."

On my own time, I looked into Doctor Mengele's files, anything that would shed more light on him and his work. I even hit the streets, meeting with people who claimed to have visited or were admitted to CHMC. There was a young lady who revealed that her dad was taken there when his hand was severed in a mechanical incident. His doctor at the time was Zechariah Mengele, and he was home with all limbs attached and functional. But then she admitted that her dad was not the same afterwards and even went insane, claiming that what was attached to his arm was not his own hand.

Another person I interviewed, currently retired, said that he used to be a business liaison who was at death's doorstep when a stroke sent him into the arms of CHMC. He then woke up, with a nurse named Beth watching over him stating that there was no way he should have lived. The procedure that brought him back to the land of the living, though, was an expensive one, and he didn't have the money at the time to pay for his operation. One night, he received a text from an unknown number, claiming that all he had to do was to retrieve a packet of papers from a source near Pier 44 and bring it to the rear of the hospital after midnight; in doing so, and with no deviations or questions asked, his debt would be paid. Boiled down, he delivered. He never said who, but I already garnered who got the paperwork.

I even investigated the files of the Lazarus Police Department (former LAPD), many of which regarded missing persons or body parts. There were two cases that, literally, was one in a million. Her name was Leslie Belle, a former prostitute. She had been missing for over two years, and then she was found one day in front of a firehouse, dressed like a lady from the Victorian Era. There were marks upon her body from former stitching, and it was revealed that she had several organs replaced inside of her, and she confessed that after nearly suffering liver failure and even kidney failure from excessive drinking, an elder doctor basically blackmailed her into committing acts of kidnapping and even aiding him in his gruesome affairs of dismemberment; she suffered no prison time, instead having been placed in a mental institution for four years, examined up and down by surgeons and psychiatrists, and finally released without warning and with a full pardon.

In all these cases, each individual was given an opportunity by a doctor, about eighty in age, to settle a debt that they never asked for after a surgery that saved their lives, whether they wanted it or not. Afterwards, they were presented with a choice given by the octogenarian:

"Fee...or favor".

Hence, my article was made. And the attention that it got shocked even me! "Holy crap!" I said when my boss pulled me in and showed me the numbers. The newspaper industry practically got revived by my article, and I should have been ecstatic. But then it dawned on me; the doctor was still out there. No doubt that he would have learned about what I had said, which the boss addressed and told me to be careful coming to and from work. "That's not a suggestion," he stated, "you really need to watch your ass out there."

I tend to park my car furthest from my area of work, the habit giving me a near-absolute confidence of getting to it blindfolded. That day, three months ago, almost everyone got their own cars out of the parking lot of a very hot August day, whereas I lingered after clocking out until things cooled down a bit. When I finally came down, the space left by the vacant spots felt liberating.

A roar jolted me back to reality, complete with a bumper of a pickup truck on screeching tires to my chest.

My left arm broke my fall, in turn being broken. But it was the fact that I could barely breathe that really started scaring me. The truck, in turn, had stopped and someone just ran out of the car. Whoever it was, they were wearing gloves and a hat, probably for any cameras. As for me, I struggled to stand up, trying to get my bearings as my head was still swimming from the blow, made worse by the struggle of getting air into my lungs. There was a feeling like I had been stabbed and the sharp object was left inside of me. I vaguely remembered walking past the gate instead of heading to the building, as if I would get to a medical facility out on the streets.

In a way, I did.

A tarp had suddenly appeared around me, and I was hoisted by some powerful force that spirited me away in darkness. The pain intensified, in both my chest and my arm, and I almost forgot that I was being kidnapped! The last thing I remembered was a sensation of a needle entering my unbroken arm, followed by the desire and willful obligation to sleep.

Now...

I awoke upon the gurney in the abandoned hospital with that damned article above my face, as stated earlier. There was pain in my left arm, and it was in a cast, but there was something off about it, like what felt broken before was more than just reset. I'm not a doctor, though, so I didn't think on that. I was grateful that I could breathe, even better than before. And there were the straps, fresh leather and buckled snug but not too tight around my arms, legs, abdomen, and even my neck. I shifted, and then decided to not try to escape because of how futile it would be. Also, shifting hurt like hell!

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I've only been in a medical facility once, as a child. Anticipating the personnel was nerve-racking enough, especially when you hear their shoes in an otherwise empty hallway come to your door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My heart started racing. Even though I was no longer stabbed, it still hurt, and I tried to control my breathing.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

Doctor Zechariah Wormwood Mengele appeared at my side, the light reflecting off of his glasses, gray-smooth hair, and wrinkled pale skin. He saw that I was awake and watching him, and he smiled. Despite his age, he spoke with a voice as powerful as a British actor, a hint of his German accent, and as enunciated as a college professor from the forties.

"Mr. Harrold Lars Bonman, I hope you are feeling good."

His bedside manner was impeccably niche. "I feel alive", I answered. "I suppose I have you to thank for that."

"Yes," he smiled, "and you can thank that young man who drove his truck into you."

"You didn't set this up?"

"Goodness, no, not like this!" He looked me in my eyes, dead serious and honest. "I wanted to meet you in person, and I did pay the young man to bring you to me alive. A shame, as I tried to save his life from a growing brain aneurysm in return; that might explain why he didn't fully stop the truck. Still, his loss is now your gain. Breathe slowly; they're your new lungs now."

I felt like I got hit by that bumper again, but this time to my very soul. Another human being's organs were now inside my chest, and my heart raced again. I started to writhe in agony, feeling the fire in my chest. Seeing the pain, the doctor took a new hypodermic needle and stuck it in my neck; a few second later, my heart calmed down.

"We have much to discuss, especially about your article. I imagine that you have questions for me, and I will answer them as best as I can. But I have a question for you, Mr. Bonman." At this, he leaned in close to my ear, his hair falling close to my eye, and asked:

"Fee...or favor?"