Manus Machina

In the summer of 1963, dwindling contact with the town of Grisbatt ceased altogether. Holly, who was driving up to Michigan, wasn’t aware of this or even of the existence of the town. This was her first time visiting her sister since moving. It was because of this that she was surprised when a sign came into view. She slowed down to read it.

“Welcome to Grisbatt!

Pop. 4218”

It was styled after every sign that marked the boundary of a historic town. Though, now that she was closer, Holly could see how much the paint was cracked and flaking. The only evidence it had seen care in the past year was the painted dark green rectangle next to “Pop.” and the new black numbers over it.

Holly glanced at her fuel gauge as she sped back up. Half full. Her stomach growled. Don’t need gas, she thought, but do need some grub. The road led her to downtown Grisbatt. Shops selling trinkets, novelties, ice cream, candy, and about a half dozen other things sandwiched the road. She slowed to take in the displays as she passed them by.

At the end of the buildings she found a diner across the street from the town mechanic and gas station. She pulled in. There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot. She got out and headed inside. She expected a waitress behind the counter or people in the booths but the entire place was empty. She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was a quarter past noon.

“That’s weird,” she said to herself.

She walked out to the street and looked up and down it, straining her eyes. It wasn’t just the diner that was empty, the whole street was. She took to a brisk pace and headed down the way she came. The toy shop was the first building she reached. She tried the door, but it did not open. She put her face to the glass and squinted, trying to make anything out through the dirt. She saw nothing.

She went to the next shop down, the one that sold candy. It was locked up, just like the toy store. She huffed, and returned to her car. Her stomach growled a little louder. She sighed and rummaged through the trunk and back seat. She found a bag of shelled peanuts in her suitcase.

She sat down in the driver’s seat. She pinched each peanut, splitting each one with her teeth and eating them one half at a time. They didn’t last her twenty minutes. She sighed and turned the car on. Skipping lunch wasn’t the worst, she thought. She pulled out and kept going down the road. She would just stop in the next town.

Then she passed the church, its parking lot chock full of cars.

Of course, it was Sunday. She chuckled to herself. How could she have forgotten? The diner owner just forgot to lock up. She didn’t put much stock into the good book; she hadn’t been raised that way, and not even her “born-again” dad could sway her. But she didn't hold that against people. She found an empty spot and parked.

She paused at the doors. It didn’t seem right to barge in on a service. She pressed her ear to the door, and heard nothing. Must be some thick doors, she thought. She hemmed and hawed for a couple minutes before settling on just slipping inside. She’d just find a seat in the back and wait for the service to end.

She took a deep breath, cracked the door open, and squished herself through. It was empty. She tensed up before she noticed the pair of doors on either side of the organ at the front of the church. Everyone was outside, behind the church, she thought. She strode towards the doors on the right and slipped through as she’d done to enter.

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

She spun around and retched, bracing herself against the door. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. Keeping it over her mouth and nose, she closed her eyes, turned back around, took several deep breaths, and opened her eyes.

She caught the second wave of bile in her throat. Before her was a mass grave. The thin layer of dirt had done nothing to stop wildlife from digging the bodies up, though they were unmarred. Next to the funeral mound was a charred pyre, encircled by tombstones. Holly figured they were from the graves that were there before.

The wind shifted, and the stench of decay pierced through her handkerchief. This time she wasn’t able to hold it down. She threw up. She stood, doubled over, staring at the peanuts in the vomit.

She shook her head, and ran back to her car. She took a moment to steady herself against the door before getting in. She guzzled down some water to wash the taste out of her mouth. She fumbled with the keys but got her car started. She rubbed her temple with thumb and took a minute to calm down.

She shook her head as if to dislodge the memory of what she saw from her brain. It was time to leave. She started her car and left the church behind. She kept glancing in her rear view mirror and out the windows, hoping someone would just materialize if she kept looking.

No one did.

Her arms started shaking and her head began spinning. She forced herself to breathe; air came in short, terse breaths. She threw her eyes around, looking for any distraction. A sign for Grisbatt Hospital caught her eye. There, she thought, salvation. The people who had seen to the burial at the church were there. They might even have something to help her get through the rest of the drive, she told herself.

She made the turn and made her way up a road that snaked back and forth up the hill. At the top was the hospital. It was a plain, one-story, brick building; its facade dotted with a neat checkerboard of windows with a section carved out for the hospital’s name. Below the name was a small metal cross.

The lot was packed, more so than the one for the church. She pulled into a spot near the entrance, ignoring the signage. She gulped down more water, rubbed her eyes, and got out. She strode towards the hospital. Bedsheets had been hung across the concrete awning that sheltered the entrance area. Painted on them were two words:

“Manus Machina”

She had no idea what it meant. She just walked past and walked inside. She got the same disappointment she did from the rest of the buildings in Grisbatt. It was empty.

“Hello? Anyone here?” She called out. But there was no response.

She gave another look around, and decided to walk through the doors to the right of the reception desk. Someone had to be here, she thought, the lights were still on. She wandered down cookie cutter halls, pausing every turn to strain her ears for anything.

Every time it was silent bar the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. After fifteen minutes of searching that felt like an hour, she found a break in the monotony in a set of double doors labeled “East Wing.” What worried Holly was the notice pinned to them. It read:

“WARNING:

The East Wing is for those suffering the plague. All patients are to remain in isolation and hospital staff are not to enter without protection. All persons exiting will be subjected to decontamination procedures. Thank you for your co-operation in keeping the plague from spreading further.

-Grisbatt Hospital Management”

She shuddered. It explained a lot about the town but she was hit with another wave of nausea. Had she become infected getting so close to the grave at the church? She needed to find someone, anyone. She jogged down the halls in the opposite direction. In five minutes, she found another set of double doors. Above them was a bedsheet that also read:

“Manus Machina”

Just like the one outside, she thought. She passed through the doors and continued her search. The smell of bleach, blood, and metal pervaded the wing and invaded her nose. Holly pulled out her handkerchief again, though it proved no more effective here than it did at the church. She took three steps before sighing and shoving it in her pocket.

She walked through the halls until she found a door that had a bedsheet with a large red X hung over it. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing. She should’ve just continued walking, but her curiosity got the better of her.

She pulled the sheet aside and pushed down on the knob. The sheet fell to the floor as the door swung open. The light from the hallway illuminated the bed opposite the door, on which was a lump covered by the sheet.

Holly knew what was under it. She knew but it did not stop her from tearing it away. The man underneath was covered in vile sores and was missing an arm. It had been amputated, replaced with crude metal imitation. She clapped a hand to her mouth, thankful that whoever had covered him had closed his eyes.

She left the room. She straightened up and continued her search. Someone was here and she was going to find them. Not two minutes later she found another door with a marked bedsheet over it. She paused. There was no reason for her to open this door. But like when she watched a true crime show and things got heinous, she couldn’t pull herself away.

She opened the door.

It was a copy of the other room, down to the covered corpse. Before she knew what she was doing, she had yanked the sheet off the body. It was an older man than the first one, and his skin was also marred by the same vile sores. However, both his arms were replaced.

Were the sores a symptom of the plague? She asked herself. But if that was the case why were they here and not in the plague ward? She ran down the halls until she found another marked door. She had to know.

This time it was a younger girl, no older than twenty. Same sores, same replaced limbs; both arms and both legs for her. Once was nothing, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern. It was an adage from her favorite crime drama. She tried to keep her breathing under control as she stepped back out into the hall.

She passed more marked doors, but left them alone. She tried to focus on her breathing to keep her mind off what was behind each one. In. Out. In. Out. An unfamiliar noise snuck into her ear.

It sounded like machinery. Machinery meant people. She broke out into a sprint towards it. In thirty seconds she had tracked the noise to the operating room. She burst through the doors.

On the table was the latest patient, someone who was more metal than man, his face a pale mask. His false limbs were more substantial than the crude imitations she’d seen on the others. The price for them was the plates grafted onto his skin, bolts sunk into flesh. Sores peeked through the sparse gaps in his new skin.

Holly got closer. The patient’s chest was open. Empty tubes were stapled into his organs, and they all led to the same place: a fake heart, the source of the noise. It groaned and creaked as it pumped a putrid ichor through the tubes sticking out of it like a grotesque porcupine.

Her legs gave way under her, unable to handle the violation of science and nature. Her vision went blurry from tears. And then she heard the door open behind her.