While the lack of responses has been rather underwhelming, I'm bored with nothing else to do, and as such I'm not prepared to let this die just yet. I suppose I'll have to treat two posts out of three as an acceptable consensus for now.
Chapter 2: Well that wasn't supposed to happen
Even though the lazy part of your brain is loudly protesting, and the part of your brain that doesn't want to be smashed by a muscular bald junkie is protesting even louder, you decide to do your job and help Johnny's friend. You indicate to Johnny to grab his shoulders, while you take his legs. The guy weighs a ton. You grunt to Johnny to haul him towards the AutoDoc. Meanwhile, you ask him more about the drug, and the dealer who gave it him.
"The dealer? Weird guy. Black dude, about seven feet tall..."
"... at least he looked about that, it's hard to tell, he was in a wheelchair at the time. Spoke like he was in Shakespeare all the time, lots of words like "thou" and "verily." Except sometimes he'd mix it up sometimes, throw in some gangsta talk every now and then. Wore a huge orange hat with a feather in it, and a purple and yellow pinstriped overcoat."
Oh. He's a psychopath. That explains everything.
"What did he say his name was?" you ask him.
Oh for Christ's sake. You decide to ask Johnny about the drug instead.
"Uh, it was a gas. The dude carried it around in a tank on the back of his chair, kind of like an oxygen tank. He gave Bob a shot of the stuff through a mask. I didn't want any of it after I saw what it did to Bob. Neither did anyone else, not even Meat."
That gives you pause. Kevin "Meat" Winters was the most notorious lover of hard drugs on the planet. He was the one who took a double dose of the stuff that killed the lead singer of the Sex Railguns just to prove that he was the better man. This stuff must have really turned Bob crazy if Meat didn't want any.
You reach the AutoDoc with Bob, and you dump him unceremoniously in and close the glass lid. Almost immediately the machine lights up, offering all sorts of readings. Johnny brushes his hands off.
"Well, I can't hang around, Doc. I've got to go get my momma's groceries."
Fuck, he's not leaving me alone with this guy, is he? Johnny reads the look on your face.
"Don't worry, man. Bob wouldn't hurt a fly. See you!"
You take one more look at Bob in the AutoDoc. His muscles look like knotted pythons. You're not so sure if you want to believe him on that. You decide to take a look at the readings to try and figure out what the problem is. You're taken aback by some of the readings. His pulse is almost at two hundred beats a minute. What's especially weird is the fact that his neurological activity readings are off the chart, which is absolutely bizarre for someone who is unconscious. You press a button on the AutoDoc's panel to take a blood sample. A syringe on the end of a small robot arm reaches out of the wall of the patient chamber, and delicately penetrates his skin.
His eyes bolt open.
Oh, shit, is the though that goes through your head in the moment before he suddenly sits bolt upright, his domed head smashing through the thick glass canopy of the AutoDoc. Blood streams from a multitude of cuts on his head. The syringe is snapped from the robotic arm and is now jutting out of his arm. None of this seems to bother him. His head turns like a turret, his mouth a grim line. Finally, his eyes settle on you. He says one word.
Your mind races. Is this guy going to try and kill me? Should I go for the gun in the desk? Should I try and get him to calm back down? Should I snap his neck like Arnold Schwarzenegger did in that movie? Can you do that without a lot of practice?
Before you can make your mind up, he continues.
"You are Doctor Kent Calaway, son of an insane prostitute and a used car salesman. You were born in a flat exactly 16.8 kilometres from where you stand right now 36 years, 87 days, 13 hours and 124 seconds ago. You were bullied in school, one day you were hung by your underwear from a flagpole. Last night you had a nightmare. Big Jimmy Boston from school was chasing you, and striking you with a giant dildo."
Holy fuck. How did he know all that?
"You wonder how I know all of this. Everything that is is so because of the trajectory of particles set into motion at the dawn of the universe. It is impossible to deviate from the set pattern. Everything that is about to happen, no matter how incredible, will happen for a reason. There is no stopping it. This is what has been shown to me."
This guy didn't strike you as a philosopher when he came in. Something is very, very wrong in his head.
"The drug showed it you? Is that it's effect, to let you see the future?"
"No. This is a side effect of the drug. The true effect will last me the rest of my life." He looks over your shoulder, staring intently at something. You turn around, see nothing there. He carries on, looking at the same spot. "The rest of my life, by the way, is exactly 15.6 seconds..."
"...So, before I go, there's one very important thing you must know."
"That none of this is my fault."
His chest explodes, almost as if he was shot from behind with a cannon. A fountain of gore erupts from a ragged hole in the middle of his breast. Something thumps into your doctor's coat, and slaps wetly to the floor. Bob's head slumps backwards into the AutoDoc, blood pooling in the recess.
Okay, what the fuck just happened...
Suddenly, you hear a splash from the floor. You look down, and see, to your horror, Bob's heart lying in a pool of blood.
Suddenly, it twitches. And then, after a couple of twitches, almost as if it's still trying to beat. Then, four pairs of tiny black growths appear on the side. They suddenly start to grow, like a plant growing in fast-forward. After about eight seconds, they grow into a set of spiny arachnid legs, with which Big Bob's disembodied heart rights itself on. It makes a high pitched chittering noise.
What. The. Fuck.
Suddenly, with a squeal, it starts skittering across the gore-strewn floor. You can hardly believe your eyes as you track its progress. After a moment's paralysis, you force yourself into action, though you are still convinced that this is just some kind of symptom of insanity.
What do you do? Your phone is available, there's lots of medical equipment to hand, and there's a large calibre handgun in your desk.
I have to kill fast and bullets are too slow.