Outside, the sun made it's way down through the sky to the horizon. As the light drained away and twilight took it's place, Johnny Fisher regained consciousness. It happened as things so often do – gradually and then suddenly. He felt mildly achy all over, and without opening his eyes he couldn't be sure where he was. These circumstances might be quite disconcerting for someone else. Someone who was not in the habit of drinking themselves to sleep of a night. For Johnny Fisher, these circumstances were a more or less weekly occurrence.

Even after his mind had begun to gear up, Johnny took it slow. He shifted slowly, testing himself for particular aches and pains. The air was cool and breezy. He was almost certainly out of doors. Wary of what the sun could do to a soul with a hangover, he carefully cracked his lids.

Gloom. So. Evening or early morning. How long had he been out?

He quickly let go of that question. There was an order to these things and after a while you learned not to trouble yourself about a given question until more pressing considerations were addressed. Things like; am I alive? Can I move? Do I need to vomit? Am I in imminent danger of being trodden upon?

He was still a few items away from 'where am I?' when he made room for an impromptu adjustment to the order of considerations. When his hands met surfaces with unexpectedly unnerving texture and consistency. Namely, 'what the hell am I laying on?”

He wiped at his sleep crusted eyes, then propped himself up on one elbow. Parts of his trousers felt stiff, but Johnny placed that some ways down the list, while noting that at least he was wearing trousers. For the moment he peered around him, working against the growing darkness and the somewhat thick state of his mind. When he finally recognized his surroundings, he wished he hadn't.

He was outside the city walls. In a shallow pit. And the answer to his question was 'bodies.' Agitated, if not quite hyperventilating, he took notice of the smell of smoke from the pyres burning not far off. All thought pushed aside by a powerful urge to be somewhere else, he ignored the lingering stiffness in his limbs. Scrabbling to the nearest wall of the pit, he lunged clumsily, then pulled himself up and out.

On hands and knees at the grassy lip of the pit, Johnny paused to suffer a coughing fit. When the fit had passed, he spat. Then groaned. He had woken up outdoors before, but there was no way he had put himself in a mass grave. Had he been drunk enough for that, he certainly would have been too drunk to walk out here in the first place. And this wasn't the only thing that failed to fit the hangover narrative.

There was a feeling of uncomfortable pressure in each of his armpits, which was joined by sharp pains when he moved his arms. Grimacing in anticipation, he reached across to probe the source of the pains. And yes, beneath a patch of shirt stiffened with dried gore, was an open sore. As Johnny hissed, less from pain than a sort of anguish, memories came flooding back.

The past four or five days came back to him in a jumbled blur. By the end of his first day showing symptoms he had been bedridden. He had no family to look after him, but one of the plague doctors had stopped in once a day to tend to him in exchange for what little he could pay. Fever had cooked him in his bed, and the doctor's treatment of the swellings did no discernible good. Delirium had set in, which explained why he didn't know how he had gotten here.

The bastard must have gotten tired of taking care of him and pawned him off as dead, assuming the plague would finish the job. Well, he'd made an ass out of himself this time. Just wait until, well, until Johnny had gone home and changed out of these godawful clothes. He'd teach that vulture to take his money and leave him for dead.

So thinking, he stood and dusted himself off – raising a cloud of dirt without changing his appearance at all. Tottering up the road, he eventually came to what he recognized as Bishop Gate. Naturally it was closed now that the sun was down. Johnny sighed. In his experience, dealing with the sorts of men who manned the gates at night was asking for a headache. They had nothing but time and an endless supply of sarcastic questions, and no motivation to hurry up and let you through.

Of course, with the plague on, there might not even be a guard on the gate. Then he'd be stuck trudging along the wall to check at the other gates, or sit here and wait for morning. It would get a bit chilly for that before the night was through.

Resigning himself to what taunts might come, he stepped up and struck a couple of blows with the meat of his fist. The outer surface of the wood crunched audibly, and the gates rocked violently against the bar holding them shut.

Johnny blinked. He looked at his fist. He shrugged.

“Hullo?” he called.

There was no answer. Several seconds passed, and Johnny vented his frustration by kicking at the bottom edge of the gate. The timber snapped a few feet up where it met one of the iron bands that held the huge door together. Johnny bent to peer at the angled length of timber. Christ. The city really was going to pot. He pushed at the broken timber experimentally. It wiggled in place like a loose tooth.

“Hm.”

Shifting his stance, he delivered a similar kick to the next timber in line. It snapped off completely, scraping a wide divot in the dirt beneath and disappearing inward. He heard it tumble to a halt somewhere within.

“Right.”

Three judicious kicks later Johnny ducked, then straightened up on the other side of the gate. He brushed his hands and knees off, again moving dirt around to little effect, before setting off down the road. His stride and bearing, if not proud and triumphant, were at least purposeful. His knees hardly buckled at all. Mostly. And if one of his hips began clicking around the time he was halfway home, there was nobody about to hear it anyway.

And thankfully it wasn't a very long walk. Stepping off Frohickey road when he was halfway to Frohickey, he was soon standing before his own humble abode.

And there he found something he didn't remember. A broad X had been whitewashed on his door. Long spikes had been driven into the frame, decisively sealing the door. Nearby, someone had scratched 'peste' in the brick face of the building.

So. He was definitely presumed dead. Did this mean he didn't have to pay taxes? Would old man Blakely have hired someone to take his place on the fishing boat yet? Had they left water in the house when they sealed it up? He definitely needed a quick scrub up before he tried to talk to anyone. And if there wasn't a change of clothes, he could at least try to get the worst of the blood out of his trousers.

Johnny Fisher stood for some time, losing sight in the darkness – there being fewer torches about at night these days. He stood, arms limp at his sides, seeing after images of the X on his door while mulling things over. He was still standing thusly when he heard the scuffing sound of footsteps approaching. Though he felt marginally better than he had upon waking, his mood had not improved. He ignored the footsteps while they approached and stopped eight or ten feet off to one side.

“Pardon me. Are you unwell, sir?”

Unwell? He'd need a map to find his way back to unwell.

So thinking, Johnny turned his head. He was able to make out a vague figure – a shadow standing in the darkness.

“Who asks?” he croaked, and was surprised at the harsh rasp of his own voice.

“Felix. Herbalist, doctor, and surgeon.”

“Perfect.” Johnny rasped quietly, “I'd like to get a second opinion.”

“Or course. If you would be so kind as to return with me to my place of practice.”

Johnny turned hesitantly from his stoop to face the figure.

“Mind you,” he added, “I've no coin at present. The last bastard doctor saw to that.”

“No matter,” Felix assured him, “One can always find a use for an extra pair of hands.”

Felix turned and began retracing his steps. Behind him, Johnny took a couple of steps before stopping again. Felix glanced back.

“Can you see?”

“Not much. Bloody dark, ain't it?” Johnny answered.

“Mm. Stay close. I know the way. Listen for my voice and my steps. I shall drag my feet.”

“Lead on.” Johnny agreed without enthusiasm.

Felix resumed walking. Listening between the scuffing sounds of his own tread, he discerned that Johnny moved like a man with bad hips. And knees. And possibly a club foot. Strange. Upon spying him, Felix felt sure the man was afflicted with the plague. On top of that, the man's sight was bad, but he didn't seem to realize it. Certainly it was dark, but the moon was gaining and clear in the sky. And even here within the walls, there was a measure of morbid ambiance from the flames of the pyres.

“May I inquire as to the nature of the first opinion?” Felix asked while they walked.

“Er... speak clear, will ye, Doc? My head's done in y'know.”

“Ah. Of course. What did the other doctor say of your condition?”

“Oh, that.”

Johnny hobbled on a ways in silence before actually answering.

“Well, I had the lumps, didn't I?” he eventually added. “No mistaking what that meant. But he was sure he knew how to cure it. Tried a few different things every day, and 'e was sure every time.”

“And you dismissed him when his cures failed?”

“Huh. I'd say he dismissed me. Pawned me off as already dead. 'S funny, you happening by.”

“How so?” Felix asked.

“Only just woke up p'raps half an hour ago in a hole with all bodies in. Lucky they hadn't covered me over.”

A suspicion grew stronger in Felix's mind. Then, as they drew near his cottage, he remembered something.

“What might I call you, if you don't mind?” he asked.

“Fisher. Johnny. John. Er, well, Johnny's good enough for ever'one else.”

“Are you a superstitious sort, Mr. Fisher?”

Johnny frowned. His temples were beginning to throb with the movement of his jaws.

“Never believed much in curses or the wee folk and fay that the Northerners go on about.” he answered.

“If you should hear anything... unusual... do try not to be alarmed.” Felix warned as they halted at his door.

Letting himself in, he stepped aside, then closed the door behind Fisher. While the younger man stood, staring blindly and rubbing an aching temple with a filthy hand, Felix looked this way and that. He listened. He crept over and peeked into the side room. Caesar breathed steadily, sleeping. The room was otherwise still. Finally he went to the back room.

The late Mrs. Weissberger was in bed. Felix saw her, translucent and pale, like faded chalk on slate. Of course it made sense that she was in bed. It was that time, but after having seen her in bed during the day previously, Felix wondered again if her sleep schedule was unusual or if she simply spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping.

“Oi, Doc, are ye not gonna light a taper?”

Felix quietly closed the door on the sleeping specter.

“Beg pardon,” he paced back to the table, “I misplaced my flint and steel. Ah, here they are.”

Taking up his tinder box, he struck sparks into a wad of loose cotton fibers, then tipped a candle to light it from the briefly blossoming flames. He found a half used taper and used it to transfer fire to the fireplace as well. He spoke while arranging kindling.

“Stand by the chair, please, and remove your blouse.”

Moving from the hearth, he retrieved his doctor's bag and brought it to the table. While Johnny peeled off his shirt, shedding a cloud of dirt, Felix rummaged and withdrew a selection of tools. Setting them out on the tabletop, he took up a primitive stethoscope consisting of three tiny silver cups connected by lengths of flexible wire.

Lifting one of the silver cups, Felix pressed it lightly to Johnny's chest.

“Hold that there if you would.”

Johnny gave the apparatus a suspicious look, but complied. He held the cup in place, ignoring what the doctor was doing to peer around the room.

“Is it smokey in 'ere? Can't seem to smell anything, but that candle is a bit weak, ain't it?”

Felix held the other two silver cups, one up to either ear. He listened quietly for a time before lowering them.

“I'm afraid your sense of smell may not be the only thing you are losing. I suspect your vision may be deteriorating.

“My vision?”

“Yes. And while that may sound bad, I believe it to be only a symptom. You are experiencing a more serious underlying condition.” Felix explained.

“Aye, 'speriencing The Mortality, ain't I?” Johnny replied brusquely, lifting an arm to show off one of his swollen glands. “But I'm not burnin' up n'more. Reckon I just needed some extra sleep, eh? Still sore as a ha'penny whore on payday, but-”

“No, I'm afraid mortality is no longer your concern.”

When Johnny simply stared dumbly, Felix raised the two silver cups to press them to the man's ears. He waited several seconds before explaining.

“Mr. Fisher, your heart no longer beats.”

Felix stood, patiently waiting to see how the late Johnny Fisher would take the news of his own passing. Fisher scowled at him for a time before his gaze shifted down to his own chest. Emitting a rasping sound somewhere between anger and fear, he turned the little silver cup in his hand and pressed it to Felix's chest. His eyes wandered while he listened to the steady beating of the doctor's heart. Then, steeling himself with a few deep, rattling breaths, he returned the cup to his own chest. Eventually he released the cup to let it dangle, his hand falling limply to his side.

Felix took the other cups away from the man's ears and set the apparatus aside on the table. Looking up again, he noticed Johnny's dazed lack of expression.

“Perhaps you should sit down.” he suggested, moving aside.

When Johnny showed no reaction, Felix gently nudged him along, then pushed him slowly and steadily until the chair caught the backs of his legs and he dropped into it. Squatting next to his unmoving patient, Felix was still, merely watching for several seconds, before standing again. Turning to the tools he had laid out on the table, he spoke in a calm monotone.

“It is only natural that you would have some difficulty accepting and assimilating this... unfortunate change. In the face of such extremely confronting circumstances, some would lapse into a mental paralysis. I will try to prevent this in your case. To that end, please listen to the sound of my voice.”

He lifted a sort of brass rimmed monocle and turned, leaning in to examine Johnny's eyes through the glass lens.

“You need not understand or think about the words. Deeper parts of your mind will see to that while you are coping. Just relax and listen to the sound of my voice. You are warm, and my voice is a gentle breeze. A soft blue sky. The smells of home. Safety. Peace.”

While he had hypnotized patients with voice alone before, he was quite uncertain as to whether or not it would work in the case of a walking dead man. Johnny seemed to be conscious, but only marginally responsive. Tucking the monocle back in his bag, he took up a clean syringe and uncorked the tip. He might have gone to the trouble of wiping the needle with alcohol, but he doubted the difference would matter much to someone in Johnny's condition.

“You sink further into peace and quiet. The sound of my voice is taking you home. I am going to count to ten. With each number I speak, you will feel yourself relax further into a calm, peaceful state.”

Felix bent and pressed a thumb at a spot on the inside of Johnny's left elbow.

“One.”

When the veins in Johnny's arm failed to present any more clearly, Felix rolled his eyes. No pulse, and presumably rather low blood pressure, obviously, he chided himself.

“Two.”

Moving down to circle the man's wrist with his left hand, he squeezed. Picking a vein in the back of Johnny's hand, he inserted the needle and slowly drew blood.

“Three.”

Johnny's gaze drifted in the middle distance, his eyes half lidded. His fingers twitched as Felix removed the needle, but he showed no other reaction.

“Four.”

Felix corked the needle and set the syringe aside. Finding some gauze and linen, he first dabbed away a drop of blood at the puncture site, then tied a small bandage around Johnny's hand.

“Five.”

He poked and prodded, checking here and there for broken bones or signs of internal injury. There were certainly signs of some unusual conditions, but it seemed likely that most of it was simply due to natural processes which set in upon, or soon after, death. He wondered if the normal processes leading to rot and putrefaction would progress on the usual timetable. And what that would mean for the cognitive condition of Mr. Fisher.

“Six.”

Lowering Johnny's shirt front after checking his ribs, Felix flinched back from a loud gurgling. Well, doubtless Johnny's digestive system was inactive, but gas building up and moving about inside was not uncommon.

“Seven.”

Glancing up to be sure the patient was still in his semi-somnolent state, Felix noted that Johnny's lips were parted. And a line of saliva trailed from one corner of his mouth. Interesting. He should be writing all of this down.

“Eight.”

Felix went to where he had temporarily left Caesar's saddlebags and dug out a leatherbound journal and a wooden case containing a pair of quill pens and a sealed inkwell. He brought these over to the table, then sought out a mug and a pouch of loose tea.

“Nine.”

Setting the tea and mug aside in favor of jotting down some notes while they were fresh in his mind, Felix opened the journal and cracked the wax seal on the inkwell. He was about to pull free the cork beneath when there came another loud gurgling sound from behind him. Followed by creaking, as of someone rising from a chair.

He forgot about ten. He would have turned around, but for the sudden gripping pressure of a dirty, clammy hand on either side of his head.