Title: Staring and Screaming
Summary: They were all dying. All of them. But he couldn't remember anything, not even himself. He had to do something, but there was nothing he could do. They were all dying, including him. It was all his fault.
I actually wrote this a few months ago for an original story I was writing. But due to a slight plot change, I had to totally warp this whole part to make it fit (even though it was a slight plot change). I thought it would be such a pity if I let this whole part of the story go to waste because I put a lot of thought into it and worked really hard (and that doesn't happen a lot). So I managed to change this into a JL fanfiction for you guys. I hope you like it. Please read and review. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own.
XXXXX
Darkness engulfed the doctor as the final, fizzing light bulb popped. The man continued walking the hospital's corridors.
He couldn't remember anything. What had happened, what was going on, himself, his own name. Nothing. His head throbbed, and he stood on wobbly legs. His sunken in eyes were glassy, hiding behind a tousled mess of stringy hair. A few days' worth of stubble lined his chin.
Light streamed in through randomly placed windows. Screams resonated through half opened doors. Every footstep made by the good doctor seemed to pound in his ears. Every breath fogged up in the cold. A moan escaped his parched lips.
Though he still walked the halls, he had no idea what to do. What he was meant to do. He knew he was a doctor only because of the hospital he was in and the bloodstained lab coat draped over his shivering shoulders. He knew he was sick, just like the others. And he knew there was no point. Nothing else he could do.
Yet he knew he had to do something.
He still couldn't remember.
Thud. His foot hit something. He slowly gazed down.
A dead body. Its lifeless eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling. The mouth seemed to be gaping in a scream.
The good doctor looked ahead. Hundreds of lifeless forms scattered across the corridor. All were staring, gaping, silently screaming.
At first, the man was puzzled, but then he sighed in recognition. Of course, the doctors had dumped the bodies in the hallways because there was no time to give each a proper burial.
Screams continued to seep from the doors.
One door was fully open, and the man stumbled in. More bodies lay scattered on the tiled floor. All the patients in the few beds were dead, except for one. The sheets had fallen to the floor, revealing the straps securing the flailing, ill man. One of the many sets of shrieks emanating throughout the building came from his cracking lips. His skin was pallid and flaking, and his eyes were bloodshot and moving, gazing at unseen demons and hallucinations.
And the good doctor just stared. Pondering. Trying to remember. Trying to lessen the ache attacking his brain, but to no avail. He found himself wincing in pain.
The convulsing man looked familiar. The doctor knew in his heart that he definitely knew the patient, but he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember a single bloody thing!
Just like how he couldn't remember a single thing of himself. He couldn't recall his own blasted name.
The doctor clenched his fist until it stung. His head continued to throb. The world around him seemed to sway.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The screams continued.
Then they stopped, in the room at least. The shrieks of horror in the hallways continued, but the patient before the doctor had gone silent. But his body still convulsed against its restraints, and his mouth still laid agape, and his eyes still shot from here and there.
The good doctor watched in awe.
A gurgling noise escaped the diseased man's mouth. Then a raspy choking sound. The man's head cocked back, and his neck bent toward the ceiling unrealistically. The choking noise continued, all the while growing in volume. The patient's red eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets.
And the good doctor remained at his post at the door. Doing nothing. Just nothing.
It was too late to do anything anyways.
The man in the bed let out a horrendous cough. Blood shot out, streaking across the walls and splattering on his horror stricken face. It stained the already bloodstained mattress. His eyes began to roll back into his head. He continued to jerk his body as his mouth continued to spray dark blood.
Then he was still.
The doctor cocked his head.
And the now dead patient stared upward. Mouth still gaping in a shriek stained with blood.
Staring and screaming silently. Dead.
Recovered from the horror he had witnessed, the doctor looked around at the dead littering the floor. At the blood now seeping through the decomposing wallpaper. At the dead body still warm in the bed.
They were all dead, and there were so many. The doctor studied the floor.
No use in dumping the bodies in the corridor.
He spun on his heel and exited, running his hand through his sweaty hair and not looking back. The next room was only a few steps away.
The doctor continued his duty, visiting each room on each floor in each hallway. Some still had living patients, though screaming in their own unseen terror. Some were full of bodies, all staring and screaming silently. Every now and then, the doctor would trip over one.
It hadn't been long until he lost track of how many rooms he had observed, or how much time he spent in each. For all he knew he had spent hours, maybe even days.
When he reached the final room at the end of the last corridor, it had seemed like an eternity.
The door was closed, and as the doctor placed his hand around the knob, he pondered at what he would find. More screaming patients? More staring and screaming corpses? What about the other doctors? Where were they? Had the disease taken them also?
With a grunt, he pushed open the door.
More bodies lay scattered across the ground, staring and screaming silently. Some patients in the beds had already died. Only two men remained. One was in the bed next to the window, jerking about in the leather restraints. Screaming in a Hell only he could see.
The other man had somehow escaped from his straps. He stood trembling before the other patient's bed with his back turned on the doctor. His hospital gown was stained with sweat, and his hands were clenched at his sides.
He wasn't screaming.
The good doctor tried to speak, but it came out as a hourse whisper. He coughed and tried again.
"H-hey."
The room seemed to tip, but the doctor shook it off. His heart hammered harder and louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"H-how'd you get out of bed? Get back in."
The standing patient let out a low chuckle, and his body shook more violently. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and raspy.
"Why, Doctor?" he asked. "So I can die like all the other bloody wretches?" He motioned to the floor.
It was then that the good doctor noticed the dead nurse lying against the wall. Staring and screaming.
Slowly, the doctor returned his gaze on the shaking man who still had not turned to face him. He stepped forward and around the dead bodies cautiously and struggled to catch a glimpse of the patient's face.
"Who are you?"
"Shut up," muttered the patient. He was watching the other man strapped in bed, head bowed. His quaking mouth was muttering something silently.
"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."
His face was still not visible. His bushy hair obscured most of it. But the doctor had heard the voice before. He knew he had. Somewhere.
"You need to get back in bed,"
The strange man continued to ramble, louder now.
"Shut up. Shut up. All gonna die… We're all gonna die… All gonna die and rot in Hell…in Hell."
He sounded like a broken record.
"Please…" The doctor reached out and touched the man's shoulder.
"Shut up! Shut up, Bruce!" The crazed patient immediately swept his arm out, hitting the good doctor in the face. He tumbled loudly to the tiled floor.
"Shut up, Bruce! Just shut up! Shut up!"
Bruce? The doctor pushed himself up into a sitting position, slightly dazed.
Bruce? Of course it's Bruce, you idiot, he mentally chided himself as reality came crashing into his mind. His head began to pound with adrenaline.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
At least now he remembered himself.
But he still couldn't remember anything else.
They were all still going to die.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his baffled and confused thoughts. When he reopened them and looked up, the man was staring him down with crazed and bulging eyes. Bruce blinked in recognition.
"Clark?"
"We're all gonna die… All gonna rot… We're already dead…" Clark trailed off, muttering to himself. He returned his gaze to the screamer in bed, and his frail body shivered in horror.
With a grunt of pain, Bruce pushed himself up on wobbly legs and took a good look at the bed. He felt like retching out what was left in his stomach.
"Oh no… Wally."
The young red-headed man shrieked and thrashed against the straps.
Pain lurched throughout Bruce's body as he watched the scene unfold, and bile began pushing its way up his sore throat. How had he not seen how horrifying this epidemic had become before? How sick was he?
How sick were they all?
The room once again began to spin, and the terror stricken doctor put a cold hand to his head to try to rub the nausea away. When he pulled it back, dark blood smeared across his forehead and ran down his fingers and pale face.
He was bleeding? No, he had been bleeding. His collar was red and with dried blood. How? And for how long?
Stress beat at his chest and head, and he steadied himself by grasping Wally's bed's railing. Beside him, Clark continued to whisper death.
"It's killing us… Killing us bad… Gonna die… Gonna die quick."
Before them, Wally's eyes began to roll back, and his screams became louder and more guttural. His body strained against the straps until his white skin had turned red. Fingernails dug into the mattress, and blood pooled at the bottom of his mouth until it trailed down his quaking chin.
Then all was still, and Wally fell quiet. Staring and screaming silently.
Dead.
Clark began to moan, and his body shivered violently.
"Clark…" Bruce stared at his dying companion, trying to hide the sob in his voice. "Clark, I'm sorry… But you need to get back in –"
"Why? So you can watch me die like the others?" he interrupted in a low, rough, and croaky voice. "You don't care. Do you? You just want us all to die, to rot. Huh? You don't care…" His voice trailed off.
"What?"
Clark began to chuckle menacingly.
"Huh? Is that it, Bruce?" he began to shout, glaring at the doctor. "You didn't do anything! You're the reason why we're all dying! Why Wally and the others are dead!"
"No. Clark… Please…"
"You could have done something. You should have done something." He took a step towards Bruce.
"No, Clark. I'm sorry. I couldn't do anything."
"Yes you could have!" Clark yelled. "You could have done something this whole time! Before any of this happened, in fact! But you didn't! You didn't!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do," the doctor continued to plead.
"You let us all die, Dr. Wayne. You're killing us all."
Bruce continued to whisper his apologies.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"You call yourself a doctor? Ha! That's a joke. You weren't the right one for the job. You weren't good enough. You were never good enough."
"I'm sorry." Bruce's voice was hardly audible now. He grasped Wally's bed to keep himself upright.
Clark glared at him through glassy eyes. "We're all gonna die. And now you are too. You're just as sick as us." He snickered as if it was all some insane joke. "We're both gonna die. Why don't we just save ourselves some time and just end it now?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Why don't we start with you, good doctor?"
Clark took another step, and another, until he was close enough to snatch Bruce by his collar.
"I'm sorry."
It was then that Clark stopped, and his face twisted in terror. He suddenly fell to the ground, dragging Bruce down with him. Then he began to scream. A horrific scream that seemed to shriek louder than the others. The doctor could only watch in horror on his knees. Clark was no longer chiding him, but Bruce could still hear his voice.
You're not good enough. You're the reason why we're dying.
I'm sorry.
You didn't do anything. You just didn't care. Didn't you?
I'm sorry.
You shouldn't have even tried. You couldn't do it.
I'm sorry.
You're worthless. Just worthless.
Below him, Clark continued to shriek. Blood exploded from his mouth like a fountain of crimson water. It splattered on Bruce's face. His former companion's body thrashed violently, banging against the hard tiled floor and knocking into the other dead bodies. Bruce could only watch.
You worthless twit.
Clark's head cocked back in an impossible angle, even more than the other patient Bruce had watched die. His bloodshot eyes began to roll back in his head. The screaming stopped, and the other yells of pain around the hospital seemed to end with it.
Clark had become still. His body now lifeless and cold. His eyes were open. His mouth agape.
Staring and screaming.
Dead.
Bruce sat there in horror. Clark's lifeless hand was still latched to his shirt, but the doctor made no effort to remove it. What was the point? There was none.
He watched the body, waiting. As if it would lurch back up, alive again, but that wasn't happening anytime soon. But Bruce still sat there, unsure of what to do.
That was because there was nothing he could do. Clark was right. His life was worthless.
His heart continued to hammer uncontrollably.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bruce stared around him, at the multiple bodies littering the ground. It was then that he recognized them. Diana, John, Shayera, J'onn, Dick, Alfred, Barbara, and many others. All staring and screaming. He felt tears coming to his eyes.
It's your fault they're dead. You killed them. You're a murderer.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
You don't deserve to live.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
The room began to spin in a blur, and the only way he could stop it was to clamp his eyes shut. His hands tightened into fists until they hurt. His heart seemed to be right in his head, painfully beating against his brain.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They were all dead. All of them. He had to do something, but there was nothing he could do. It was all his fault.
And you're going to die too, Dr. Wayne.
There was a burst of light, which didn't make sense. His eyes had been shut. Then there was another, brighter and closer. Then another, this one even more intense. Each explosion burned at his eyes, making them feel like they were on fire. Bruce could only scream in pure terror at the hallucinations. The white explosions continued.
He suddenly felt the back of his head collide with the hard floor. It sounded with a loud crack, like it had shattered his skull. He couldn't see anything, just the fervent, white lights.
Bruce.
I'm sorry.
He could feel his body thrashing violently, but he didn't stop it, couldn't stop it.
Bruce.
I'm so sorry.
He was beating his head against the floor. Each hit resonated through his skull with a Bang!
Bruce.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.
He could feel his head being yanked back, like someone was trying to rip it off by tearing out his neck first.
Bruce.
I'm sorry.
The inside of his throat felt like it was being shredded apart by hundreds of razors. He was coughing out sprays of blood.
Bruce.
I'm sorry.
He could hear his name being called, but he only answered in a mental apology. There was nothing else he could say. It was the only thing worth saying. He continued to yell.
I'm sorry.
Bruce!
The light grew brighter.
Bruce!
It swallowed him whole, and he let it.
Batman!
It was so bright, and it burned so much. It felt as if Hell itself was eating away at his body. The only thing he could do was scream and scream. He was sure he was dying.
Batman!
Thump…Thump……
That was when it all stopped. The screams stopped. The thrashing stopped. The banging stopped. The explosions stopped. Everything became still. Now there was just white.
Was he dead?
He had to be dead.
The hospital room came back into focus. But how could that be? He was supposed to be dead. Everyone else had died.
"Bruce?"
The white faded away, and he could see more clearly. He was still in a hospital, but not the same one. The ceiling was still tiled, except it was metal. The window to his left didn't show a gray sky, but a black one filled with stars. The lights in the ceiling actually worked. And he was no longer lying on the hard, cold floor but in a soft, warm bed.
He was breathing heavily. Heaving in and heaving out gutturally. The horrible pain in his head had left, but his heart still hammered with adrenaline.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Batman, are you okay?"
Bruce stared to his right, where a green skinned man in a blue cape studied him with orange eyes.
"J'onn."
Beside the martian, stood a few others. One in blue with an S on his chest. Another in red with lightning bolts adorning his suit. Then there was a woman, with long, wavy black hair. There were many more, each with smiles of relief painted their faces.
"You're… alive…" Bruce managed to croak.
Clark nodded. "Get some rest, Bruce."
That was when everything faded to black.
XXXXX
His eyelids felt heavy, as if they were being weighed down by something big, but Bruce managed to get them open. The fuzzy room finally came into focus after a while.
"Are you feeling better?"
Bruce turned his head to the right to find Clark lounging in a chair beside his bed.
"I've felt better." His voice felt hoarse, and his lips were parched. "What happened?" he answered in a raspy whisper, since it was the best he could manage.
Superman leaned on one of his armrests. "Do you remember the battle?"
"What battle?"
"The one with Grundy, Copperhead, Humanite, and the others," Clark replied, eyeing his companion thoughtfully.
Bruce's mind still seemed to be quite foggy, but searching through his scattered thoughts, he managed to remember something.
"So many people died," he croaked in realization.
Clark nodded. "Yes, there were many losses, but we came out victorious in the end." He studied the floor, as if contemplating what the right thing to say was. "You were beat up pretty bad, Bruce. You were unconscious by the time J'onn brought you up here."
"Is that it?"
The question made Clark shake his head. "You're injuries weren't beyond fixing, and we figured you'd only be staying in the infirmary for maybe only a day or two. But something happened…" His voice trailed off. "Do you remember Dr. Destiny?" he asked after a pause.
"Who?"
"Dr. Destiny. John Dee. The man who got powers from the ESP machine."
Bruce nodded his head the best he could. His body still ached. "Of course, how could I forget?"
"He was released from the hospital maybe a week ago. Then he escaped jail a few days later." Clark paused to let the information sink in. "I guess he wanted his revenge. We noticed there was something wrong with you when you began to thrash in bed… I'm sorry, but we had to restrain you." He motioned to the sides of the bed, where Bruce saw that there were leather straps hanging off of.
"You wouldn't wake up either. Not even to the stimulants. J'onn tried to get into your mind, just like how he did with us the last time, but he couldn't. Dee was stronger this time."
"So how did you…" Bruce's voice trailed off.
"We found Dee rather quickly. It wasn't hard. We figured when we got to him, you would be fine. But we were wrong. Your mind was already too caught up in your nightmare. So it just kept going on." Clark paused and stared at the floor harder. "It took J'onn days, but he finally managed to snap you out of it."
The two heroes sat in silence for a while, contemplating at what had just happened.
"How many days?" Bruce asked curiously.
"We caught Dr. Destiny after he had had you for about a day. Your nightmare continued for about five more. All that was a three days ago."
Bruce let everything sink in.
"So it was mostly my mind, not Dee?"
Clark nodded, and once again, the sat in awkward silence.
"You shouldn't feel guilty, Bruce."
"Hm?" He looked up catch the man in blue's eyes.
"J'onn told me about your dream," Clark explained. " About the hospital, about you being a doctor, about the patients and the deaths…You shouldn't feel guilty for all the lives that were lost. It wasn't your fault. It was Humanite and the others'. You couldn't do anything."
"I should have been able to do something," Bruce croaked. "Those people died because I wasn't good enough."
Clark shook his head. "You're not perfect, Bruce."
"But I should have been there. Should have been quicker."
"No, you couldn't have. There was no way you could have saved them. It wasn't your fault." A pause. "You're not worthless… You do the best you can. You care, Bruce. Do you?"
Bruce stared at his teammate with sorrow in his eyes.
"You care, don't you?" Clark repeated.
Slowly, Bruce once again nodded, and Clark did also as he stood from his seat.
"Then that's all that matters," he answered, turning to the door. "You should get some rest." The Man of Steel strolled to the door and reached for the light switch, flipping the lights off. The door swished open.
"Clark?"
"Hm?" Superman looked over his shoulder back at the bed.
Bruce cleared his throat, trying to speak as clearly as he could manage.
"Thanks," he finally whispered.
Clark nodded and stepped into the hallway.
"You're not worthless, Bruce…"
That was when the door swished shut, bringing everything to black.
XXXXX
A/N: If you didn't get any of that, watch the JL episode "Only a Dream". Please review! :)