The long hallways of the hospital give a different vibe at night, the bustling day to day operations of the crowded hospital turned into only the low hum of the heating system and the occasional distant noise of a machine chirping.
As the sole night guard, it's your duty to keep the hospital empty at night. Occasionally, there's some druggie trying to score a hit of opium or an addict needing a fix of a certain narcotic. The thing that has put you off your guard is that the silent alarm in the blood bank was tripped, but as far as you're aware, nobody was on any cameras. And who goes to a blood bank There's no anodynes for hoodlums to be hounding for in there, just... blood. And so, lulled out of your office by the mystery, you draw closer in the dead of the night, the beam of your flashlight illuminating the door. Behind it comes the rattling of shelves and a faint chattering that sounds completely inhuman.
You open the door cautiously, ready for anything that could come at you. A pool of blood on the floor seeps under your shoe and spills across the white tile of the hallway as the door creaks open with a dry crackle. The room is trashed. Shelves knocked over and their contents spilled into piles across the floor, chairs knocked over, the monitors all broken. Blood bags are ripped open and spilled all across the room, and then there's the figure, slumped over in the corner, holding something in its hands and shaking feverishly.
It's your time to say something, but you're not sure what you should. This was obviously no run-of-the-mill addict. With a slow and steady voice sure not to accidentally set off the possibly dangerous form, you call out "Whoever you are, you can stop now. The police have been called, and they're on their way. You need to leave." It was common to lie about the police, since most of these cases resolved themselves.
The figure twists its neck around, giving you a clear view of its face. It's Jordan Peterson, eyes red in some kind of blood-crazed stupor, mouth hanging, split tongue leaking crimson from the gap between his teeth.
"The Deep Fake artists need to be stopped, using whatever legal means are necessary, as soon as possible." He slurred, his broken jaw not allowing proper articulation.
You swallow and look back at the blood all over the floor and the ruined mess around him. "What the fuck are you saying?"
"I'm a vampire, you postmodern neo-Marxist!" He shrieked, extending long nails into claws and scampering up the wall. His body made bone cracking noises as his unnatural motions carried him up and he gripped onto the ceiling with both hands. With one last banshee shriek, he pointed a clawed finger at me, and said, "You! You're the one that started it all, with your talk of the patriarchy! You want to destroy everything! I'm gonna eat your blood before the end of tonight, you hear?" " before bolting into a vent. The loud clanging of the ceiling supports echoed in your ears as you heard him make his escape deeper into the ventilation of the entire building. You take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from your forehead.
"Holy shit..." You mumble, stepping out of the room quickly. Jordan Peterson is in the vents, and you're his prey. Now, it feels like every looming, long hallway of pitch darkness has something in it, watching you from afar. You quicken your pace back to your office as you hear the clatter of surgical tools in the distance.