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The Reluctant Hero By Evan Drake © 2020, Evan Drake, All Rights Reserved

"Our job is not to save life, but rather to extend it. But know that the laws of nature cannot be denied, and fate is a judge whose rule is absolute." A heavy sigh escaped my muzzle, my tail tapping the armchair I sat on in irritation as I recalled my grandfather's words. Those were the words he said to me the day I became a doctor. Not a congratulations, but a lecture. For the longest time, I had no idea what he meant. Nothing more than bitter words from a bitter man. He never did have anything nice to say to, or about, anyone.

I took a sip of his favorite brand of scotch and listened to the soft melody of the piano playing through the speakers. In my young naïve mind, I was the thing death feared most, a savior to the masses, and the closest thing any living being had ever come to being a deity.

I took another sip and smiled at my inexperienced younger self. It was so easy to talk big in my youth. To make bold claims I believed didn't need defending.

My first dose of reality was an old otter, just around the age of my grandfather before his passing. I helped him recover from a nasty tumble down the stairs. Only I had the skill to operate on him. My colleagues believed he wouldn't make it, but I was more than determined to shove their pessimism in their faces. I saved his life that day. His family showered me in thanks and promised they would never forget this moment.

He came back an hour after he was released, injured in a car accident on his way home. I was unable to save him that time. Fate's rule was absolute after all.

That was when I truly understood my grandfather's words. My talents would only prolong the inevitable, and even then, I risked the chance of failing. I was not death's foe, but its companion. But still, I had refused to accept the truth.

My watch beeped, startling me and causing me to drop the glass to the floor. The glass didn't shatter on the carpet, but the liquor would leave a stain. I swore and hurried into the kitchen to grab some paper towels. Trying to stop the scotch from soaking into the carpet reminded me of my second dose of reality.

I couldn't remember her name, but I knew her face. A young feline, just entering college. She had been stabbed by a jealous boyfriend who had one too many drinks. I was so smug when I waltzed into the operating room, so confident she would be walking out of the hospital.

The experience humbled me, and I no longer walked around with my head high like some smug graduate who thought he understood how the world worked. I understood now. I was free to make all the attempts I desired, but I needed to accept my limitations. Sometimes, people were beyond saving.

I had cleaned up what I could, but there would be a mark on the carpet where I spilled my drink. I left the glass where it was and went downstairs to my lab. There were bigger things to worry about then stains.

A disease had mysteriously appeared in the world, contagious and lethal. In only a year, it brought the population to its knees. Everyone had done all they could to stop it. But no one had come close to devising anything that could be remotely considered a vaccine, not even to prevent future outbreaks. I saw it for what it was, nature's way of balancing the world. We had grown arrogant and believed we could conquer anything, including death.

Fate had spoken and we had no choice but to accept it. That was before my wife and son became sick. Then my priorities changed.

I entered my lab where I had spent the last six months trying to defy fate. I avoided looking at the back room where I had taken so many patients after I failed to cure them. So far, the best I had been able to do was buy time. So many people I had given false hope only to deliver the worst possible news. They never saw through my lies. They all too willingly leaped at the chance to test my "cure" because I was too cowardly to risk my wife's life.

After preparing the latest batch in a syringe, I returned upstairs. Their deaths no longer weighed on my mind. Fate would judge me later as it judged everyone, but until then I would maintain control of my life.

I continued upstairs to the bedroom, using the light from the hall to avoid disturbing Samantha as she slept. She was a shell of what she used to be. She used to take such pride in her appearance. Her once lustrous, sand-colored fur was now dry and covered with bald patches. Her once muscular body had become so thin. I could barely see the blanket rise and fall in time with her breathing.

Nathan had already passed, but there was still hope for Samantha. But I would need to find a cure to that which was supposedly incurable. I didn't care if it went against nature, or the gods, or whatever supreme power ruled over the world. It couldn't have her. Not yet.

I approached the bed, pulling the syringe containing my latest version of a cure. I carefully rolled up her sleeve, clenching my jaw at the latest clump of fur to come off in my hand.

She groaned slightly when I inserted the needle into her arm. That she still reacted to outside stimuli was a good sign.

After administering the latest dose, I wiped the excess sweat from her body and changed the blankets. The sweaty blankets I dumped in the laundry with the rest to be washed later.

This would be the last time. If this fails, I doubted she would live long enough for me to try again, and even then, she would likely be too far gone.

Tomorrow, I would know. And the world would either have its cure or lose its last hope.