Reanimators (18 page)

The wholesale slaughter of enemy troops at the single pathway through the trenches resumed, and this time each team was fortified by a second set of guns as well. However, in the minutes that the crossfire had failed, the enemy had been able to scatter even more soldiers into the cratered trenches. Sudden desperate communications ricocheted like bullets. One observer had estimated that in the confusion, two hundred men had slipped over the top of one crater and were now likely winding their way through the labyrinth of trenches. Dismayed, I retreated to the infirmary and did what I could for the wounded as they trickled in.

Not long after my return, the broken bodies of the unfortunate gunners Williams and Hammond were brought in. Having personally witnessed the event that wounded them, I waved the orderlies off, directing them to consign their charges to the area set aside for the deceased. I was unprepared for their adamant refusal and assertion that both men were still alive. I was even less prepared when Williams rolled his head over and stared at me with weeping eyes and begged me for help. Stunned, I directed the two to the central tables and chased the two orderlies out.

Williams had taken a shot to the right shoulder that had shattered several bones before leaving through a much larger hole in his back. The fall and subsequent impact had dislocated his hip and, as far as I could tell from the near 180-degree rotation, broken his neck. Under normal circumstances such a condition would have resulted in his death, but despite his injuries he was quite alive, and talkative. It took me a moment, and a consultation with my notebook, but I realized that Williams was indeed one of the many I had inoculated with my reagent. Here was my first true example of its ability to prevent fatalities even in the face of major physical trauma.

Hammond, who was also an experimental subject, had suffered a more serious wound. Apparently, Williams had cushioned Hammond’s fall, for there were no impact injuries from the fall to the younger man. Unfortunately, Hammond had been shot in the face, and although he maintained some semblance of life, the gaping hole in the back of his head and the missing brain matter made me wonder if the boy would ever recover any semblance of consciousness. As it was, he apparently could do little more than kick against the restraints and claw at the air.

I turned back to Williams and examined the shoulder wound from both sides. Amazingly, though the wound was only minutes old, it already showed signs of scabbing over and healing, though not in a manner consistent with normal anatomy. Indeed, it was as if a cancerous mass of flesh and bone was desperate to fill the hole, regardless of the actual anatomical need. Distressed by the uncontrolled and rampant growths of bone, muscle and skin, I did what I could to guide the tissues into their proper paths and hoped for the best. Unable to do much more, I jerked his hip back into place and quickly built a crude brace to hold his neck upright. Within the quarter hour since he had been brought in, Williams was suddenly mobile enough to carry a gun and return to the line. I suggested he wait and recover, but nothing I said could dissuade him from returning to the battle that raged above. Indeed, I had little time to argue as more wounded suddenly poured into the infirmary begging for my help.

In an hour I was knee-deep in the blood and gore of war, and my casualty rate was surprisingly low, for indeed those whom I had subjected to my experiment in inoculations against death seemed superhuman in their stamina and ability to heal. Even those who had taken instantly fatal wounds showed some semblance of recovery, though like Hammond those who had suffered traumatic brain injuries seemed unable to properly function as a conscious human being. These poor individuals soon became problematic. Though undeterred by their wounds, they were not sufficiently functional to obey directions; thus I found myself forced to come up with creative ways in which to restrain them, including lashing them to stretchers, timbers or any other large object that would keep them from wandering about. A good number of victims showed violent tendencies, constant attempts to scratch, rend, or bite, and reminded me of the revenant rats from my early experiments. For these individuals I quickly devised a set of restraints and a bit that would keep them in check.

The day turned into night, and then into day again. The battle raged on, with the Germans throwing their forces against our fortification in a desperate but nearly futile attempt to defeat my unit of undying soldiers. I say “nearly futile” because as the conflict raged on, it soon became apparent that although my experimental subjects may have been resistant to injury, they were not immune, and slowly, the number of those who had suffered traumatic brain injuries was growing. It was a matter of slow attrition really, and as one by one my experiments joined the ranks of the uncontrollable, the diminishing ranks of those retaining their faculties faced an ever more daunting task. As our numbers waned, the fall of our position became inevitable.

I will not defend what I did next. Decisions made during the madness of war often appear perfectly logical; it is only in retrospect that their nature as heroic or cowardly can truly be evaluated. My actions seemed to me a logical manner in which I might turn the tide of the battle; it was only afterwards that I realized the horror of what I had done. The inspirations for my acts are a mystery; the idea came upon me and I acted on it. It was as simple as that. Grabbing my medical bag with my supply of syringes and reagent, I quickly prepared twenty double-strength dosages of the formula. Then with great care, I used a length of rope to lash twenty of the more violent cases together. With some effort, for although they did not resist, nor did they help, I led my small cadre up the walls of our position and to a point directly above the main gate of our base. There, sheltered by a pile of sandbags, I injected each of them with one of the prepared syringes, and with several swift slices of my knife to their bonds, sent them one by one over the edge of the wall.

Such actions must have confused our enemy, for each one fell to the ground below without coming under fire. I cowered there for a moment, and smiled viciously as I made out the sounds of those twenty things scrabbling to their feet and breaking loose from their restraints. There was an animal sound of movement, not unlike that which I had heard so many times from my rats. They wandered away, slowly at first, but then they stopped, seemed to focus on something, and then scrambled off as fast as they could, an angry, breathy growl trailing in their wake. This was followed by a sudden, almost incredulous pause in gunfire, both from our defensive positions and from the attackers. Then there was screaming, the gunfire became frantic, and I dared to raise my head above the wall to see what I had wrought.

The twenty were wading through the attackers like reapers through wheat, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. Limbs were torn from bodies, heads were shattered like clay pots, and blood ran like ink over the pages of the landscape. Bolstered by the reagent overdose, my patients shrugged off wounds from bullets and bayonets alike. Indeed, for a dozen or more the dosage I gave them was apparently too high, for as they cut their way through the enemy, and the enemy cut them, I could see the green luminescent fluid leaking from their wounds. I was sadistically gleeful at my success, for I knew that it was I who had turned the tide of this battle. The enemy was not yet routed, but our victory was assured. So blinded was I by my apparent success that I nearly failed to see the horror as it crept up out of the abattoir I myself had created.

As I have said, several of the twenty were leaking reagent from their wounds, and this must have been sufficient to infiltrate the bodies of some of the dead they were leaving in their wake. As I watched, some of the more intact of the German soldiers were shuddering, convulsing and rising up to live again. Within minutes the number of resurrected things battling across the war-torn landscape had doubled. Thankfully, the newly inoculated seemed to have no particular memories of their allegiances, and indiscriminately tore into whatever caught their attention, at least at first. It took some time, but they seemed to learn that battling against each other was ineffectual, and soon focused their attention only on the more vulnerable living.

The dead tore through those German troops in minutes, and it was only when they reached the choke point through which the Germans were pouring that they were suddenly stopped. Some bright Hun officer must have realized what was happening and after pulling back what forces he could, he let loose with grenades and explosives and closed off the gap completely. As the smoke cleared, I watched as the undead slaughtered those trapped on the wrong side of the gap, and German snipers took up positions on top of the rubble. Mercifully, the first acts of these marksmen were to put the still-living soldiers out of their misery. Afterwards, the long-range weapons were turned on the shambling hulks of my creation.

Suddenly besieged by gunfire and with no one to conveniently attack, the monstrosities slowly worked their way back to our position. Shambling and stumbling they came toward our walls, grey lifeless things with twisted broken bodies and gnashing teeth. Still draped in uniforms that marked their allegiance, our own snipers proceeded to take shots at those still identifiable as German, though I had realized that such distinctions were at this point likely moot. It took several shots, but eventually the horrified gunmen learned that the only sure way of putting one of the things down was a headshot that destroyed a significant portion of the brain.

With the German infantry too far to threaten us, the soldiers remaining in the fort soon lined the wall to jeer at the horrid actors that milled about looking for a way in. It took a few moments, but soon my comrades realized that all sixteen of the things wandering around were Americans. As this dawned on my compatriots, I quietly tried to slink back to the infirmary and distance myself from any possible association with these things and the horrid atrocities they had committed. Imagine my surprise when a strong arm suddenly wrapped itself around me.

“Well, Dr. Hartwell,” it was the righteous Nick who was now gripping me tightly, “perhaps you should do some explaining.”

There was no trial. The French Commander, and Nick Charles, who assumed command of the American forces at Fort Souville, forced me to confess everything, and I think perhaps they would have liked to have thought me mad. But in the killing fields outside the fortifications wandered things that could not be denied, and in the infirmary were the men who had been wounded, mortally wounded, who had become misshapen mockeries as the reagent tried to keep their bodies alive. There was no denying what I had done, and there was no denying that my actions had turned the tide of the battle. For that my life was spared.

Do not misunderstand me, I was punished. It was I who was sent outside the gates with a pistol to dispatch the sixteen things that were once men and now were monsters both less than and more than human. It was I who was beaten by Nick Charles when he learned that like many others he too had received a dose of my reagent. He forced me to lie there and watch as he burned my notes and remaining reagent, and he cursed me as a new Frankenstein. As word and exaggeration of my deeds spread, I became ostracized, and soon my only companions were those eight soldiers who had suffered the most severe reactions to my reagent, but had maintained some semblance of rationality. These disfigured wounded would never rejoin society, for how could one explain the absence of a lower jaw, the back of one’s head, or a gaping hole in the chest?

I lived with these poor creatures, my creations, and they lived with me, and we cursed each other. It was inevitable really. There was so much vehemence that it finally erupted in flames. After nearly a week, my companions turned despondent and wandered out of the infirmary, and in full view of everyone, slowly went about building a rather large mass of wood and cloth from scraps scattered about the place. Then without a word they set fire to it. The flames burned bright and licked at the night. Everyone came out to watch, fascinated with morbid curiosity. Then, still as silent as the grave, the eight men, who were now something else, doused themselves with kerosene and walked into the consuming flames.

I tried to turn away, but Nick Charles, that damned righteous Nick Charles, appeared out of nowhere and held me fast. Greasy smoke filled the fort as those burning shapes staggered around in horrid silence. Charles held me and made me watch. A few men grabbed blankets and buckets, but they froze in their tracks when Charles cried out, “LET THEM BURN!”

It was then that the morality of my actions finally took hold. As I have said, I am not a spiritual or godly man, but there must be an innate standard of right and wrong, of good and evil, and if anyone was to judge me, why shouldn’t it be Nick Charles?

“Is this what you wanted, Doctor?” he whispered from behind me as the living finally succumbed to the cleansing flames. “Those men couldn’t live with what you had done to them, they thought death was better. Would you trade humanity for immortality?”

I fell to the ground, for I knew that the answer could only be no.

Chapter 17.

THE PLAGUE ANGEL

In the spring of 1918, forty-two months after I had left, I returned to Arkham, weary of war and of my pursuits of perfecting the process of reanimation. My home was like an old and trusted friend, warm and inviting. Wilson had maintained our practice, and I was pleased to discover that he had even expanded it, taking on an association with Dr. David Schiff of Kingsport, who needed some relief from his workload as he entered his seventieth year. Schiff’s practice was smaller than ours in Arkham, proportional to the differences in the size of the towns, though Schiff was the only professional in that sleepy seaside village. There was something about the pace in Kingsport that was appealing, and when in April Dr. Schiff announced that he would prefer not to return from his next winter trip to Deland, Florida, Wilson and I agreed to take on his practice full time.

The arrangement was rather elegant; Wilson purchased Schiff’s home and office, a four-bedroom affair that sat behind the attached street front offices. His wife Mary moved into this home, and Wilson became the primary physician in Kingsport, while I would visit weekly and assist on more difficult cases. I hired Miss Soames, a woman who could function as both a receptionist and a housekeeper to help me in Arkham. Her son had been Dr. Halsey’s houseboy all those years ago. Though we resisted it, we also hired a young man fresh out of his residency, Dr. Randolph White, to help both of us, with the full understanding that he would travel to either location depending on the needs of the day.

As for my studies and the secret lab beneath my house, I resigned myself to the fact that I would never again pursue such things. I made sure that my notes and samples were secure, and changed the sheets that covered the equipment. The war and my experiences in it had taught me that there were worse things than death. Who was I to play God and decide who should live and who should die? As for the motivating force behind my research, the vengeance I sought on West and Cain, I left that behind as well. The war it seemed had changed me forever, and I was content never to unlock that door again.

No sooner had we settled into a routine, one that I must say was quite enjoyable, than our tiny little practice was made aware of a growing medical threat. One June evening, Wilson, White and I were summoned to one of the lecture halls at the University. The subject was not revealed, but the urgency of the matter was made plain. As we arrived, the situation became most curious, for it seemed as if every medical professional in the area had been summoned. Moreover, campus security was furiously checking to make sure that everyone who was attending was actually invited. I had not seen such a mobilization of the medical community since those dark days during the typhoid plague of 1905. As I realized this, a cold wave of fear passed through me and I noted that others were showing signs of anxiety as well.

Once we had settled into our seats, the Dean of Medicine spoke briefly, thanked us for coming, and then quickly introduced a young doctor and military officer of the Public Health Service, who brought a message from the U.S. Surgeon General. His name was Ambrose Dexter, and despite his youth, he spoke with the voice of authority on a grave matter.

“As medical professionals you are no doubt aware of the recent reports of an epidemic of influenza ravaging Western Europe. The newspapers have dubbed this the Spanish Flu, but this is a misnomer. It is true that the Spanish newspapers are reporting extensively on the deaths attributed to the disease, and these seem to be more prevalent than in other countries. However, agents in service to the United States suggest that the epidemic is rampant throughout Europe, and may be devastating the Central Powers, and that the lack of press coverage of the epidemic in these countries is a result of wartime censorship.”

A murmur of protestation erupted through the crowd, which Dexter quickly quelled by raising his voice. “I am here today to inform you of what is known about this disease, and what can be done to prevent it.” He paused for effect. “As I have said, the term Spanish Flu is a misnomer, but the Public Health Service in cooperation with the Armed Services is asking that you continue to refer to it in that manner. Any information I provide you here will be denied.”

He took a quick drink of water before proceeding. “In early March of this year, a company cook at Fort Riley, Kansas, reported to the infirmary with the symptoms of the common cold. He was isolated immediately and eventually developed full-fledged symptoms of influenza. Despite precautions and quarantines, the disease spread, and within a month, more than a thousand soldiers were stricken. Of these, approximately fifty cases, five percent, proved to be fatal.” Another wave of murmuring crashed through the room. “Doctors with the Service and the Army have been tracking the progress of the outbreak, and we have confirmed cases in London, Berlin and Paris and throughout the United States. The bottom line here, doctors, is that this outbreak of influenza is not a Spanish problem, not even a European problem, but rather a global one, that appears to have originated right here in the United States of America.”

The rest of the evening was spent going over details of the disease’s transmission, progression, and mortality. Unlike previous strains of influenza, which tended to kill both the very young and elderly, initial results from the Spanish Flu also showed a high mortality rate amongst adults twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. Why this was the case Dexter could not tell us, but he assured us that government doctors were organizing and researching the problem, as well as searching for effective treatments. Dexter’s team was stationed in Boston, and was operating throughout New England, setting up facilities where they could, primarily at hospitals and universities in major metropolitan areas. However, there were some who suggested that the smaller towns and rural areas might, by their being small and remote, be able to control the outbreak more effectively, particularly through implementation of quarantine measures. By midnight, under Dexter’s guidance, and with the cooperation of the state police, we had devised a plan by which Arkham and the surrounding communities could be effectively quarantined. Certain things, including fuels, food, water and sundry medical supplies, would have to be stockpiled, but otherwise our plan to close off roads and rails, as well as the river, was sound, and quickly implementable. When we finally left, despite the seriousness of the situation, there was an air of accomplishment and satisfaction amongst the gathered physicians. Presented with a threat for which we had been trained, we had come up with plans to prevent and combat it. We had no way of knowing that Spanish influenza was unlike any other threat we had ever faced, and that our own haughty pride was to prove almost entirely ineffective against it.

It was too late to return to Kingsport, so after we dropped White off at his boarding house, Wilson and I returned to my home on Crane Street and I put my long-time friend up for the evening. We woke early and he left after a quick breakfast. He had a full schedule in Kingsport, and additionally had to plan for his wife’s thirty-third birthday for which they were traveling to New York to visit family. During his time away, the first week in July, Dr. White would be working with patients in Kingsport, and I would be alone in Arkham. It would be a difficult few days, but Mary was a devoted wife, and excellent assistant. I not only considered her my partner’s wife, but a valued member of our practice and a dear personal friend.

I wish I could have done more to save her.

Late June brought to Arkham an oppressive heat and near daily torrential rains that brought no relief and turned the evenings sultry and made nights stifling. With some reluctance, but also a secret kind of satisfaction, I found myself unlocking the doors to my secret laboratory and reassembling the core of Muñoz’s cooling apparatus, which allowed me to drop the temperature a few degrees. I spent my nights in the cool comfort of my basement, smug in my own ingenuity, while the oppressive days stretched to July. With Wilson and his wife gone, I had expected, feared even, that there would be a sudden influx of patients, but instead the heat seemed to create a lull, and both White and I found our steamy afternoons almost entirely free.

A strange lethargy had come over Arkham; the streets were nearly empty and shops posted new hours, often closing by noon. Children seemed to purposefully avoid the sun and instead haunt the shadowy places, lounging in the shade of buildings and old oaks. In addition to the ennui, the heat brought decadence; a breakdown in formality, spawned I suppose by necessity. Men shucked their woolen suits and pressed shirts and went about in thin undershirts and swim trunks. Women, who could be spied through the open windows, followed suit, and often wore little more than silk slips or cotton nightgowns. Whether it was the heat, the humidity, the lethargy, or the decadence, the inevitable finally came to pass. Toward the end of that first week in July I was called to the home of Henry Armitage, the head librarian for the University. His visiting grandson was running a fever and coughing up thick gobs of stringy mucus. Spanish influenza had come to Arkham.

I reported my case to Dr. Dexter, who confirmed that four other cases had appeared in the area surrounding Arkham. A frantic conference was held at Miskatonic, and that evening the order went out to the state police. By the afternoon of the next day the roads in and out of Arkham were closed, including those to Bolton, Kingsport and Innsmouth. Early that afternoon, I was alone at the rail station as a train with a single passenger car pulled in and disgorged its sparse human cargo, including Wilson and his wife Mary. As we handled their luggage, I watched as the authorities posted signs and locked the station down, effectively isolating Arkham from the rest of the world.

Once Wilson and Mary had settled into my spare rooms, we called White to check on his situation. The quarantine seemed to be working as no cases had been reported in Kingsport. As required by our plan, the fishing fleet was remaining at sea, transferring its catch to barges with minimal contact between crews. The barges themselves were also attempting to remain isolated as they moved the catch to secure docks in Kingsport and Arkham. White had even held a meeting with several of the less reputable members of the community, asking and gaining their cooperation in the way certain contraband was moved from offshore into Kingsport and up the river. Mary fretted over having such people in her home, but White assured her that they had come and gone with certain measures of discretion.

That evening Miss Soames prepared a summer salad and steamed some fresh clams. Mary made some lemonade and after supper we lounged about the parlor. Wilson and I talked shop, while Mary spent her time reading a new volume of poetry by one of our patients, Randolph Carter, entitled Pugmire and Other Observations. She found the volume amusing and insightful, but also frustrating and at times despondent, and recited several pieces to us, a few lines of which I still remember.

In a red decade, far afield, my love for you did falter and wane
 
In the green year, with you near, my heart once more did flame
 
The yellow month stole that and more, and with tears my cheek did stain
 
In black weeks I hold you still with only voracious flies to blame

As the evening progressed, Wilson and I seemed energized by the conversation, and I broke out a bottle of Muñoz’s Madeira that he had left behind. As I did so, Mary noted that she was suddenly feeling tired. Whether this was true or she simply disapproved of the wine, she retired for the night and left us to our conversation. Fueled by the thick, hearty wine, the two of us jabbered back and forth on a variety of subjects well past midnight. Slightly intoxicated, when I finally crawled into bed I quickly drifted off, unbothered by the pervasive and uncomfortable heat.

I slept late, and was honestly surprised when I finally wandered down the stairs and learned that Mary had not already prepared breakfast. I had thought that I had heard someone fumbling about downstairs, and attributed such noises to Wilson or Mary, which was apparently incorrect. However, even if Mary hadn’t been to the kitchen, I was still puzzled as to why Miss Soames had not yet appeared and undertaken the task. As I entered the kitchen my puzzlement grew, as upon the sideboard were fresh eggs, several apples, butter, a fish and some beef kidneys, evidence that Soames had at least been here briefly.

My confusion was broken by the sound of Wilson calling me, an odd occurrence, made more so by the direction it originated from. Growing even more perplexed, I all but ran through the house and into the office. Wilson was in the exam room gathering supplies, the most awful look on his face. His hair was unkempt and his eyes had a wild frantic cast. He paused, and when he spoke his voice was broken with what could only be fear. “Mary has a fever.”

Never have I seen a man more frightened or frantic. He had been up before dawn, and had as required by the plan applied a large X of yellow paint on the walkways to both entrances. Soames had also followed procedure and upon seeing the marks had deposited the groceries on the porch, knocked once and then quickly left. If she continued to follow the rules, she would monitor herself for signs of infection for the next twenty-four hours. If she remained uninfected, she would continue to deliver supplies on a daily basis.

Our more immediate concern was Mary, making sure that her condition did not worsen, and that the infection was not passed to Wilson or me. We gathered bottles of rubbing alcohol and Halsted surgical gloves, as well as masks and other supplies. More importantly, we established a protocol for how we would attend to both Mary and ourselves. Assuming Wilson had suffered a greater exposure than I, he would remain with his wife on the second floor, while I would remain on the first. Just as Soames had remained out of physical contact with us, so would I remain out of contact with the Wilsons. I would leave meals and supplies on the stairs for Wilson to retrieve. Likewise, Wilson would leave soiled dishes, linens and refuse in the same area. I would be responsible for the cooking, as well as the cleaning, disinfecting and if necessary incinerating whatever came down the stairs. Wilson apologized in advance for putting me in this position and warned me to be extremely cautious in my handling of contaminated materials. As he retreated upstairs, I saw tears well up in his eyes.