Reanimators (7 page)

As I cautiously moved forward, the fog that now engulfed the entire floor cut at my ankles with claws made of ice, and each step toward the crate was noticeably colder. By the time I reached the trunk I had tucked my hands underneath my arms, and was noticeably shivering as the fog swirled around me. My forward progression reversed itself as I leaped back, startled as something familiar but wholly unexpected rose up out of the trunk and gripped the side. It was a man’s hand, clad in a fine black leather glove, and as I watched, the hand was joined by its partner, and up out of the fog-laden sepulcher climbed the unmistakable form of a man.

He was of less than average height, and well built, with neatly kept iron-grey hair and matching beard. His eyes were dark, and his skin had that rustic olive complexion so common amongst those of Celtiberian origin, though in places it held a paler color and I thought immediately that he must be in the early stages of vitiligo. His aquiline nose hinted at a touch of Moorish ancestry, and held a pair of antique pince-nez glasses. He was well dressed, wearing a suit of grey silk with a white shirt and highly polished leather shoes. If I had met him on the street I would have thought him the most respectable of gentlemen. But as he made his way out of the coffin, for now I could see that it could be nothing else, I could not see the gentleman, but only a figure of undying horror pulled from my more salacious readings, Lord Ruthven from Polidori’s The Vampyre. How ironic that I should draw such a connection in that moment of stress, and how tragic that in that moment I did not act, but instead, like Polidori’s oath-bound protagonist, I kept my word, though it damned me, and welcomed this creature into my home.

It spoke English with a genteel and soft-spoken manner that betrayed a kind of aristocratic education. “You must be Dr. Hartwell. I was told by Peaslee that I would be your guest. That you and I shared a mutual interest. In life and perhaps—ummm—in death as well. Like yourself, I am a physician, trained in the finest academies of Madrid and Valencia, and most recently a resident of Barcelona. My name is Dr. Rafael Carlos Garcia Muñoz.”

Unbidden, he reached out and took my hand, grasping it with his own, while at the same time pulling me forward and clasping the other arm around me in a typical European type of greeting. Later, apologizing, I would say that it was the sudden shock of his appearance, that I was unprepared for such a dramatic entrance. That the theatrics of the moment combined with the overwhelming odors of camphor, sandalwood and other exotic aromatics were the preferable explanation for my negative reaction to the embrace of Dr. Muñoz. It would not do for me to tell the truth, to let him know that I, a trained physician, one who has dabbled in the forbidden science of reanimation, was so horrified, no, terrified, by his grip that I almost immediately fell into unconsciousness. But that was the truth. It was not the drama of the moment nor the weird aromas that drove me to the floor, but rather the enfolding act itself, for as we embraced I was provided proof that reanimation was more than just a dream, that full restoration of all faculties was not only possible, but had already been achieved. For in that instant we touched, I discovered that Dr. Rafael Muñoz was cold, bitterly cold, and colder than any live man had a right to be. That my overwhelmed, prosaic brain allowed me a brief moment of oblivion was perhaps the most merciful of all things.

Chapter 8.

THE FACTS IN THE CASE
OF DR. RAFAEL MUÑOZ

It was in late 1911 that I first met Dr. Rafael Carlos Garcia Muñoz, and though my initial reaction was a deep-seated revulsion, that feeling faded rapidly, the result mostly of his cordial and most pleasant manner. He was an animated conversationalist, expounding fervently on any subject that caught his fancy, including his current unfortunate medical condition, which he masked with exotic spices and perfumes. The origin of that condition was also a frequent topic of discussion, for he had been unable to successfully reproduce the exact manner in which it had come about, but still believed that if he could determine a cause, some resolution was possible.

A child of privilege, he and his constant companion Esteban Torres had graduated from the prestigious Universitat de Valencia with honors in 1878, and the two set up a medical practice in Barcelona, which thrived, making both quite comfortable. Indeed, after twenty-five years, the two gentlemen, both confirmed bachelors, retired from service to lecture and pursue certain avenues of research in disease prevention. Their course of research and the politics of the Spanish Empire led them in 1903 to set up a small facility on an island off the coast of the African colony of Guinea. A mountainous outcropping, Fernando Po was ruled by a smattering of Europeans, and populated by a mixture of emancipated black Cubans and mestizos, and the dominant Bubi tribe, as well as a sprinkling of Nigerians, Cameroons, Chinese and Indians. Most of the population lived in the main city of Port Clarence which was surrounded by plantations of palms and cocoa. The interior of the island was a mountainous jungle rumored to be full of strange animals and a lost city.

Muñoz and Torres operated a rough clinic and laboratory serving the outlying plantations and the port as well. Together the two men made great advances in understanding the pathology and treatment of tropical diseases, as well as several social ailments common to the crews of ocean-going traders. They were aided in their venture by a capable young German by the name of Englehorn. While in port, the young seaman had been unfortunate enough to contract yellow fever and his captain had abandoned him on the docks where he was found and nursed back to health by the two doctors. Englehorn’s ability to handle boats was matched by his aptitude for languages, and both skills served the clinic and its patients well. By early 1905 the reputation of the trio began to bring patients not only from the island, but from the mainland as well. But to hear Muñoz tell it, it is the nature of all things to end, and it was on a fateful January evening that the first portents of the coming disaster were to make their presence known.

The dry season had been drier than usual, and the wet season rains were months away. Reports from the mainland of fires on the farms and grasslands, and even in the jungle, were common. On occasion the wind coming across the sea brought a sickly sweet smell and traces of ash would fall from the sky. The islanders—regardless of caste—grew restless and knew that tragedy was in the wind. So it came as no surprise one May evening that when the sun set in the west, it only served to reveal a ruddy glow coming from the distant mainland. Wireless dispatches soon confirmed the worst of fears; an inferno was rampaging across the mainland, spreading through grasslands, farms, villages and even into the deep jungle. Fueled by the dry conditions and unhampered by any attempts to control it, the fire had driven thousands of refugees to the coast.

The next day as the morning winds brought the heat and the stench of smoke to Fernando Po the residents awoke to find themselves staring at a most terrifying sight. Fed by the fire, great black clouds of ash were slowly creeping across the sky toward the small island. Lightning flashed within these unnaturally dark formations, causing the more superstitious to panic, and the more practical to gather up children and livestock. Perhaps most damnable was the slow pace at which the storm came towards them, like a cat stalking a terrified bird; the time only served to magnify the fear that ran rampant through the port. Long-simmering disagreements boiled over into heated arguments and soon the clinic was overwhelmed with injuries inflicted by domestic squabbles, bar fights and the like. When the storm finally came, a hot windy rain full of grey ash and soot, it was anticlimactic. The good people of the island did more harm than the storm itself, and those who had kept their heads were more than relieved. But this was only the first portent of things to come.

That evening, as the sun set and the rains washed the last of the ash from the clearing sky, the population of the small island was witness to the formation of yet another massive cloud roiling over from the mainland. Unlike the previous storm, this one moved quickly and seemed to spawn strange curvilinear formations, like tentacles or tendrils that would reach out and then collapse back into the main body. There was a noise as well, a high-pitched hum like that of a mosquito but infinitely louder. As the strange cloud moved closer, it was apparent that this was no natural atmospheric phenomenon, and once more people began retreating into the safety of their homes.

The sound of the storm rolling across the island was unusual. There was no wind to speak of, but the high-pitched whining hum had grown louder and was joined by a strange periodic squealing, as well as the sound of debris smashing through the upper branches of trees and thudding and skittering onto roofs. To Muñoz it sounded as if small coconuts were falling from the sky. Driven by an unquenchable curiosity, Muñoz, Torres, and their young companion went to the main door of their clinic and ever so slowly and carefully cracked it open.

There was no storm. The sky was blotted out, and the air was full of things, black things the size of a man’s fist, swarming like locusts. It took a moment for the three men to realize what they were looking at, but as one of the flying, furry things careened past them, slamming against the wall, they all were made quite aware of what had come for them. Either threatened by the fire directly or by the sudden loss of food, the nocturnal predators that had once dwelt in the caves that dotted the mainland had been driven out, and swarmed to the nearest unaffected areas such as the coastal islands in search of new homes and food. Bats numbering in the hundreds of thousands had invaded Fernando Po.

Slamming the door shut, Muñoz and Torres slumped into chairs, and after a brief moment of silence began talking about abandoning the clinic and fleeing the island. Young Englehorn protested, suggesting that they should stay and help fight the invaders, but Torres shook his head no. The island, he said, was going to be ravaged by a disease which it was already too late to do anything about. Bats were the primary carriers of rabies and the sudden influx of this many of the small predators onto the island made an outbreak probable. Even if people could be persuaded to avoid contact with the bats, the dogs, cats, livestock and wild animals were going to become infected. Transmission to humans on a large scale was inevitable. The epidemic would overwhelm the cities and villages; only remote outposts would remain unscathed, and only then if ruthless vigilance against possible carriers was enforced.

That night, cowering behind the shuttered windows and bolted doors, the three formulated a plan to leave the island. They would steal a boat, something small enough for them to handle alone, stock it with provisions and then sail north hugging the coast to the Canary Islands and then catch a freighter back to Spain. It was a beautifully optimistic plan.

The morning came without incident, and although they were tired the plan was put into action. Englehorn went down to the harbor to identify likely candidates, while Muñoz packed up supplies and Torres went to various shops to buy necessities. By mid-morning Torres had returned to find Muñoz completely swamped by patients, all of whom were suffering from bat bites or scrapes. Driven by their Hippocratic Oath, the two doctors labored through the day and into the night, treating more than a hundred patients, a great number of whom were bitten by bats and were suffering from fever, nausea and body aches. This was of particular concern as these were symptoms of rabies, but the normal incubation for that disease was two to twelve weeks. The development of symptoms in less than twelve hours was unprecedented and worrisome. The three agreed that if they were to leave, it should be before dawn, and Englehorn began ferrying supplies down to the harbor while the two doctors tried for some well-deserved rest.

It was just after four o’clock in the morning when Englehorn woke the two doctors and the three men stole into the streets of the town. The moon was full and bright, allowing them some light by which to find their way across the dozens of city blocks that separated them from the waterfront. Though both doctors were in their fifties they moved quickly, hugging the walls, ducking in and out of doorways, dashing across streets, all in a desperate attempt to avoid being seen. The reason for this secrecy was not clear, but since the influx of infected patients, the doctors had developed an unnatural fear of the residents of Port Clarence, and they felt the less contact they had, the better. Sadly, to their horror, they had good reason for such fears.

Skulking across the next street, the intrepid trio witnessed the most puzzling of sights. There in the middle of the road, just yards from the intersection, was a congregation of five men huddled together over a pile of cloth bags. The men were working vigorously, tearing at the contents of the bags with a manic fervor that made Muñoz uncomfortable. Whatever was in the bags was apparently edible, for the men were taking great wet globs of the stuff and greedily stuffing it into their mouths.

Englehorn motioned for them to be quiet, and together, shepherded by the young sailor, they dashed across the intersection towards the waiting shadows on the other side. The crossing brought them even closer to the huddled men and their feast, and Muñoz paused as he came to understand what it was that was happening in the streets of the fever-wracked town. The bags weren’t bags at all. Englehorn grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him back into motion.

In the safety of the shadows Muñoz collapsed and tried to stammer out what he thought he saw. “Those men, they were eating, they were eating another…” But Englehorn forcefully cut him off.

“It was a dog,” he said. “They were eating a dog.” The doctor was forced to his feet. “Pray it was a dog.”

Muñoz ran, for he knew that it wasn’t a dog. The shapes that they had mistaken for cloth bags were a shirt and a pair of pants, and the dripping chunk that one of the men had ripped from the immobile shape had passed into the light of the moon long enough for Muñoz to see the four fingers and thumb of a disembodied hand, before it was carried upward and shoved into the hungry mouth of the man who had torn it free.

A block further and the three men stopped to rest in the shelter of a recessed doorway. At first no one spoke, but finally Torres broke the silence and whispered forth his concerns. The basis for his worry was the rapid onset of symptoms, which suggested that the infection was not rabies, but rather something else, closely related, that engendered a similar set of reactions. There were references, he said, in the ancient medical texts, particularly Ibn Sina’s Al-Qanun fi al-Tibb, of whole towns succumbing to plagues of devouring violence that could only be stopped by beheading the infected. Such outbreaks were rare and the ancient authorities often resorted to the wholesale burning of villages, with villagers imprisoned within, to bring the outbreak to an end. What was happening in Port Clarence could be the beginning of just such an event. If such a disease had come to Fernando Po, then destruction by fire of the town and all of its inhabitants might be the only way to bring an end to it.

With such a suggestion Muñoz felt compelled to get out of the town as soon as possible, and without taking proper precautions stepped out of the doorway and into the street. There was a man waiting for him; at least he used to be a man. Whatever disease had infected him had transformed him into a simian beast, stumbling down the street, drooling incessantly. He fell upon Muñoz like a wolf, tearing at him with claw-like hands and knocking him to the ground. There was a stench about him, not unlike sour milk or strong cheese, and his flesh was cold. With Muñoz pinned to the ground, the thing thrust its face toward his throat, mouth and teeth gnashing violently, clearly intent on ripping the poor doctor’s throat open. Muñoz felt the cold wretched mouth close down on his neck, felt the teeth grasp the flesh, and felt the canines pinch then pierce the skin. There was a brief moment of fear-mitigated pain, and then it was gone. Muñoz felt nothing. Torres and Englehorn had pulled the thing off of him, and as Torres helped Muñoz to his feet, the young sailor was busy kicking the infected attacker in the head.

Someone was screaming, and by the time Muñoz realized that the horrible sound was coming from him, it was too late. As Muñoz grew silent, and Englehorn finished smashing in the skull of his attacker, the town grew suddenly quiet, as if in anticipation of a coming storm. The three men stood there, enthralled by the silence, hypnotized by it, and then it was gone. From every side street monstrous shapes shambled into view, moaning and screaming, hobbling toward their position slowly but inevitably. Shocked by the dozens of things that suddenly lurched toward them, Muñoz, Torres and Englehorn turned and ran as fast as they could, knowing that the harbor was just a few short blocks away.

As they ran, the infected poured toward them. Thankfully the transformed citizens of Port Clarence were relatively slow-moving, and dodging them was surprisingly easy. But as each individual was avoided, it merely fell in behind them, joining the shambling mob that was relentlessly trailing them. Muñoz cast a glance backwards, and seeing the horde of villagers, many of whom he knew as either patients or neighbors, loping after him with empty black eyes, greedy hands and gnashing teeth, tears of compassion and regret came to his eyes.

Coming to the waterfront, they rounded the corner, following Englehorn down the shell rock road that bordered the small bay. The tide was in, and by the light of the moon Muñoz could see the small ship that Englehorn had selected for the trip. It wasn’t much to look at, and it had seen better days, but the seaman had assured them that it was more than up to the task. All eyes must have been on the two-mast sloop, for without any warning the desperate trio plowed headlong into a large foreboding shape that had somehow blocked their path. Knocked to the ground, the two doctors and their assistant scrambled to regain their footing, fully prepared to defend themselves against the impending attack.