Reanimators (9 page)

It was agreed that Muñoz would repeat the treatment of Luminal combined with cold and hot water immersions. The procedure would be significantly easier as cold water and ice were readily available. Together they outlined the procedure, prepared the syringe, and baths, and scheduled when the transfers would occur. No detail of the procedure was left to chance, and the notes that Torres had made were consulted frequently. Despite such preparations, when the time came neither man was fully prepared to carry out the procedure, and Muñoz’s hand shook as he injected his friend with a dose of Luminal.

Over the next five hours Muñoz labored over the body of his friend, transferring it from cold water bath to hot water both and then back again. Over and over again Muñoz dragged his friend from one extreme to another, always careful to follow the schedule the two had laid out. Time crawled slowly, and on more than one occasion Muñoz despaired that his friend might not respond to the treatment, but always he followed the directions and made sure the procedure was completed. Afterwards, with his friend wrapped in bandages and left in his bed, Muñoz collapsed in exhaustion, disturbed only by the fear that Torres would not survive the treatment.

It was twenty hours that Muñoz had to wait, twenty long impatient hours in which Muñoz could do nothing for his friend but watch and wait. He slept for the first half, and then prepared and ate a modest meal. With five hours to go, it dawned on Muñoz that Torres would be famished when he awoke, that they should celebrate, that he should prepare a feast. So the remaining hours were spent gathering the ingredients and combining them in the most spectacular of ways. He made ropa viejo, picadillo, and arroz con pollo with a black bean sauce. He prepared madeira and bought an exquisitely delicate flan. He brought out the fine silver, the best crystal, and plates they only used for special occasions, matched with silk linens. With an hour left he lit the candles and left to awaken his friend, carrying with him a plate of bread, cheese and a large knife.

It had been nearly twenty hours, and Torres had yet to show any sign of awakening. Even as Muñoz unwrapped the bandages, his friend lay still and silent, and Muñoz began to fear the worst. His fear grew as the bandages parted, revealing the grey, still flesh of the body below. Tears filled his eyes as the stiffness in the limbs hinted at the rigor so commonly associated with death. In despair, Muñoz collapsed at the side of the bed and wept. So deep was his sadness that it was only when Torres sat fully upright that Muñoz noticed that his friend was moving.

Tears of anguish turned to tears of joy, and with unbridled zeal Muñoz embraced Torres, cradling the man’s head against his own. But for all of Muñoz’s elation, for all of his happiness, for all his joy, Torres sat as still as stone, and as silent as the night ocean. He said nothing and his breast did not rise, for he did not breathe. Slowly Muñoz ceased his uncontrolled outburst, and came to realize that the body of his friend was warmer than it should have been; in fact it was more than warm, it was hot, sweltering, feverish.

With a start Muñoz drew back. The doctor looked into the face of his friend, and he saw the eyes, those dark, hollow empty eyes. All trace of his friend was gone, forced out by the infection that brought only rage and pain. In a last desperate gesture Muñoz reached out and placed his hand ever so gently against Torres’s cheek. It rested there for a moment, and for a second there was a glint of something that might have been recognition. Torres reached out and placed a hand on Muñoz’s wrist. A smile broke on Muñoz’s face as hope gave way to belief and then once more a hint of joy. It was just as that joy began to blossom that Torres lunged forward, pushing Muñoz to the floor.

Torres rose up off the bed, and as he did so his jaws opened wide in a great maw of gnashing, ravaging teeth and blood and spittle. He roared as he came up off the bed. Like a great beast hungering for prey, Torres slavered forward, forcing Muñoz to scramble back across the floor until he was pinned against the dresser. Torres—or what was once Torres—stalked toward the cowering Muñoz, slowly and methodically. It gave Muñoz more time, and as he pulled back, the tray of bread and cheese tumbled down off the dresser and onto the floor. With it came the knife; the steel blade shone like a star as it lay there on the floor, calling out to him. With a swift fluid motion the blade was in his hand and a moment later he was on his feet. Torres lunged, but Muñoz slipped to the side, letting the thing that was once his friend slam into the dresser and the wall as well. Unaffected, the creature spun around and searched the room for its prey. There was a flash of brilliant steel, a lightning strike that cut across the thing’s throat, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. Blood erupted from a gash in the Torres-thing’s neck and flowed like a torrent across its chest. Torres staggered back and Muñoz took the opportunity to strike again. A second gash, a third, and Torres collapsed backwards onto the dresser.

Hours later, as Muñoz fed pieces of the body into the flames, there were tears in his eyes. His friend of forty years was dead, killed by his own hand, and as much as he would want to, there was no time to mourn. The body was infectious, it had to be destroyed, and the rest of the house had to be cleaned as well. Blood coated the floor of the bedroom, and it took hours to mop up and feed the rags into the flames. But it was the last piece that Muñoz held onto that brought the grieving doctor to his knees. He held it at a distance, the thing that he had hacked off of the body of his friend, and with care he said his goodbyes and tossed the severed head into the flames. He watched for a moment, to assure himself that it was well into the blaze, and then despite all of his reservations he walked away, unable to watch as the still undead head of his friend mouthed a silent, raging scream as the fire consumed the last traces of Dr. Esteban Torres.

Chapter 9.

THE MISKATONIC VALLEY
MEDICAL SOCIETY

With the arrival of Dr. Muñoz I was faced with a most uncomfortable dilemma. The practice that I shared with Dr. Wilson still occupied the offices that were essentially located just upstairs of Muñoz’s refrigerated quarters, and it was unlikely that I would be able to keep his presence secret for very long. Thankfully, the bitter cold winter allowed Muñoz to leave the basement apartment and thus avoid raising any suspicions concerning his condition. I introduced him as a distant maternal uncle, and he took to this role with some fervor and soon, even in private, Muñoz would refer to me as his “brilliant nephew”.

Those first few months, we devoted ourselves to familiarizing him with the customs and fashions of Arkham. To this end we attended many social and academic events, which Muñoz thrilled at, and soon we were regular attendees at the weekly Miskatonic Valley Medical Society Lectures. At these semi-formal affairs, visiting physicians and researchers would give perfunctory talks on various aspects of clinical or experimental facets of medicine or surgery. Afterwards, the society would host a reception in honor of the speaker, complete with substantial quantities of food and drink. It was at these social gatherings that I introduced Muñoz to the medical practitioners of Arkham, Bolton and Kingsport, and all the outlying communities, including Innsmouth, Aylesbury, and the little hamlets that dotted the countryside such as Misty Valley, Witches Hollow, and Martin’s Beach. It was here as well that I pointed out to Muñoz the two men responsible for the death of my parents and other atrocities, all committed in the name of reanimation, the dreaded Herbert West and Daniel Cain, who attended on occasion.

Despite the periodic presence of those I considered my foes, I generally enjoyed these lectures and soirees, and made a point of complementing the organizers, Doctors Alfred Morris and Evan Beaumont, half-brothers who had opened up a practice in Kingsport catering to the summer tourists and more affluent members of the sleepy seaside town. Yet while I enjoyed these events, Muñoz bloomed, often holding court on a chilly porch or veranda, entertaining the younger set with his tales of European cities and exotic women with even more exotic afflictions, both real and imagined. It wasn’t long before he had a regular following which included many of the area’s rising stars, including Paul Rigas, Henryk Savaard, and Richard Cardigan. While most of this clique was welcome, one was particularly annoying, but thankfully only an occasional attendee. Francis Flegg was a mere medical student who would often accompany his mentor, the surgeon Maurice Xavier. Whether Xavier had invited Flegg or the overeager youth had simply invited himself was never clear, but it was only out of respect for Xavier that young Flegg’s presence was tolerated, for he was perhaps one of the most sycophantic I had ever had the displeasure to encounter.

Now, one would think that such social gatherings would have little to do with the work that Muñoz and I planned on doing. Circumstance however conspired to bring our studies in reanimation crashing into the world of the Miskatonic Valley Medical Society, forever changing the face of medicine as we know it.

It was late December, the last meeting before the holidays, and Muñoz and I had spent the better part of the evening at an upper class home delivering a bouncing baby boy whom the proud parents named Edward Derby Upton. As a result, we were late to the lecture, and entered the Miskatonic Club with the reception well underway. The guest speaker was a Frenchman rumored to be in line for a Nobel Prize, Dr. Alexis Carrel. Carrel was a surgeon noted for his achievements in vascular surgery and the grafting of tissues, so it came as some surprise to both Muñoz and myself that the subject of conversation in the room was in no way related to Carrel’s acknowledged specialty. Instead he was speaking about cellular senescence, immortal cell cultures, and even the artificial reactivation of long-dead tissues. By all that I held dear, Carrel was talking about reanimation.

He was surrounded by a small group, including Xavier, Darrow, Clapham-Lee, Armwright, Cardigan, and Rigas, amongst others. This crowd was laughing, speaking jovially and clearly being entertained by whatever was occurring in their midst. Intrigued, Muñoz and I worked our way over and infiltrated the gathering. In the center next to Carrel, and holding his attention, were Doctors West and Cain. Between the two of them they were holding a large glass specimen case which contained a young chicken. The beast was frantically trying to get out of the case. It was enraged, and repeatedly bashed itself into the glass walls, tried to peck through the glass, and leapt at any sudden movement. It was behavior I had seen before, in the rats that I had subjected to experiments in reanimation. West and Cain were showing off a reanimated chicken, and by all of its behavior it was yet again a vile bloodthirsty revenant.

While Carrel and the younger generation were transfixed by the monstrosity, the older, more genteel doctors were horrified, disgusted by what had been done to a living creature in the name of science. There were cautious furtive glances followed by disapproving scowls and whispered statements of contempt. The little clique of young professionals was so enthralled by the horrid little creation, that they were oblivious to the machinations and the wave of rebuke that was mounting in the rarified pools of senior fellows and department chiefs. Only Muñoz and I seemed cognizant of what was happening and were able to distance ourselves from the crowd of gawkers and their morbid entertainment.

We sidled over to a gathering of the more senior physicians of the area, including Dr. Waldron, the University doctor, and the retired Arthur Hillstrom, from whom I had inherited many of my patients. Both not only served as trustees for the medical association, but also on the review board of St. Mary’s Hospital. We arrived just in time to overhear these two distinguished gentlemen finish a most interesting conversation.

“The truth is,” said Waldron, “we’ve let this morbid little group get out of hand. It is long past time that we dealt with it.”

Hillstrom nodded in agreement. “It won’t take us long. There’s more than enough evidence, and with the proper incentives we can purge this festering cancer from our beautiful town. I’m thankful that Carrel’s visit was able to flush them all out into the open.”

What they had been talking about was not clear at the time, but within weeks it was made plain. A sudden influx of new patients revealed that Savaard’s office had suddenly closed. Xavier had been told his services were no longer needed at the teaching hospital. Darrow’s grant extension was revoked. Rigas was threatened with revocation of his license if he didn’t leave Massachusetts. By February of 1912 nearly every doctor who had formed any sort of friendship or relationship with West and Cain had been forced out, made to relocate out of state. Only Armwright and the despicable originators of the reanimation process remained in the area. I can only assume that Chester Armwright’s family connections served to protect him.

With the influx of new patients, the practice of Hartwell and Wilson had no choice but to expand. We weren’t the only practice in Arkham, but certainly we were one of the most successful. Muñoz began seeing patients, mostly Spanish and Portuguese immigrants and Negroes at first, but as time went on any illusions we had concerning the need for separating our clients soon went to the wayside. Any clients who objected were welcome to obtain services elsewhere. As for West and Cain, there was no protection for them at all. Their privileges at the hospital were revoked, but they remained in practice serving the poor and ignorant folk of Bolton as they saw fit, experimenting on what specimens they could. Hillstrom made it clear that the two were not welcome in Arkham and that, were they to ignore his warning, certain facts would be made available to the authorities both locally and in Bolton. That Hillstrom made regular visits to the offices of Hartwell, Wilson and Muñoz, and would on occasion spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the little Spanish doctor, who seemed so polite, but whose hands were too cold, worried me at first. In the end it came to nothing and whatever Hillstrom suspected, he took to the grave when he died in March of 1912. That his regular physician was out of town, and that it was I who came to Hillstrom’s bed has no relevance to this tale. Nor will I reveal what he told me as he lay there dying, but he knew enough to beg me for his life.

And I knew enough to let him die.

And stay that way.