Lynch (7 page)

“That all sounds mighty nice, Doc. But what are the drawbacks?”

“Drawbacks?” Mirablis shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“Well—everything's got two sides, Doc.”

Mirablis's cheeks flamed red. “You are speaking nonsense! There is no drawback to immortality! I am very tired now and need to rest.” He turned and hurried back to his aboveground quarters with the jerky movements of a man trying to contain his anger.

Lynch could not understand what he did to upset Doc Mirablis. He certainly had not intended to do such a thing. So far the old gentleman had shown him nothing but kindness. It made him feel bad to think he had done something to agitate him in such a way.

He returned to the narrow camp cot that served as his bed and sat down on its far edge, staring at the stalagmites in the cave. He felt as he had when his father used to punish him for whispering in church; except he could not remember what his father's face looked like, or what his name was.

The sound of a foot scraping the ground nearby startled him from his reverie. He glanced up and saw Sasquatch hovering in the shadows, the whites of his eyes glowing eerily in the gloom of the cavern. Lynch suppressed his natural urge to shout in fear and instead met the creature's lambent gaze.

“What do you want?”

The crooked giant took a tentative step forward, eyes burning like twin suns. “She says she still waits for you.”

Lynch was not sure what surprised him more: that the creature's voice was like that of rocks being ground together, or that Sasquatch had spoken Cheyenne—and he had understood him perfectly.

Chapter Ten

When Mirablis next came to see Lynch, the old man wore a contrite expression on his face. “I have been thinking about what you said the other day. You are right. It is only fair that you understand—
truly
understand—the reasons for what I do and what I have done. It is important to me that you comprehend the scope of my experiments and discoveries, so that you may help me in my work, in your own unique way, as Pompey and Sasquatch do in theirs.

“In order to do this, my dear Lynch, I must tell you my story. It begins in a different world, indeed, a different century, than the one we inhabit now. Do you know that I was not brought into this world as Anton Mirablis? My true name is of no importance, really. I cast aside my old identity when I fled Europe for this wondrous country of yours. A new life is deserving of a new name, don't you agree?

“Still, for all of America's raw-boned lawlessness, it is nothing compared to the chaos and madness of the Terror and the wars that followed. This was the world of my youth. I was a gifted child, showing a natural aptitude for the physical sciences early in life. My parents were among those who benefited from the fall of the ancient regime and therefore could afford to indulge my precocious nature.

“I was little more than a boy when I was shipped off to the university in Vienna to study medicine. It was there I gained the attention of a brilliant anatomist of the name Viktor von Frankenstein … perhaps you have heard of him?”

Lynch frowned and squinted. “The name sounds familiar—but I can't remember nothin' about it except that it's from a made-up story.”

“Oh, Viktor was real enough, I assure you! Just as Kit Carson and Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill are real. And the story told about my old friend and colleague was just as far removed from the truth as the tales about their exploits.

“I soon learned that Viktor and I shared similar interests—mainly a desire to break Death's grip on the mind of man. He needed someone to help him with his research, but he did not want a mere assistant—he required someone as intelligent and as dedicated as himself. He needed someone who could be trusted to understand the problems such unorthodox experiments faced, someone willing to brave the dangers they held, both physically and socially. And, to his credit, he was capable of recognizing those qualities in me despite my tender years.

“Ours was a close and, by default, secretive relationship. The intensity of our shared obsession, at times, bound us more tightly than lovers. We worked side by side, in an atmosphere of such emotional intensity that it was bound that we would eventually have a serious falling out. What caused our disagreement was a divergence between us on how best to realize our goal. Viktor was convinced that a body stitched together from the undamaged pieces of cadavers could be given life through applying electrical current to the nervous system. However, I was concerned with the question of decay, which led to my creation of the elixir re-vitae as a means of restoring and preserving soft tissues.

“Essentially, our differences lay in our own very personal interpretations of the act of Creation. For Viktor, it was all very Promethean and Old Testament, with lightning and fire from Heaven and the like. He would fashion himself a man of clay and breathe the fire of Life into it and that was that. I, on the other hand, looked not to mythology, but man himself—or should I say, woman?—for my inspiration. Dissecting the cadavers of pregnant women revealed to me that we are creatures of the sea, and that within every female there is a secret ocean, in which the evolution of our species is re-enacted, from briny shrimp to naked ape.

“In the end, though Viktor was my elder, it was he who suffered the problem most associated with youth—impatience. He wanted results. My method was far too slow to suit his tastes. In any case, there was a serious falling out between us, which resulted in us going our separate ways.

“I made the best of my situation by attaching myself to Napoleon's personal entourage, eventually becoming one of the physicians in charge of the battlefield hospitals. This gave me unprecedented—and unsupervised—access to all the amputated limbs I could ever want. However, when I traveled with him to Egypt, my interest was piqued by rumors of certain recipes and formulae concerning the preservation and resurrection of the dead found in a scroll believed to be written by the lord high embalmer to the pharaohs.

“However, not long after my return to Europe from the mysterious Orient, I received a package containing the journals and notes of my former friend and colleague. Along with these was a letter from Viktor, informing me that he had been forced to abandon his experiments. He conceded my method of reviving the dead was superior to his own—though he warned me of dire consequences should I pursue my interests.

“As I read his journals, I learned that Viktor did, indeed, build a man from the bodies of the dead. He succeeded in bringing it back to life using the harnessed power of a thunderstorm. That much of the story is true. However, the creature that rose from that slab was no more capable of narrating its own plight than it could fly to the moon. The thing was … damaged in the brain.

And, to make matters worse, not long after it was revived, it began to rot. To spend so many years and so much energy on research, and to have nothing to show for it but a wretched, stinking imbecile! It was all too much for Viktor, I'm afraid.

“However, when the rumors concerning Viktor's connection to the creature that had slain not only him, but at least six other people, began to circulate, I deemed it wise to remove myself from the Continent. That is when I came to this country. I first arrived in Philadelphia, where I quickly established myself under my new name … that of Dr. Anton Mirablis. For several years, I was able to pursue my experiments in relative secret, with able assistance from Pompey, who I purchased from the master who abused him so cruelly.

“It was during these years that I attempted to refine the elixir revitae, combining it with the ancient Egyptian formulae. It was very difficult to locate the necessary elements needed for the mixture, and the slightest variation in temperature during the distilling could have proven disastrous. It was a long process of trial and error, but eventually I succeeded in keeping amputated limbs and other organs from not only rotting, but continuing their original functions as well. Yet, try as I might, I was unable to generate the necessary spark of life that Viktor had managed to infuse in his creation, hapless as it may have been.

“I eventually came to the decision that what was needed for me to succeed was to combine my technique with that of Viktor's. So I set about creating a giant womb, if you will, and filling it with elixir, whose special properties would be activated by passing massive electric currents through both it and the subject. Are you ready for some fresh air—?”

“Sure,” Lynch said, taken aback by the suddenness of Mirablis's suggestion.

“Very good. I'll use the occasion to introduce you to the subject of my first successful revival.”

After the darkness of the cavern, the pale light of a winter day was enough to make Lynch's eyes water. He stood for a moment in front of the cabin and stared at his surroundings, hoping to summon forth a memory that might tell him who he was.

“So—where's this fella you brought back from the dead, Doc?” he said, glancing over at Mirablis, who was bundled in a buffalo-skin coat and a hat made from a rabbit.

“He's over here, my boy,” he said, gesturing toward a small barnlike structure built alongside the cabin.

The interior of the stable was dark and close, with most of the space occupied by a medicine wagon. Standing in the solitary stall was a coal black stallion, nosing a mound of straw. In the dim light, it looked as if the beast's eye sockets were filled with smoldering fire.

Lynch turned to fix Mirablis with a stare of utter disbelief. “A
horse
—?!?”

The old man shrugged. “It was a matter of convenience. I needed to test my technique on something large—and it was far easier to get my hands on a livery animal than a baboon or gorilla. I suppose I
could
have used a pig, but their flesh spoils so quickly.…”

Mirablis shuffled forward, smiling indulgently at the beast as it pawed the ground. “Do you know anything about mythology?”

“I can't rightly say,” Lynch said, shrugging his shoulders. “I remember something about a guy with thunderbolts—and something about a fella with wings on his feet and a pie plate on his head.”

“It doesn't really matter,” Mirablis replied. “Viktor used to joke about how he was Prometheus while I was Pluto. Prophetic, don't you think, considering where I have ended up—and how he ended? Still, that is why I chose to name this fine animal after the horse that pulled the chariot of the Lord of the Underworld: Alastor.

“In any case, as of June 27th, 1840, he became the first successful subject of my revivification process, and he has served me most ably ever since.” Mirablis's hand dipped into his coat pocket and produced gobbets of raw meat. To Lynch's surprise, the horse eagerly gobbled them down as it they were lumps of sugar.

“That's a good boy,” Mirablis smiled, stroking the beast's neck.

“Y-you just fed that animal meat!”

Mirablis's smile disappeared instantly. “It is cold out here. Let's go back inside. I felt the need for some hot tea.”

Pompey hurried forward and helped the old man out of his burdensome coat and hat as they entered the cabin. The old man hobbled to the table, where a white porcelain tea pot sat, along with a solitary matching cup. Mirablis motioned for Lynch to take the seat opposite him at the table.

“You asked me the other day about the … side effects that accompany revivification. I will admit that I was … unprepared for such a question, and I responded most rudely. But you are right—if anyone deserves straight answers as to what to expect, it is you.

“When I killed Alastor the first time, he was a three-year-old stallion at the height of his stamina. In the decades that have passed since, he has not aged a day, nor has he ever been ill. He can ride for days on end without rest or food and still remain as strong as a dozen horses. Yet there have been—changes in his nature. Such as the one you saw. Alastor is no longer a harmless herbivore, like others of his kind. He now has a taste for flesh. However, he only needs to be fed once every six weeks … not unlike certain large snakes.”

“But he's just a
horse,
” Lynch said anxiously. “That doesn't mean those changes will occur in a
human
—right?”

Mirablis sighed as he lifted his tea cup. “There is much even
I
don't understand about the revivification process, I'm afraid.
Why
is there heightened strength?
Why
is there a reduction in the need for sleep and a suppression of appetite? And, most important of all,
why
can't the subjects digest anything but raw meat?”

“You mean I'm some kinda
ghoul?
” Lynch shouted, his voice cracking as he jumped to his feet. Pompey stepped forward and pointed a pistol directly at his head.

“Pompey! Put that away!” Mirablis snapped. “There's no need for it! Our friend is merely upset—and justifiably so! Please, Lynch—sit back down. You're making Pompey nervous.”

Lynch sat down slowly while keeping an eye on the mute. Pompey, for his part, did not lower the gun until Lynch was once again seated.

Mirablis clucked his tongue in reproof. “You're agitating yourself for no reason, my boy! As I said, feeding occurs only once every six weeks, and is easily controlled, if you prepare for it properly. A couple of bighorn sheep is usually enough to keep Pompey and Sasquatch satisfied. Just because you
must
eat raw flesh in order to survive does not make you a monster! Besides, your diet is the least of your problems. One major drawback to your new life is that you must pay a great deal of attention to your physical integrity. Since your pain threshold is so incredibly high, it tends to block signals regarding “minor” injuries. What this means is you are in constant danger of accidentally losing a body part without being aware of it. Fingers and toes are the most vulnerable, as well as the ears. However, it's nothing a little needle and thread can't fix.