Re-Animator (17 page)

“Sexual . . . deviant,” he muttered as the bag was placed on the operating table. Hill squinted as the top was unzippered, the white light pouring in. But the fresh air was welcomed, and he gulped it down; as he did so, he raised a stream of bubbles in the pool of blood which surrounded the base of his neck. “Thaaaat’s . . . better,” he gasped, then looked around.

The room looked different from this height, bigger and more important. He felt like a child again, awed and invigorated by life; it impressed him almost as much as his own power over death.

“Piiick . . . me . . . up,” he ordered, and his body did so, again by the hair. When he was facing the morgue, he asked to be put down and then ably directed the body toward the morgue. It returned wheeling a cadaver. Hill was pleased at how good he was getting at this and reflected that it was not unlike driving a car—albeit one whose alignment was crude and response slightly delayed. He wondered how far he could be from the body and still control it and whether he’d be able to manage two at the same time.

“In . . . goooood . . . time,” he told himself. After all, he had eternity.

The body’s heavy footsteps thudded loudly in the large room as it went about its chores. First it shut and bolted the double doors. Then it moved the head onto a small stainless-steel instrument table and rolled the corpse to one side of it. The operating table itself had to be free—for later, Hill thought giddily. Finally, the body retrieved the laser drill from its hook at the head of the instrument table.

The corpse was that of an old man, in his eighties. He would have been relatively tame at the end of his life and thus ideal, Hill had decided, as the second member of his army of lobotomized slaves.

It was, he thought, the dawn of a new age of intelligence. The next step in evolution, the unimind—not just an almighty ruler, but a single intelligence who would be a part of every human. He would put West to work finding a way to link his mind with other bodies, and then he would become like God himself, a part of all, supervising the research of Herbert West in one city, making love to a woman in another, all the while taking an energizing blood bath. And his enemies, the scientists who had crossed him or hated him—he would make a museum of their still-living heads and visit them daily, taunting them with his power and achievements. Especially Gruber. He’d have his rotted head dug up and reanimated. Perhaps he would pack them into satellites and send them into space, with enough serum to keep them alive for a lonely eternity. Or shrink them, in the manner of headhunters, still alive, feeling every moment of torment.

He wondered if he could also become a cheetah, racing at lightning speeds after a gazelle, or a hawk chasing a prairie dog, or a shark prowling the seas . . . with heads of his enemies bobbing about. And what about the long dead, like Edison or Michelangelo? Could he bring them back, too? Put them to work creating new wonders for his amusement?

And the stars. To a man who could live forever, traveling to the farthest reaches of the universe was hardly a problem. He could visit other worlds, conquer them, use their science to become even more powerful.

Then there was the greatest mystery of all. He remembered nothing from the brief period when he was dead, but with the proper recording devices could he die again and come back with a complete awareness of everything that had transpired?

The possibilities were endless. He could conquer, he could be resurrected. He could make a miniseries of his life and force everyone to watch. And applaud. And watch again. The calendar would start from the year 1
C.H.,
and on his birthday he’d find a way to make the sun itself shine more brightly!

The body tapped him lightly on his head. He came around, the sound of novae and crowds cheering giving way to the low hum of the laser drill generator. Hill shut his eyes.

“Soooon . . . soooon,” he told himself. First he must build the house before he could live in it.

West walked briskly up Wengler Street, his eyes on the ground. The concrete was old, and the roots of neighboring trees had split it here and there. Despite all he knew, he still marveled at the phenomenon. It was what had started him on his career—as a child, staring at the walks in Toronto, wanting to know how what appeared to be frail and perishable could bend cement to its will. Learning about how new cells replaced old ones over time, like soldiers being sent to the front, eventually putting enough pressure on the obstacle to break it.

His parents had sent him to a psychiatrist because, while other children played soccer, he sat on the lawn and talked to the street. They didn’t understand that he was talking out the things he’d read in science texts, thinking aloud in order to proceed to the next logical step. The last time he’d talked to his parents, they still didn’t understand. He wondered if the fire had been simple to comprehend. It had been child’s play. Literally.

He didn’t need them or anyone now, except Cain. He was the only one who could help him stop that lunatic Carl Hill.

He felt the sole vial of reagent in the pocket of his black overcoat. They would triumph. They’d pin all of this lunacy on Hill and be hailed as heroes; there was nothing the college wouldn’t give him then, and he’d be able to continue his research unbothered. It wouldn’t matter, then, what Cain did. He liked the young man and enjoyed being with him, but he was not a true scientist. He would make a fine general practitioner and husband.

West checked the numbers of the houses. When he reached 775, he hurried up the long, curving walk and rang the bell. In the early-morning light, he noticed that no weeds had cracked the walk at Dean Halsey’s home; they’d all been cut down. He smirked, but the smile vanished when he saw the broken door. He hurried up the front steps into the foyer.

“Daniel!”

He dropped beside the body and felt for a pulse.

“Thank God. Daniel!” He slapped both sides of his face. “Come on, wake up!”

Cain moaned, winced.

“Dan, what happened?”

Cain felt the back of his head. “Dean Halsey—”

“He did this?” West looked quickly at the wound. “A contusion, maybe a mild concussion. You’ll be all right.”

Cain started. “Meg! Oh my God.”

“What happened?”

Cain pressed his palm to his forehead. “Halsey—strong, like that other body. He came through the door, but that’s all I remember.”

“Hill must have sent him for Megan,” West reported. “I don’t think there’s anyone here now.”

“Where then, Herbert?”

“At the hospital, I’d imagine.” He rose, hands on his hips. “Can you stand up?”

Cain pushed off the floor, and the room went black; he fell back against the wall. West started toward him, but Cain held up his hand.

“No—I’m fine. Let’s go.”

The two walked hurriedly toward Miskatonic, whose white walls shone in the rising sun. The chrome of the marquee glistened red like fire; if hell had a marquee, Cain told himself, it would look like that. And if hell had a master, he would certainly resemble Dr. Carl Hill. After all he’d done these past few days, Cain was convinced that he’d learn soon enough about hell firsthand.

Hill’s body shifted the pan around so the head had a clear view of the surgery.

“Fiiiine . . . begiiin.”

The gloved hands flicked on the instrument. The red beam sizzled to life, and the body put the drill to the old man’s forehead. Smoke rose from the pale flesh, and an acrid smell filled the room, like burning rubber. Although he didn’t need to breathe, the fine smoke stung his eyes; he had never before appreciated how valuable were such simple things as being able to avert one’s head or wipe one’s eyes. Bloody tears formed, leaving tracks down the side of his nose.

There was a knock on the exit to the rear of the room. Hill looked back too quickly, and his head did a slow pirouette on the bloody paraffin. He was able to steady himself by tensing his neck and ear muscles, and retained his balance.

“Goooo . . .” he said impatiently to his ambulatory half.

The body obediently hung the drill on its clip and made for the double doors in front.

Hill rolled his eyes. “Noooo . . . stupiiid. The . . . baaack . . . dooooor!”

The body stopped. Its shoulders drooped, and it seemed hurt. But it turned and walked stoutly toward the rear of the autopsy room, where it threw the huge bolt and opened the metal door.

Hill’s face brightened when he saw Halsey in the doorway, the robed Megan unconscious in his arms.

“Gooooood. Enterrrr . . .”

Halsey toddled along, a strip of Wengler’s flesh still lodged in the side of his mouth. Hill was glad to see Halsey had obviously shown some initiative, though he hoped he hadn’t been followed; he needed a bit more time to finish his preparations.

The zombie placed Megan on the operating table, her head inches from that of Hill. The surgeon’s eyes were saucers, the skin of his face tight with expectation.

“Oh . . . yeeeessss . . .”

Halsey was standing several paces back, staring at the ceiling. Hill looked over and caught the zombie’s attention; he jerked his eyes toward the young woman, and Halsey came forward obediently.

“Take . . . the robe . . . offff.”

Halsey grabbed a fistful of fabric and stepped back. The robe tore away, and he discarded it.

Hill ran his eyes along her naked form. “Tie . . . herrrr!” he commanded. “Sheee . . . must . . . not . . . leeeave . . .”

His body came over and began binding her to the table, tying the straps tightly around her wrists and ankles. Hill stretched his neck, rose up an inch.

“Sooo . . . lovely . . .” he leered. “You . . . will . . . keeeep . . . your . . . heeead.”

Hill had his body pull off its rubber gloves and sent it, with uncharacteristic grace and reverence, to Megan’s side. Its hands moved to her breasts, gently cupping and caressing them, now and then squeezing harder as his passion rose. Hill shut his eyes, savoring every moment. She was sweet and wholesome to the touch, not like the rough women he was used to buying in Springfield or Boston. He moved one hand lower, to her flat belly. His thumb and index finger were callused from the months of pressing so hard on the laser drill. The skin was thick and dead, which frustrated him; he had to lay his open palm on her to feel her softness completely, her warm belly thrilling him as it rose and fell beneath his hand.

Megan stirred. Her head rocked slowly from side to side, and her eyes fluttered open. Hill felt a single tremor shoot through her.

In the first moments of wakefulness, she still couldn’t place where she was or what she was seeing. The head beside her was huge and grotesque, like a Halloween mask. Its eyes were shut, but there were streams of dried blood along the cheeks and caked in the tangled hair. The tongue, visible in the wide-open mouth, was swollen and reddish-purple; there was bloody spittle around it, and a foul, tart odor rose from within. It was the scent of death, and it overpowered even the sour smell of burning rubber which seemed to hang in the air.

Megan looked down. She felt the hands on her, saw what they were doing; then she saw where she was. With a mounting sense of horror, she looked to the right and saw her father standing idly by. Suddenly it all came back to her, what her father had done, and her fears escaped in a single gut-wrenching scream.

Hill’s eyes popped open. Megan saw them and shrieked again, simultaneously trying to rise. Finding that she was lashed to the table, she tugged violently against the straps; one of the leather pieces slipped from its metal tooth, and her left arm flew free. It struck Hill’s body, which went sprawling back against the instrument table. The hit was a solid one, too great for the neck brace, and the plaster head toppled off, shattering on the tiles. Gaping at the huge clot, from which fresh blood was percolating, Megan’s throat went raw, her wrists and ankles bloody as she tore to get free.

Hill rasped something like a laugh and ordered the head to pick him up. It did so under the ears, tilting him so he could stare into Megan’s face.

“I’ve alwaaaays admired . . . your beeeauty, my dear.”

The young woman shut her eyes and cried piteously.

Hill’s brow arched softly. “I think . . . I’ve alwaaaays . . . loved you.”

“No!
No!!”

“Yesss . . . it’s truuue . . .” he said as he had his hands move his head to the side. He put his discolored tongue into her ear, and she screamed again, pushing at his forehead with her free hand. But Hill’s hands were stronger, and he only smiled.

“You will . . . looove me!” he said as his hands pulled him lower, to her chest. The fat tongue came out and encircled one breast, then the other. He looked up at her again. “You
will!”

Megan arched her back, tried to push him away. “Please stop! Let me go!”

“That’s it . . . my dearest . . . Meg. More . . . passion! I’ve always . . . imagined you . . . a passionate looover!”

Hill’s tongue trailed down her chest to her navel. Talking was becoming easier as he mastered it, and he could clearly feel his body responding to what he was seeing and tasting. West had missed something important, that each subsequent dose of formula restored more of the original being. He was for all intents and purposes whole—and then some.

Megan twisted to her side. “Daddy, please help me!”

Halsey jumped slightly but continued to stare blankly into the room.

“Yooour . . . father cannot help. He . . . is mine . . . just as you . . . willlll . . . be mine.”

Hill’s tongue slid down further.

“No! What are you doing to me? God, no—
no!”

Poised above Megan’s crotch, the head looked up at her and smiled. “Yes . . . my love!
Yes!”

With a twisted smile, he watched her quiver helplessly beneath him, then opened his mouth wide and disappeared between her legs.

CHAPTER

12

T
he air was sweet and cool, despite the rusty smell which rose from the corpse. Detective Vinnie Papa was pacing on the sloping lawn behind the body, wondering where the other car was, while photographer Valerie Burk took pictures. It was early, and there were only two other teams on duty; still, one of them should have been here by now. Or maybe he was just being impatient. No one had been slain in Arkham for six years, and there hadn’t been an unsolved murder in more than twenty-five years. Bad enough one record had fallen; he was not about to lose the other one.