Reanimators (20 page)

The route of the ship had been traced back through Northern Africa, to several ports along the Spanish Main and France. Before that she was in London where she dropped a load of salted cod that she had picked up in New England. Officially, the Yellow Star had never been further south than Maine, but inquiries made of certain disreputable businessmen suggested that the ship made frequent runs from Canada to ports along the Massachusetts coast, carrying rum and other contraband.

What Dexter wanted to know was, given her condition, did I think it was it possible that Mary Wilson had not only survived her fall into the Miskatonic, but somehow managed to make her way down to Kingsport, onto a ship and then remain hidden, circumnavigating the Atlantic Ocean? Could Mary Wilson be Spanish Mary?

Of course I refuted such a possibility; given the extent to which the disease had ravaged her body and mind, there was simply no way a normal woman could have survived weeks in such a manner. Wasn’t it more likely that the ship had picked her up somewhere in England and then spread the disease to Europe and then Africa?

Dexter nodded and agreed that no normal woman could have survived such a journey, and that such a suggestion bordered on madness. He thanked me for my time, stood up and made for the door. He paused dramatically as the door swung open and turned back. There was seriousness to his expression and as he spoke, the tone of his voice contained an accusatory note. “The thing is, Dr. Hartwell, Spanish Mary, she wasn’t a normal woman. The soldiers who were in charge of burning the Yellow Star, they took pity on their captives. After setting the fire, they took up positions on the upper deck of their cutter and shot all six members of the crew and Spanish Mary through the chest. They were good soldiers, well-trained, expert marksmen. All six crewmen died before the flames spread to their bodies. The woman, however, Spanish Mary, she continued to thrash about even after they had shot her. According to the commander, they put four shots into her with no effect. Even after the flames reached her and her clothing, hair and skin had burst into flames, she still continued to scream and flail against the chains that bound her.” He paused and watched me for a reaction. “As you say, no normal woman could have survived such conditions. But it appears that Spanish Mary was no normal woman. I’ve seen many things since this plague started, Dr. Hartwell, many horrible things. Diseases can do strange, terrible, even wondrous things, but I have to wonder what it was that made this woman into what she was, Doctor. Is there anything in your experience that could do such a thing?”

I sat there in silence for a minute, maybe more, and then with a firm resolve I lied. “No, not in my experience. I know of nothing that could do such a thing.”

He smiled, and suddenly Dr. Dexter had become predatory. He raised his hand to his forehead and gave me a funny little salute. “Be seeing you,” he said, and then marched out the door.

That day my world changed. Somehow, despite my desire to cease my studies in reanimation, the past had returned and ensnared me in its horror. I had tried to leave such things behind, tried and failed. I had set out to wreak vengeance on the monsters that had killed my parents, and in the process I had become a monster myself. I, in my inability to stop Mary Wilson, was responsible for creating a creature that spread a plague around the world, killing nearly everything in its path. It has been nearly a decade since the outbreak ended, and even now I suffer from the knowledge of what I have done. West and Cain had killed, or had been responsible for killing, dozens; I was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of millions. And try as I might I could find no one to blame but myself.

Chapter 18.

THE THING IN THE ROAD

My resolve to cease experimenting shattered, and the blood of millions on my hands, I resumed my studies in early 1919 and once more began a program to inoculate the citizens of Arkham against death. Given what I had done, I rationalized that the world population was now significantly smaller than it had been before; it seemed only logical that I should help protect whatever remained. I held to this philosophy through 1919 and 1920, and even after a January 1921 report suggested that the epidemic had ceased. The report suggested that the virus had followed a natural progression, and burned itself out. Such a conclusion gave me little comfort, and I wondered if perhaps the real reason for the plague’s demise was related to the destruction of the thing that I myself had created. Regardless, I knew that one way or another I had to atone for my deeds.

That my actions would haunt me for years became apparent in early February, on a cold winter’s night as I slept comfortably in my home, without any idea of what plans had recently been set in motion, or that I was to be involved in them. The telephone is a wondrous device, and is a boon for physicians and other professionals who may be needed at any time of the day. It is also a detriment, for it can be used to spread gossip faster than common sense should allow, and even harass individuals in an anonymous and most vicious of manners. But these thoughts were far from my mind when the phone rang that fateful night and I, thinking only as a physician, answered it.

The voice on the phone was strange, throaty, and it spoke to me of things that I thought only I would know. It threatened and made it clear that were I not to do exactly as I was told, my life, my hidden life, would be exposed for all to see, but if I were to follow directions, my secrets would remain unpublished. Given little choice, I conceded and carefully took down notes on what exactly I was to do.

Well after midnight I found myself in front of a warehouse on the waterfront and, as directed, I rapped on the door thrice. The gate opened and without hesitation I entered the dimly lit building. Inside I could see little, but beneath a single, dangling bulb stood an imposing military figure carrying an immense black case; behind him was a large truck decorated with a stylized fish. In the shadows of the warehouse I could detect the movement and labored breathing of a large number of men. They shifted uneasily back and forth, and from the thick, long coats they wore I took them to be seamen of one sort or another.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Hartwell,” said the imposing figure in the coat and cap. Even at a distance I recognized the style of uniform and insignia as that of a major in the Canadian service. “It has been many years since I last saw you; it seems that time has been good to you.” I studied the features of the half-lit face and tried to place it, but despite being a particularly handsome man with shining, unwavering eyes I could find no trace of him in my memory. “I apologize,” he continued, “time and the war have not been as kind to me as they have been to you, and the visage you see before you is not one you would recall. You would perhaps remember the name of Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee from your days at University?”

I nodded. “I recall the name; you were friends with West and Cain.”

Clapham-Lee chuckled, but, strangely, stood perfectly still. “My friendship with Herbert West and his assistant Cain is long in the past, though I still suffer from its detriments. Indeed, the wrongs West committed against others and me are things I intend to resolve in the next few days. With your assistance, of course; after learning what they have done to you, I suspect that you would not object to extracting a modicum of vengeance from Doctors West and Cain.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

Again that strange motionless chuckle and he answered honestly, “Not really.”

Clapham-Lee ordered me into the truck and explained that over the course of the next day I was to serve as his driver and that we would be traveling to only two locations: one in Sefton early this morning, and another in Boston at midnight tomorrow. I glanced about at all the figures moving about in the shadows and wondered out loud why none of these men could be his driver.

There was a somber cast to his voice as he answered. “Unfortunately, owing to circumstances beyond our control, these men lack the coordination needed to properly operate a motor vehicle. You will serve as our driver, Hartwell, and in under twenty-four hours you can go back to living your so-called life.”

I acquiesced and climbed into the driver’s seat, while Clapham-Lee cautiously occupied the passenger’s seat. We sat there for a moment and I felt as well as heard the men who had been hiding in the shadows shuffle across the floor and climb clumsily into the enclosed compartment in the back. One of the shadowy figures must have stayed behind, for no sooner had Clapham-Lee given the order to start the engine, than the warehouse door began to lift jerkily up into the rafters. When the door had risen sufficiently, the order to proceed was given and I pulled carefully out into the dark streets of Arkham.

Clapham-Lee’s directions took us quickly out of the city proper and we drove south toward Boston. That Clapham-Lee’s directions were curious and circuitous would be an understatement, for instead of proceeding down the paved thoroughfare, he instead took us using by-ways, farm roads, and side roads that more than doubled what should have been a relatively short journey. Even more curious was my master’s strange behavior. In the dim light that entered the cab, I still could see only a little of his face, for he kept his collar turned up, his cap pulled down and his whole head turned away from me. He gave directions in short, quick barking orders that seemed to emanate not from his mouth but from his chest, which was hidden by the folds of his coat, and the immense black cloth bag he clung to with both hands.

At nearly four we turned back onto a main road, and it became all too apparent where we were heading. My shock of recognition must have been audible, for Clapham-Lee softly ordered me to relax as we pulled through the gates and onto the great drive that led to Sefton Asylum. “It will all be over soon,” he cooed as he directed me to stop at a side door that I knew to be the receiving entrance.

He ordered me to keep the truck running, and strangely, despite my fears, I was inclined to obey without question. I watched in the mirror as five figures clambered out of the back of the truck and slowly staggered toward the entryway. A sixth man, a large repellent brute with a bluish tinge to his face, came forward and helped guide Clapham-Lee from the truck and along the flagstone path. It dawned on me then that Clapham-Lee, for all his bravado, might, as the result of some wartime accident, suffer from some measure of vision loss, or even complete blindness.

The body of silent men pounded demandingly on the door, and did so at regular intervals until finally they gained the attention of the attendants who, just as I had been trained to respond to calls in the middle of the night, did what they had been trained to do and opened the door to receive a new patient. After all, who in their right mind would attempt to break into an asylum for the criminally insane? There was a skirmish at the door, but whatever resistance was offered was quickly withdrawn and the company of seven men entered Sefton Asylum in silence.

I cannot personally speak of what happened inside those walls. I would learn later that a man with a military demeanor carrying an immense black bag had demanded that the cannibalistic thing that had terrorized Arkham sixteen years earlier be turned over to his custody. The men in charge flatly refused such a ridiculous demand. Apparently expecting such a response, the commanding figure raised his hand and precipitated a riotous attack that killed four and left the others beaten, bitten and fleeing for their lives. By the time help could be summoned, the intruders and the monster they had sought to liberate were gone.

For my part, I can only speak to what I personally saw. Seven men left the truck I was driving, and twenty minutes later, eight figures including Clapham-Lee returned. At the Major’s direction we left the asylum at a brisk rate which continued as we moved further south. After nearly an hour on several rough roads, we carefully merged onto a paved by-way somewhere near Lynn. We drove until we came to a small farmhouse that had obviously been abandoned. As we rumbled down the track of frozen earth, the barn opened and Clapham-Lee directed me to drive inside. As the doors slid shut I caught the first hint of the sun rising up over a hill to the east. Inside the barn, my passengers once more disembarked, and Clapham-Lee suggested that I stay in the truck and get some sleep. The concept seemed repugnant to me and I balked at the suggestion. The Major was insistent, though, and in the strange sourceless voice he ordered me to stay seated and sleep. I seemed bound to do what this man told me, and I settled back and soon drifted off.

When I once more returned to consciousness night had fallen. Indeed, according to my watch I had slept for more than twenty hours. In the passenger seat was an apple, a bottle of milk and explicit instructions on how I should attend to certain bodily functions. I followed these instructions to the letter and then returned to consume the apple and the milk, standing outside of the truck as I had been instructed.

At a little before the eleventh hour Clapham-Lee appeared and ordered me back into the truck. I complied and soon after the hulking brute appeared and guided the Major to the passenger door where he fumbled with the handle before climbing inside. I immediately noticed that the Major’s black bag was not present, but instead in his hand he clasped a piece of paper bearing my name, which he shoved clumsily in my direction. As I opened it, I noticed that Clapham-Lee’s men were loading a large box, about two feet square and four feet long, into the truck. After they had finished, they climbed up through the door and closed it behind them. Clapham-Lee gestured crudely at the open barn door and without further urging I started the truck and drove back to the main road.

The piece of paper with my name also bore directions that led us into Boston, and then into one of the more venerable neighborhoods that bordered what appeared to be one of the older and more historical burying grounds that permeated the city. As directed by the note, I carefully pulled up in front of the given address and kept the motor running. My human cargo unloaded themselves and the curious wooden crate, and then as before the great blue-cast brute came forward to help Clapham-Lee. As the Major stumbled from the truck, he fumbled in his pocket and once more produced a note bearing my name. I snatched it from his waving hand and tore it open, desperate to read its contents and have this nightmare of servitude finished with.

The message was simple and clear. I was, as I had hoped, finished. My only remaining task was to return to Arkham and secrete the truck back into the warehouse. As the passenger door to the cab slammed shut I turned to watch in the mirror, to make sure that the two men were clear before I began moving. Clapham-Lee was clearly having more trouble than previously, and was leaning heavily on his servant for support. The icy conditions of the road and walkway may have had some influence on the situation, and with what happened next.

Leaving the street, the brute cautiously helped the Major onto the sidewalk before taking a single broad step himself. That step proved too great, and coupled with the ice, the brute slid forward, bowling into Clapham-Lee’s legs and knocking the straight-laced Major to the ground. In the light of the streetlamp I watched as the Major landed firmly on his back, knocking his hat off and letting it bounce and then roll back into the street. It was not until the hat arced and wobbled that the horror of the scene was fully realized, for the hat as it came to a stop suddenly broke in two. It took me a moment to understand what I had seen, and to recognize what it meant. Mere seconds later I was speeding down the street, barreling through Boston and onto the road that led north back to Arkham, urged on by fear nearly untempered by any sense of control.

I followed directions explicitly and returned the truck to its warehouse, securing the door behind me before walking the few blocks back to my home. Never before had I been so grateful to be back in my own home and my own bed, and although my sleep was haunted by what I saw in the streetlight that fateful evening, I swore to myself that it had merely been a trick of the light. Even the next day when the papers reported that Dr. Herbert West had disappeared from his Boston address that was but a single number away from that given to me by Clapham-Lee, I maintained my denial of what my eyes had seen.

It was a year later, in the spring of 1922, that I finally succumbed to the truth. A member of the District Attorney’s office in Arkham called me and asked me to act as a consultant on a case. Out of some sense of civic duty I agreed before I even knew what the case was. Had I known I was to aid in the evaluation of the mental health of Dr. Daniel Cain, I would have refused outright. Not only out of a need for my own self-preservation, but also out of my own feelings for the man. I had never made my enmity for West and Cain public, and this it seems was the problem.

Following West’s disappearance, the Boston authorities had kept Cain in various states of incarceration for more than a year. At one point, just a few months earlier, he had been incarcerated in a mental hospital, and while there he had undergone several doses of drugs which had resulted in a long and rambling narrative spanning the highlights of West and Cain’s medical experiments, including several confessions that served to incriminate the two doctors. Cain’s lawyer had the document suppressed, as releasing it would violate medical privilege. The Boston authorities had no evidence of a crime, and had no desire to expend the funds to prove one had occurred. Cain was simply insane, and had been transferred to Arkham for treatment.

As I had once been familiar with Cain, we both attended Miskatonic, the District Attorney assumed that I would be more than capable of evaluating his current mental state, as compared to that of years ago. I attempted to dissuade them from using me for such a task, but was assured that based on my handling of the Peaslee case I was more than qualified for the task.