Reanimators

by Peter Rawlik

  As Muñoz and I moved out into the hallway I whispered to my colleague, “Take him into the house. This may become unpleasant and I don’t want her to hear it.”

  With all possible swiftness we deposited our charge onto the parlor settee, and while I took his jacket, holster, shirt and tie, Muñoz ran for my medical bag. I checked his neck and wrist for a pulse, and found none. With little choice, I began using the Holger Nielson modification of the Silvester Method of artificial respiration, lifting the arms behind the back, and then pushing them back down to drive air into the lungs.

  Soon after I began, Muñoz dashed back in and began to unpack my kit. Within seconds Muñoz had injected our patient with a proper dosage of epinephrine. As he finished, he touched me, indicating that I should cease artificial respiration to see if the injection had the desired effect. We paused and waited, but seeing no response, I once more began treatment, frustrated that the normal treatment had had no favorable result. Muñoz prepared another syringe and administered another, more potent dose. Once more we paused and once more I reinitiated the resuscitation attempts. Without a word Muñoz leapt from my side and disappeared from the parlor.

  He was not gone long, and what he carried with him made me rise up in opposition, for in a large glass syringe my colleague carried a dose of the chemo-luminescent reagent that we had recently developed to begin testing on human subjects, and from the way he held it, there was no mistaking his intention.

  “Rafael, you can’t do this. He’s a stranger, his wife is right down the hall, he’s a policeman. What if it doesn’t work? What if something goes wrong?”

  Muñoz never took his eyes off the man lying on the settee. “As of right now, Stuart, he is dead; with the reagent, he may have a chance. Or, would you rather tell his young pregnant wife that her husband has died?”

  I lowered my head, in shame as much as in frustration. I was caught in a trap of my own creation. Were I to do nothing, I would always regret never trying, but the risks of actually using the formula, and it failing, weighed on my mind as well. The only glimmer of hope was that the years of research that I had carried out alone had been sufficiently refined by Muñoz and me over the past months. Did I have faith enough in my own work to test it? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then reached out for the syringe. “I’ll do it, please.”

  Rafael Muñoz lifted our patient’s head and shoulders, providing me access to the soft spot where the skull met the spinal column. Carefully, but swiftly, I pierced the skin and slid the needle into the brain. Once I had reached a sufficient depth, I placed my thumb on the plunger and slowly injected our reagent into Officer Chan’s body. I removed the needle swiftly, and as I finished Muñoz lowered his head back onto a pillow.

  I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then remembered the gun that I had removed from Chan’s possession. The gun was heavy and cold, but I took some comfort in holding it. I remembered what had happened before, to Dr. Halsey, and to James Robinson, and I had no desire to be a victim, nor to let anyone else suffer, at the hands of my own monstrous creation. Should Chan become uncontrollably violent I would not hesitate to shoot him.

  As I expected, Chan awoke in agony, screaming like an animal, thrashing about on the settee. I stepped back and brought the gun between the two of us, but to my surprise Muñoz stepped in between, “Easy, Stuart. We have seen such seizures before, in the rats, no? They always come back like this. Give him a moment.”

  I lowered the gun, and Muñoz went to his side. My partner had been right; already I could tell that our subject wasn’t entering a frenzied state at all, but rather one of panicked confusion. He was hyperventilating and scared, but I saw a glimmer of recognition and reason in his eyes. I placed the gun on the table and knelt by his side. “Relax, Mr. Chan. You had a minor heart attack, but you are through the worst of it.” His eyes darted back and forth. “Your wife is fine,” I told him, “just a little worried about you. This is my colleague, Dr. Muñoz. He helped save you. Don’t worry, you are safe and in good hands.”

  It took a few moments for Chan to relax, after which I went and got his wife. I told her that her husband had suffered a mild heart attack, but that was all. There was little else that could be done for him save initial rest, followed by a course of regularly increasing exercises to aid in the strengthening of the heart muscle. I advised him to avoid smoking and drinking, although an occasional pipe or drink would not be injurious. It wasn’t until my medical advice ran out that I realized what we had done, and what we still had to do. After a brief conversation with Dr. Muñoz, we broached the subject of both Chans spending the night at the house, under the pretense that we would like to keep Mr. Chan under observation. Of course technically this was true, but the reason had little to do with his heart attack, and more to do with his ongoing reaction to our reanimating treatment. Thankfully, the Chans readily agreed, and it took little effort to have one of Atlee’s bell boys bring their luggage over from the hotel.

  That night I made a simple dinner of spring vegetables, baby potatoes, and roasted chicken. Afterwards, we spent the evening lounging in the parlor, the men playing cards and talking world affairs, and Jinghua composing a letter to her father in San Francisco. About nine in the evening, Jinghua apologized but said she was tired and needed to retire for the night. She asked if it would be any trouble to include her letter in the morning’s mail. I looked at the envelope briefly to ascertain that it had been properly addressed and sealed. As I did so, I was met with a slight shock, as to the addressee, but I quickly recovered, telling her that it was no trouble at all, and wishing her a good evening.

  It was only after she was well up the stairs, and out of earshot, that Mr. Chan spoke. “Does the identity of Jinghua’s father bother you, Dr. Hartwell? Or, perhaps it is his occupation that concerns you?”

  I sat down slowly. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  It was Chan’s turn to rise. “Jinghua’s father is Kin Fo, president of the Pan-Oceanic Banking and Insurance Corporation. The same company that insured cargo on the now sunken Titanic cruise liner, cargo owned by your neighbor Nathaniel Peaslee, in whose behalf you filed a claim of insurance.” There was a glimmer in his eye, like a cat stalking its prey.

  I jumped from my seat, followed by Muñoz. “Just what are you playing at, Chan? If you’ve come here under false pretenses, taken advantage of my hospitality—”

  He lifted his hand in a calming motion. “Please, doctors, no ruse was planned or intended; we are victims of curious coincidence, nothing more. Earlier this evening you demonstrated an impressive ability to deduce the date of my marriage from my wife’s pregnancy. I merely return the favor. I am not unfamiliar with the sensational newspaper stories of Peaslee and his strange loss of personality, which occasionally mention you, Dr. Hartwell as his physician.”

  “But how did you know about the insurance?” I begged.

  He bobbed his head in that strange parrot-like manner. “As son-in-law to venerable Kin Fo, I also am familiar with various forms and documents of insurance company, many of which sit partially completed on the desk in the corner, along with correspondence and photographs of Peaslee. Would seem a simple deduction that you are still handling some of his affairs while he travels in Europe.”

  I settled back into my chair, while Muñoz crossed the room to pour us both a drink. Chan casually sat back down as well.

  “Still, I am puzzled by one detail of Peaslee’s correspondence.”

  Muñoz handed me a drink and joined us. “What would that be, Mr. Chan?”

  Chan rose and quickly crossed the room to the desk where he selected a photograph and brought it back to us. I recognized it as he laid it down on the table. “Photograph is of Peaslee and of a young man on the deck of a ship that is likely the doomed Titanic still being constructed at shipyards in Belfast.”

  I recalled the writing on the back of the photo, Harland and Wolff, Belfast. “Perhaps he inspected the ship prior to deciding to use
it for his cargo, nothing unusual about that.”

  Once more that strange little bob. “Perhaps, but Peaslee is not the most interesting person in photograph, young man more interesting, and currently quite famous, or infamous.”

  We peered closer, but I didn’t recognize the man from anywhere in particular. To our embarrassment, Chan soon enlightened us. “Young man is John Coffey, seaman who is currently subject of much scrutiny by the press, legal authorities and insurance companies.”

  I sat back. “What did Coffey do, kill someone?”

  “John Coffey seaman, suddenly overcome with sense of dreadful foreboding, had a great premonition of impending disaster so strong that he abandoned his post and stowed away on a mail boat heading back to Queenstown.” Chan paused. “The ship Coffey abandoned was the cruise liner Titanic, on which your patient Peaslee consigned much valuable cargo, with much more insurance. What were both Peaslee and Coffey doing on board Titanic before her completion, and why was Coffey so desperate to get off? These are questions that puzzle Chan.”

  Chan rose from the table and walked daintily to the door. “Truth is like delicate shell on a rocky beach: hard to find, but worth the time looking for.” He took the stairs, and without looking back wished us a good night.

  Muñoz and I were stunned; this apparently simple policeman had deduced something horrifying about our absent benefactor, something that neither of us had even thought of. Could it be true? Did Peaslee consign cargo on board the Titanic, insure it, and then through Coffey, somehow engineer the disaster? It seemed incredible, but I was reminded of my own suspicions regarding Peaslee’s activities near Sicily, and the subsequent earthquake. Could he really have done it? I knew him to be inhumanly unemotional, but this seemed too much. Were thousands of lives traded for millions of dollars?

  I said nothing of my suspicions the next morning, and neither did Chan or his wife. After a lovely breakfast the two bade me good day, as they were heading for New York where they would be staying for several weeks. I suggested that they both follow up with Dr. Vollmer, whom I knew from University, and trusted implicitly.

  Mrs. Chan bowed in thanks while her husband presented us with a small token of his appreciation. It was a small book, bound in red leather with gold stamping. I flipped it open to reveal the title The Quotations of Kin Fo compiled by H. Chertok and M. Torge, and published by Golden Goblin Press in 1907. “Jinghua’s father is a most remarkable man. You may know of the biography of his early life, Tribulations of Chinaman in China. This is his fifth book, a collection of Confucian aphorisms. I have studied it for years, and it has brought me much wisdom. Perhaps it can do the same for you?”

  I thanked the man for his gift and bade him farewell. As their taxi pulled away, Muñoz joined me as I came back into the house. “What do you think?” I asked him. “Our first success or simply a delayed failure?”

  “How can we know such things, my friend? He is a faceless man, one of the masses, and we shall never hear from him again. If he died tomorrow, or lived a hundred years, or a thousand, how would we ever know? What happens to Officer Chan in the future will always remain unknown to us.”

  Such musings brought on a melancholy, and that afternoon I pored through the stacks of newspaper back issues that had accumulated in the days since the accident, scouring the articles for all possible information on the sinking of the Titanic. It did not take me long to find the evidence I needed to condemn Peaslee and myself through association, for it was just days after the accident that a British photographer rudely snapped a photograph of J. P. Morgan and his retinue of advisors. Morgan, who had been booked on the Titanic, had cancelled at the last minute, citing issues of business that needed to be attended to. The majority of the photo was of the camera-shy Morgan sneering and raising his cane in the general direction of the reporter. I am sure that few people in the world could identify the man behind and to the left of Morgan, but I could. The image is blurry, slightly out of focus, but I am positive that one of the men walking with Morgan was none other than the inhuman thing that masqueraded as Professor Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee.

  Chapter 11.

  A VISIT TO DUNWICH

  The road that follows the Miskatonic River west out of Arkham, past Billington’s Woods and into the wilds of central and northern Massachusetts, is not one I am particularly fond of, and my adventures along the route have never taken me beyond the turn off for Misty Valley, where I and my friends spent many fall days hunting small game and fishing the wider, slower expanses of the river. Yet it was without trepidation that I abandoned the hustle and bustle of Arkham and with a minimal amount of baggage boarded the bus that ran the length of that desolate winding road to the distant town of Aylesbury.

  The events of April wore heavily upon my mind, and after some discussion with Muñoz and Wilson, I decided that a brief holiday was in order, a week out of the city; in the wilds seemed appropriate. It had been many years since I had spent time with friends in the country, and though I had not seen him in years, William Houghton, whose practice was in the sleepy little town of Aylesbury, seemed eager to have me out to his family’s hunting cabin in the nearby Round Mountains. The morning air was chilled that last Monday in April, but I boarded the bus with a great sense of relief and the expectation that a rest would do much to relieve me of my troubles, or at least lessen them.

  The old bus that served the meager travelers along the rural route made only a single round trip each day, and supplemented its fares by carrying mail and other non-perishables back and forth between the two destinations. It was also not unknown for the driver to pick up packets and individuals from many of the farms or isolated communities along the road such as Dean’s Corners or Dunwich. Indeed, within an hour of leaving the outskirts of Arkham we came upon a rugged-looking man carrying a bird gun over one shoulder, and a covey of freshly shot doves over the other. Without any sign or negotiation the bus slowed to a near stop, and the man with a practiced hop and jump swung himself onto the driver’s side running board. He did not attempt to open a door or take a seat but rather stood there for a good three or four miles conversing with the driver about the weather, local gossip, and the like. As we came to a crossroad the driver gave the local a small package wrapped in oilskin which the man tucked into his coveralls. Then without a word, the hunter hooked his string of doves to the side of the car and, in a move that I thought was too daring for one of his age, jumped from the moving car onto the road and dashed into the wood. The dark, thick trees swallowed him up like a blanket, and in seconds I had lost all sight of him.

  Hours later, as noon approached, the driver steered the clunky vehicle to a spot on the side of the road that had been covered with gravel. There was a clearing with several rough tables and benches beneath a spreading oak. It was an idyllic setting, including the dirt path that led up a hill to a quaint farmhouse. In the distance I could hear the faint sounds of the river rushing by. The driver shut the engine off, and announced a thirty-minute rest for lunch and whatnot. Several of the men traveling with me sprinted for the woods, while the two women strolled slowly off in the opposite direction. I wandered over to the table and removed from my satchel a small thermos of tea, and a cheese and mustard sandwich wrapped in wax paper. As I settled into my lunch I became aware of why the driver had stopped in this particular location.

  From the farmhouse, making her way down the hill, came a young woman of not more than twenty-five, who was followed by a girl of perhaps ten. The woman carried a large pot from which a thick steam emanated, while the girl carried two gallon pails, one in each hand. The spring breeze caught them from behind and carried the aroma of the pot to me, and I thrilled at the smell of stewed vegetables, cloves and what I thought would likely be rabbit. As the pair came closer the driver rose from the table and greeted his wife and daughter.

  A bowl of stew and a cup of fresh milk were a quarter, a bargain by Arkham standards, and as the passengers wandered back to the tables I was soon surrounded by the
sounds and smells of a half dozen bowls of stew being devoured hungrily. Overcome, I dug deep into my pocket for a quarter and gladly handed it over. The stew was rich and thick, with chunks of potatoes, carrots, onions, celery and tomato as well as ample chunks of rabbit. The milk was warm and soothing and brought back memories of my mother’s kitchen, while the gamy texture of the meat reminded me of my father’s butcher shop.

  I was roused from my daydream by a sudden clatter and then the wailing cry of a child in pain, followed by the concerned cries of her mother. The young girl had stumbled on the path and fallen on the handle hinge of one of her buckets. Blood was gushing down her leg, turning her sock a vibrant red. Always prepared, I dashed over, introduced myself as a doctor, and pried the girl’s hands away from her knee. There was a deep puncture wound that looked worse than it actually was. It needed one or two stitches at the most, as well as something to prevent infection. I sent her father scurrying to the bus to fetch my medical bag.

  When he returned, I knew immediately that something was amiss. Inside my suitcase I had not noticed it, but now as I held it in my hand my medical bag felt oddly heavy. Something had been added, and I had a dread suspicion that I not only knew who had added it but what it was as well. Undeterred, I undid the clasp and opened it up. My suspicions were confirmed, and I took the offending item, which was wrapped in a felt cloth and paper, and deftly slipped it into my pocket. Then I cleaned the wound with alcohol; the girl jumped but her father steadied her. I applied a mild topical anesthetic and then, using a needle and some silk, quickly stitched the girl up. The whole incident took no more than ten minutes, and once some pleasantries were exchanged we were all back on the road.

  The rest of the trip went by without incident. The two ladies and two men left the bus at Dean’s Corners, leaving just myself and one other as passengers for the last leg of our journey. Under these somewhat private conditions I carefully took the item from my medical bag that I had slipped into my pocket out for review. Inside the protective felt cloth I found a small vial of glowing green fluid and a note written in Muñoz’s distinctive handwriting: