Reanimators

by Peter Rawlik

  No sooner had we settled into a routine, one that I must say was quite enjoyable, than our tiny little practice was made aware of a growing medical threat. One June evening, Wilson, White and I were summoned to one of the lecture halls at the University. The subject was not revealed, but the urgency of the matter was made plain. As we arrived, the situation became most curious, for it seemed as if every medical professional in the area had been summoned. Moreover, campus security was furiously checking to make sure that everyone who was attending was actually invited. I had not seen such a mobilization of the medical community since those dark days during the typhoid plague of 1905. As I realized this, a cold wave of fear passed through me and I noted that others were showing signs of anxiety as well.

  Once we had settled into our seats, the Dean of Medicine spoke briefly, thanked us for coming, and then quickly introduced a young doctor and military officer of the Public Health Service, who brought a message from the U.S. Surgeon General. His name was Ambrose Dexter, and despite his youth, he spoke with the voice of authority on a grave matter.

  “As medical professionals you are no doubt aware of the recent reports of an epidemic of influenza ravaging Western Europe. The newspapers have dubbed this the Spanish Flu, but this is a misnomer. It is true that the Spanish newspapers are reporting extensively on the deaths attributed to the disease, and these seem to be more prevalent than in other countries. However, agents in service to the United States suggest that the epidemic is rampant throughout Europe, and may be devastating the Central Powers, and that the lack of press coverage of the epidemic in these countries is a result of wartime censorship.”

  A murmur of protestation erupted through the crowd, which Dexter quickly quelled by raising his voice. “I am here today to inform you of what is known about this disease, and what can be done to prevent it.” He paused for effect. “As I have said, the term Spanish Flu is a misnomer, but the Public Health Service in cooperation with the Armed Services is asking that you continue to refer to it in that manner. Any information I provide you here will be denied.”

  He took a quick drink of water before proceeding. “In early March of this year, a company cook at Fort Riley, Kansas, reported to the infirmary with the symptoms of the common cold. He was isolated immediately and eventually developed full-fledged symptoms of influenza. Despite precautions and quarantines, the disease spread, and within a month, more than a thousand soldiers were stricken. Of these, approximately fifty cases, five percent, proved to be fatal.” Another wave of murmuring crashed through the room. “Doctors with the Service and the Army have been tracking the progress of the outbreak, and we have confirmed cases in London, Berlin and Paris and throughout the United States. The bottom line here, doctors, is that this outbreak of influenza is not a Spanish problem, not even a European problem, but rather a global one, that appears to have originated right here in the United States of America.”

  The rest of the evening was spent going over details of the disease’s transmission, progression, and mortality. Unlike previous strains of influenza, which tended to kill both the very young and elderly, initial results from the Spanish Flu also showed a high mortality rate amongst adults twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. Why this was the case Dexter could not tell us, but he assured us that government doctors were organizing and researching the problem, as well as searching for effective treatments. Dexter’s team was stationed in Boston, and was operating throughout New England, setting up facilities where they could, primarily at hospitals and universities in major metropolitan areas. However, there were some who suggested that the smaller towns and rural areas might, by their being small and remote, be able to control the outbreak more effectively, particularly through implementation of quarantine measures. By midnight, under Dexter’s guidance, and with the cooperation of the state police, we had devised a plan by which Arkham and the surrounding communities could be effectively quarantined. Certain things, including fuels, food, water and sundry medical supplies, would have to be stockpiled, but otherwise our plan to close off roads and rails, as well as the river, was sound, and quickly implementable. When we finally left, despite the seriousness of the situation, there was an air of accomplishment and satisfaction amongst the gathered physicians. Presented with a threat for which we had been trained, we had come up with plans to prevent and combat it. We had no way of knowing that Spanish influenza was unlike any other threat we had ever faced, and that our own haughty pride was to prove almost entirely ineffective against it.

  It was too late to return to Kingsport, so after we dropped White off at his boarding house, Wilson and I returned to my home on Crane Street and I put my long-time friend up for the evening. We woke early and he left after a quick breakfast. He had a full schedule in Kingsport, and additionally had to plan for his wife’s thirty-third birthday for which they were traveling to New York to visit family. During his time away, the first week in July, Dr. White would be working with patients in Kingsport, and I would be alone in Arkham. It would be a difficult few days, but Mary was a devoted wife, and excellent assistant. I not only considered her my partner’s wife, but a valued member of our practice and a dear personal friend.

  I wish I could have done more to save her.

  Late June brought to Arkham an oppressive heat and near daily torrential rains that brought no relief and turned the evenings sultry and made nights stifling. With some reluctance, but also a secret kind of satisfaction, I found myself unlocking the doors to my secret laboratory and reassembling the core of Muñoz’s cooling apparatus, which allowed me to drop the temperature a few degrees. I spent my nights in the cool comfort of my basement, smug in my own ingenuity, while the oppressive days stretched to July. With Wilson and his wife gone, I had expected, feared even, that there would be a sudden influx of patients, but instead the heat seemed to create a lull, and both White and I found our steamy afternoons almost entirely free.

  A strange lethargy had come over Arkham; the streets were nearly empty and shops posted new hours, often closing by noon. Children seemed to purposefully avoid the sun and instead haunt the shadowy places, lounging in the shade of buildings and old oaks. In addition to the ennui, the heat brought decadence; a breakdown in formality, spawned I suppose by necessity. Men shucked their woolen suits and pressed shirts and went about in thin undershirts and swim trunks. Women, who could be spied through the open windows, followed suit, and often wore little more than silk slips or cotton nightgowns. Whether it was the heat, the humidity, the lethargy, or the decadence, the inevitable finally came to pass. Toward the end of that first week in July I was called to the home of Henry Armitage, the head librarian for the University. His visiting grandson was running a fever and coughing up thick gobs of stringy mucus. Spanish influenza had come to Arkham.

  I reported my case to Dr. Dexter, who confirmed that four other cases had appeared in the area surrounding Arkham. A frantic conference was held at Miskatonic, and that evening the order went out to the state police. By the afternoon of the next day the roads in and out of Arkham were closed, including those to Bolton, Kingsport and Innsmouth. Early that afternoon, I was alone at the rail station as a train with a single passenger car pulled in and disgorged its sparse human cargo, including Wilson and his wife Mary. As we handled their luggage, I watched as the authorities posted signs and locked the station down, effectively isolating Arkham from the rest of the world.

  Once Wilson and Mary had settled into my spare rooms, we called White to check on his situation. The quarantine seemed to be working as no cases had been reported in Kingsport. As required by our plan, the fishing fleet was remaining at sea, transferring its catch to barges with minimal contact between crews. The barges themselves were also attempting to remain isolated as they moved the catch to secure docks in Kingsport and Arkham. White had even held a meeting with several of the less reputable members of the community, asking and gaining their cooperation in the way certain contraband was moved from offshore into Kingsport and up the
river. Mary fretted over having such people in her home, but White assured her that they had come and gone with certain measures of discretion.

  That evening Miss Soames prepared a summer salad and steamed some fresh clams. Mary made some lemonade and after supper we lounged about the parlor. Wilson and I talked shop, while Mary spent her time reading a new volume of poetry by one of our patients, Randolph Carter, entitled Pugmire and Other Observations. She found the volume amusing and insightful, but also frustrating and at times despondent, and recited several pieces to us, a few lines of which I still remember.

  In a red decade, far afield, my love for you did falter and wane

  In the green year, with you near, my heart once more did flame

  The yellow month stole that and more, and with tears my cheek did stain

  In black weeks I hold you still with only voracious flies to blame

  As the evening progressed, Wilson and I seemed energized by the conversation, and I broke out a bottle of Muñoz’s Madeira that he had left behind. As I did so, Mary noted that she was suddenly feeling tired. Whether this was true or she simply disapproved of the wine, she retired for the night and left us to our conversation. Fueled by the thick, hearty wine, the two of us jabbered back and forth on a variety of subjects well past midnight. Slightly intoxicated, when I finally crawled into bed I quickly drifted off, unbothered by the pervasive and uncomfortable heat.

  I slept late, and was honestly surprised when I finally wandered down the stairs and learned that Mary had not already prepared breakfast. I had thought that I had heard someone fumbling about downstairs, and attributed such noises to Wilson or Mary, which was apparently incorrect. However, even if Mary hadn’t been to the kitchen, I was still puzzled as to why Miss Soames had not yet appeared and undertaken the task. As I entered the kitchen my puzzlement grew, as upon the sideboard were fresh eggs, several apples, butter, a fish and some beef kidneys, evidence that Soames had at least been here briefly.

  My confusion was broken by the sound of Wilson calling me, an odd occurrence, made more so by the direction it originated from. Growing even more perplexed, I all but ran through the house and into the office. Wilson was in the exam room gathering supplies, the most awful look on his face. His hair was unkempt and his eyes had a wild frantic cast. He paused, and when he spoke his voice was broken with what could only be fear. “Mary has a fever.”

  Never have I seen a man more frightened or frantic. He had been up before dawn, and had as required by the plan applied a large X of yellow paint on the walkways to both entrances. Soames had also followed procedure and upon seeing the marks had deposited the groceries on the porch, knocked once and then quickly left. If she continued to follow the rules, she would monitor herself for signs of infection for the next twenty-four hours. If she remained uninfected, she would continue to deliver supplies on a daily basis.

  Our more immediate concern was Mary, making sure that her condition did not worsen, and that the infection was not passed to Wilson or me. We gathered bottles of rubbing alcohol and Halsted surgical gloves, as well as masks and other supplies. More importantly, we established a protocol for how we would attend to both Mary and ourselves. Assuming Wilson had suffered a greater exposure than I, he would remain with his wife on the second floor, while I would remain on the first. Just as Soames had remained out of physical contact with us, so would I remain out of contact with the Wilsons. I would leave meals and supplies on the stairs for Wilson to retrieve. Likewise, Wilson would leave soiled dishes, linens and refuse in the same area. I would be responsible for the cooking, as well as the cleaning, disinfecting and if necessary incinerating whatever came down the stairs. Wilson apologized in advance for putting me in this position and warned me to be extremely cautious in my handling of contaminated materials. As he retreated upstairs, I saw tears well up in his eyes.

  I could not bring myself to tell Wilson that it was highly unlikely that I was susceptible to infection. Indeed, since Peaslee had injected me with his version of the reanimation reagent, I had not experienced a single day’s illness or even the remote symptoms of a cold or any other kind of infection. Even in the trenches of France, while those about me succumbed to various maladies, I had remained disease-free. Given such a state, it dawned on me that I might be the perfect physician for ministering to those infected by the outbreak, as long as I did not act as a carrier. With this in mind, and with some fervor, I descended into my secret laboratory and began to work.

  It took me a good hour to ready the lab, and another hour after that to create a nutritive broth and then inoculate it with macerated tissue extracted from the beef kidneys left by Miss Soames. I left the concoction to incubate and went back up the stairs to prepare lunch. Wilson left word that Mary was feeling somewhat better, and I was comforted by the idea that she might already be past the worst of it. Afterwards I went back down to the lab and continued to clean up the clutter that had accumulated from years of neglect. It felt good to be back at work again and I took some sense of satisfaction as the lab took shape and returned to a usable state. After the evening meal, I retreated back down into the basement, this time taking down soiled material from the Wilsons. I ran a swab over the sheets and plates and then inoculated a tube of the cell culture I had prepared earlier. I then repeated the process, this time running the swab over my own skin. I returned the vials to the incubator and retired to a chair in the parlor.

  The next morning Wilson informed me that Mary’s condition had worsened, her fever was spiking and she was having trouble breathing. In addition to food and tea I sent up a small bag of eucalyptus leaves that should have helped to alleviate some of her congestion. In the lab I used a microscope to check on the two vials of cells I had inoculated the day before. The cells exposed to the swab from Mary’s sheets were all damaged, exploded from the inside, a telltale sign of viral infection. The cells that had been exposed to the swab from my own skin remained intact, indicating that I was infection-free.

  That afternoon, between administering to the needs of Wilson and his wife, I called Dexter and made discreet inquiries concerning the progression of the plague. Dexter obliged me by listing off names and addresses both in my own neighborhood and throughout Arkham. Afterwards I went into the office and packed a large valise with what medical supplies I could spare. That night, after I was sure that my partner was soundly asleep, I left the house with my bag and crept through the streets of Arkham. I made my way to six of the houses on Dexter’s list, where I followed my Hippocratic oath and in my own way did what I could for those poor unfortunates.

  It took me hours, and it was nearly dawn before I found my way home. I snuck in the back door, careful not to make a sound. The house was still dark and I was sure I had some time before the Wilsons woke up. My night on the town had left me somewhat rank and I desperately needed to bathe and change. There were facilities and clothes in Muñoz’s old quarters, and I went down for a quick shower.

  As I emerged from the bathroom only half-dressed, he was waiting for me. Francis Wilson was standing there waiting for me. He swung at me, his fist caught me in the chin, and I fell to the floor. “Get up, Stuart!” I sat there dumbfounded. “I said get up, you bastard.” There was a sorrow in his voice and his eyes. “I need you to get up and get down to your lab and do whatever it is you do down there.”

  I was still stunned but managed to stutter out a single word. “What?”

  He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Mary is upstairs dying. I can’t break her fever. I’ve tried everything that I know, Stuart, and nothing has worked. She’s going to die. Unless you go downstairs to your secret laboratory and whip up a batch of your reagent to save her.”

  My mind reeled, but the look on Wilson’s face gave me no time to think about what had just happened. I stumbled to my feet and placed a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “Bring her down.” He smiled through the tears and dashed out. I grabbed a shirt and threw the switch on Muñoz’s cooling apparatus to high before running
down to the lab.

  It was a half hour before Wilson joined me. He came down meek and quiet, and asked what he could do to help. I asked how Mary was and he told me that her fever was still high, though the cool air was helping.

  I nodded and handed a beaker of chemicals to Wilson to continue mixing. “How long have you known?”

  He refused to look at me. “About the lab? Almost as soon as we started to work together, I knew that there was something you were working on, something you wanted to keep hidden. But I didn’t care. You were a good man. I could see that. Whatever you were doing down here, you seemed to honestly care about your patients. So I ignored it and let you keep your little secret, whatever it was.” He paused and chuckled, just a little. “It was Mary who found the entrance, by accident of course, while you were in France. She was always a little too curious. She didn’t even bother to tell me until she had finished reading your notebooks. At first I thought she was mad, and then after I read them myself, I thought that you were. But there were too many coincidences, too many referenced events that could be documented. Then of course there was the farmhouse. You, my friend, are meticulous, but West and Cain were terribly sloppy. The proof that you weren’t insane, the evidence for reanimation, I found it in their basement.”

  I nodded. “So why the charade after I came back?”

  “Well, Mary and I discussed it at length. For some time we hoped that you wouldn’t return from the war, it would have made things simpler. Then after we tried to make our own batch of reagent we realized we needed you. Your notes aren’t quite good enough to follow. Every subject we tested ended up becoming…well, what was the term you used, “revenant”? We needed you to come back and show us how to make the mix properly. Except…”

  “You hadn’t counted on me not being interested anymore.”