by Peter Rawlik
“Yes, that was bothersome. But the influenza outbreak presented an opportunity that we could leverage. Mary would fake being sick and I would beg you to save her, and in the process you would show me how to make the reagent properly.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Except Mary really did get sick and she really is dying.” Wilson nodded. “What was the plan? What were you two going to do with it? I mean besides the obvious?”
Wilson stared at me incredulously. “You mean besides living forever? We could be rich, Stuart. People would pay a fortune for your reagent. There would be enough, more than enough, for all of us.”
I nodded angrily and continued to work. “Well, now you’ve seen how it’s done, I am sure that you’ll be able to reproduce it.”
I showed him the beaker of glowing green fluid. He smiled and whispered an earnest “Thank you.”
I grabbed him by the shoulder. “I’ve never administered it to someone who was truly sick before. My experiments have always been on the healthy, injured, or already dead. There’s no telling how she’ll react.” I could tell he wasn’t listening. “Bring her down here and we’ll start her on a regimen.”
When he returned carrying his wife in his arms, I could tell things had gone from bad to worse. Her breathing was shallow and labored, her pulse was weak, and her skin showed signs of dehydration. Her response to stimuli was varied and poor. Wilson was correct, Mary was succumbing to the disease and had little time left. We laid her on the table and I prepared a series of five syringes with the reagent.
We administered the first syringe, a small dosage into her femoral artery, and watched for some sort of reaction. Her symptoms improved slightly, her pulse increased as did her breathing, but she remained unconscious, and her temperature actually increased by almost half a degree. After an hour those improvements faded and I suggested that we administer the second dosage. Wilson concurred, and this time I inserted the needle into one of the veins in her arm.
As before, Mary’s symptoms improved, but once again her fever rose as well. Concerned, I ordered Wilson to soak towels in cold water and drape her with them in the hopes of bringing her temperature down. The towels worked to an extent, but after some time Mary’s breathing became labored and her pulse unsteady. Wilson was pacing back and forth frantically, and I was becoming frustrated as well. I was just about to suggest a third dosage when Mary suddenly gasped and then ceased moving. I rushed to check her pulse, and found nothing. Her heart had stopped. Despite my efforts to inoculate her against death, Mary Wilson had succumbed to the virus that had ravaged her.
“I’m sorry.” I said solemnly, whether it was to Wilson or Mary I wasn’t sure. “Truly sorry.”
For the second time that day Wilson hit me and knocked me to the floor. I watched as he grabbed at the remaining three syringes and finally fumbled the fifth dose into his hand. I screamed at him to stop but he ignored me, and in his grief he madly lifted up his wife’s head and plunged the needle into the soft spot between her skull and neck. After the injection he dropped the syringe, letting it shatter against the floor. He cradled her body and I could hear him whispering like a child, “Please…please…please,” over and over again.
Rising from the floor, I staggered forward. “Wilson, we need to strap her down.”
He just sat there, oblivious to what I had said. “We need to strap her down. Sometimes when they come back, they aren’t entirely right.” I took a few steps forward.
Wilson stared up at me blankly and managed to sob out the words “What did you say?” Just as he finished, Mary returned from the dead.
She returned screaming and rose up from the table, throwing Wilson across the room in the process. He hit the wall with a sickening thud and slid to the floor, leaving a thin trail of blood behind. Mary’s awakening seizure flipped her off the table and onto the floor. She clawed her way up like an enraged animal, her jaw clenched, spittle flying as she panted. She scanned the room, her head jerking from side to side. There was no humanity in her eyes as they locked onto mine, no recognition. She opened her mouth wider and roared.
I grabbed a beaker and threw it at her in a futile gesture of defiance. Strangely enough it worked, perhaps too well, for after a moment of being startled, the thing that was once Mary turned and ran up the stairs. I could hear her tearing through the house, breaking glass and knocking over furniture. There was a sudden loud crash and I knew that Mary was now free to roam the streets of Arkham.
I staggered over to where Wilson lay motionless against the wall. He wasn’t breathing, and it was clear from the way his head was lolling that his neck was broken. I picked him up and carried him over to the table. It took me less than a minute to strap him down. The fourth syringe was still intact, and I lifted up Wilson’s head and once more plunged a syringe into the base of a man’s skull.
I left him there in my secret laboratory and went off in search of his reanimated wife. The sun had set, but even in the evening darkness her trail was easy to follow. This was the second time I had stalked such a creature through the streets of Arkham and I had no intention of letting this thing, which I had created, repeat the atrocities that had occurred so many years ago.
I tracked her through the streets of Arkham, down alleyways and across rooftops. I caught up to her as she crossed the Miskatonic; she was running like an ape and grunting. Carefully I took out my revolver, took aim, and fired. She shrieked like a cat and tumbled to the edge of the bridge. I took a deep breath and fired again, aiming for her head. The bullet exploded her jaw, scattering flesh and bone across the bridge. A mist of blood filled the air and drifted across the lamplight, giving the night a crimson cast. Mary gurgled out one last roar before she leapt off the bridge and into the river. I fired wildly, and I think that I hit her; I just didn’t know if it was enough. The black river flowed eastward into the night, and whatever Mary Wilson had become, it was swallowed up and lost in the dark waters.
By the time I got home Wilson had returned, and I did what I could to repair his neck, but he would never stand straight again, and would ever after walk with a limp. We waited a day to call the police, and stuck to as much of the truth as possible. Mary Wilson, suffering from fever-induced dementia, escaped from our care and ran screaming into the night. I gave chase but lost her when she jumped into the Miskatonic. The officer who interviewed us seemed to accept everything we told him and even commented that he had seen worse things in the last month, far worse things.
In August a rogue tropical storm moved up the coast and battered Massachussetts for a day. When it finally moved off, it took the doldrums that sat over Arkham with it, and apparently the plague as well. By September, the city had returned to normal, and the only mention of the Spanish Flu was in the papers of far-off cities. Wilson returned to Kingsport, but he was never the same, and I fielded calls from concerned patients throughout September and October. In early November I finally suggested that he and I part ways: instead, Wilson signed documents turning the practice over. White readily agreed to assume Wilson’s place. The last I heard, Wilson had moved south to a small town in New Jersey and was working as a company doctor for a paper company.
I wish that had been the end of it, but in early December Ambrose Dexter walked into my office bearing dark news. New cases of the plague had appeared in the last few weeks, first in London, then France and then in Northern Africa. The source of the new, and even more deadly, outbreak was unclear, and no pattern in its behavior could be discerned. Officials in the Congo, warned by agents to the north of the spreading disease, had in late November instituted a policy of inspecting cargo ships before allowing them to move upriver. It was a prudent act, and aboard one such vessel they found the most horrifying of things. It was a woman, albeit one who had suffered considerably and been deformed by some undocumented trauma. A local doctor, inspired by the case of Mary Mallon—Typhoid Mary—gave her the name Spanish Mary, for it soon became evident that she was a carrier of the new virulent strain of Spani
sh influenza. Where she had come from and how long she had been onboard the ship, the captain and crew could not or would not tell. In an act both prudent and horrific, the terrified Colonial Governor confined Spanish Mary and the crew to their vessel, towed it several miles offshore and burned it to the waterline, allowing the fire and sharks to deal with the bodies and survivors.
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.