Reanimators

by Peter Rawlik

  As I turned to follow I heard a voice cry out and pierce the night. “Dan!” It was West, two blocks behind me, but even from this distance I could see the cheap brown suit and matching hat he was wearing. It was not the light of the moon or the streetlights that allowed me to see these details, it was the harsh, green glow of the syringe that he held in his hand. A syringe full of his own reagent that was whipping back and forth as he ran toward me. I turned down the street and at a mad dash sought to reach Cain before West caught up with us. Still I had no clue what I was going to do once I did catch him, but the gun felt good in my hand.

  It was then that I realized that I might be able to have Cain himself help me. Still running, I raised the pistol into the air and fired into the sky. The noise of the shot did what it was supposed to and Cain turned, saw me running toward him, and roared in defiant anger. Like some wounded animal he came at me, growling and flailing with wild eyes and gnashing teeth. I knew as he approached that I would be no match for him physically, so I would have to out-think him. Flipping the gun over, I took it by the barrel, and as he closed I swung the grip at his head. He dodged, but I still caught him across the face, and opened up a gash that ran across his cheek and down his neck. He staggered back, stumbled, and then collapsed to the ground in the middle of the street. Apparently, West’s new version of the reagent did not render the reanimated as resistant to physical injury as they were in the past.

  Fearing that West, or, even worse, someone else, might come to investigate, I grabbed Cain by the collar and slowly pulled him into an alleyway. Once there I stood up and considered my options. I looked at the gun, and then at the thing that was rasping for air at my feet. It was a monster, one of many that West and I had created over the years, and it was also one of the men I held responsible for the death of my parents. This thing was responsible for ruining my life, and at this moment I could easily exact my long-sought-after revenge. I took the gun and aimed at the thing’s head. My finger caressed the trigger and I took a deep breath.

  Suddenly my concentration was broken. That damned voice, West’s voice, cried out again, and I could hear his footsteps as they came down the street. I ducked back against the alley wall and cursed at being so close to satisfaction. If only there had been some way to destroy both of them at the same time. If only I could find it in myself to shoot the monster at my feet, and the mad doctor that was coming ever closer. It was then that the idea sparked inside my mind. Carefully, I opened up my medical bag, placed the gun inside and withdrew instead a syringe of my own reagent.

  I pulled Cain’s head back and plunged the syringe into the already reanimated brainstem and injected more than twice the normal dosage. I didn’t know what would happen, but I knew there was potential for disaster. As quickly as I could, I retreated deeper into the alleyway. This time there was no waiting for a reaction; Daniel Cain roared back to life and virtually exploded out of the alleyway. I had hoped he would turn right, back in the direction we had come from, and therefore encounter West who was rapidly coming down the street. It was my hope that such an encounter would leave at least one, if not both, dead. Unfortunately, the whims of fortune were not with me that night, and Cain turned left, away from West who once more screamed his friend’s name. With some stealth I made my way to the mouth of the alley and watched Cain careening down the streets of Arkham, his screams piercing the night, with West in pursuit.

  I had no need to follow them. Somehow or other, my lust for vengeance, which had waxed and waned throughout the years, was suddenly satiated. I returned to Crane Street, retrieved my jacket from West’s garden and then went home. Sleep was oddly blissful that night, and if I remember correctly I dreamt of my childhood, of a picnic with my parents and my sister. There were no thoughts of West or Cain that night, nor the next day. Indeed, it was two days before my attention was drawn back to the house just down the road, and I felt the need to investigate the fate of Doctors West and Cain.

  Not surprisingly, their practice had closed. A moving van was in front of the house, and I learned from neighbors that the house, and Cain’s family property in Illinois, had been listed for sale, which, given the value and location of both, was quickly accomplished. Rumor had it that the two had already signed a contract for a property in New York City, although where no one quite knew. I watched with satisfaction as their personal effects and furniture were loaded into the truck by hired hands.

  My satisfaction was suddenly doused when out of the house two figures emerged; both West and Cain were still alive, and seemed to be in control of themselves. As I watched, my satisfaction surged back. Cain moved slowly and his eyes seemed dull and lifeless. If it was possible, the sad subservient Cain had become even sadder and I cannot say that I was entirely surprised by the huge and ghastly gash that ran across his face and down his neck. Even from a distance I could see the fine stitching that would, given time and a modicum of reagent, resolve itself into a scar, a scar that would forever remind both of them of the horrors that they had inflicted on the world and each other!

  Chapter 21.

  QUIRK AT WINTER’S END

  It was during the winter of 1924-25, my desire for vengeance sated, or at least satisfied, that I put a hold on my experiments and sealed the door to my sub-basement laboratory. It was about that same time that Dr. John Ramsey organized the Miskatonic University Rural Program. With funding from charitable sponsors, Ramsey’s army of interns and seasoned professionals were to travel out into the wilds of the Miskatonic Valley to the small communities that dotted the hundred or so miles of the river and provide some modicum of medical care to the residents thereof. At first I was hesitant to join such an endeavor, having had my fill of the backwoods nightmares that breed in such places, but when Ramsey himself came to my office and all but begged me to join, I reluctantly agreed, though I conditioned my involvement on never having to go near the town of Dunwich. Ramsey acquiesced, noting that there were plenty of other communities that could use my services. On the coast there were Falcon Point, Boynton Beach and possibly even Innsmouth. I could travel north to Madison Corners or Bolton, or west to Witches Hollow. Travel along the Miskatonic River did not mean going all the way to Dunwich; there were plenty of other towns that could use my services, including Foxfield, Misty Valley, Dean’s Corners, Quirk, and Zoar.

  I cannot say what drove my decision to choose as my destination the tiny hamlet of Quirk. I had only a passing familiarity with the name from its association with Zaman’s Hill, a similarly small community that in February 1896 had seemingly vanished overnight. Perplexed officials had turned to the residents of Quirk for answers, but none of the taciturn villagers would admit to having recently been to Zaman’s Hill. Indeed save for the rural postal carrier no one could be found that would admit to having been to Zaman’s Hill within the last year. Rumors swirled about for years afterward, and the general conclusion was that the locals had long ago abandoned the area, and the postal carrier had failed to report the abandonment of the settlement for his own nefarious reasons, which included pocketing whatever mail had been directed there, and even dismantling the town itself. Others believed more nefarious things, and made veiled references to a series of incidents at the Gardner Farm, but when the carrier hanged himself from a tree at Dean’s Corners, folks seemed content with letting the blame lie with the dead.

  Only part of the Rural Program was medical in nature; other University departments, including botany, geology, history, and even anthropology, contributed team members to the effort. In many ways the program was like any other expedition to the hinterlands, only these isolated communities existed just miles from our own homes. For the trip to Quirk I was joined by a geologist named Dyer, a biologist named Lake, and a recent addition to the English Department, a young expert in folklore named Albert Wilmarth. The plan for our weekend expedition was simple; the four of us would leave by motorcar early Saturday, January 31st, and reach Quirk that afternoon. Lake and Dyer would explore the countryside, roughing
it in the wild or finding shelter amongst the various homesteads. Meanwhile, Wilmarth and I would stay in town, and while I examined patients, Wilmarth would interview willing locals to garner information on local history and legends. Then, on the morning of Tuesday, February 3rd, Lake and Dyer would return and we would drive back to Arkham. The need for subsequent return visits would be evaluated based on our initial findings and the continued funding of the program.

  That Saturday morning was cold and crisp, and the scent of burning wood filled the city. As the four of us left Arkham with Dyer at the wheel we immediately fell into conversation concerning our travels in service to our professions. Dyer and Lake were both well traveled throughout Europe and Canada, and both expressed a desire to expand their portfolios with even more exotic locations. There was much banter concerning where they would prefer to travel to first, and such areas as British Honduras, Australia and Antarctica were jokingly tossed about as priorities.

  By the time we passed Foxfield, Dyer and Lake had exhausted the subject and began pressuring me concerning my own history. Initially I begged off, citing doctor-patient confidentiality, but they were persistent, and eventually I gave in and related what tales I could. Still uncomfortable detailing my adventures locally, I focused instead on my time in service during the Great War. After an hour or so of gruesome war stories, my companions seemed to have had enough, and switched their attentions to young Wilmarth.

  I call him young mostly because he was younger than the three of us, and had just finished his doctoral thesis, but in actuality he was about thirty-five and the only thing young about him was the last vestige of youthful enthusiasm that lingered from his days as a graduate student at Arkham College. He had little actual work experience, though he had spent a summer interviewing some of the older and more reclusive families of Kingsport. An attempt to do the same in Innsmouth met with failure when the inhabitants of that town less than politely asked him to leave. The residents of Innsmouth, Wilmarth told us, had seemingly rejected Christianity and embraced a primitive faith endemic to the islands of the South Pacific where they carried out much of their trade. Many of the sailors had come home with island-born wives, who like the women of Arab cultures were never seen without a veil covering their features.

  Somehow or another, Wilmarth’s monologue turned to the significance of the upcoming holiday. Monday was Groundhog Day, which I had entirely forgotten. He had spent some time researching the traditions associated with the event and had traced its origins to pagan celebrations for the change of winter to spring, and whether that should occur in February as the ancients had celebrated it, or six weeks later. The secular Groundhog Day fell at the same time as both the Christian Candlemas and the pagan Imbolc, and incorporated much of the symbolism of that celebration. The groundhog, Wilmarth informed us, was a benign American replacement for the traditional European badger, bear or serpent. Amongst some of the Irish, the day was sacred to the “storm hags”, who would emerge from their caves to gather firewood. If winter was to continue, the hag would make the day bright and clear, so as to gather a larger supply, but if winter were over, the hags would make the day overcast, and creep back into their homes without any supplies. Some traditions held that the hags could transform themselves into giant winged birds and would gather wood in their huge black beaks. Wilmarth droned on, filling our ears with the details of dozens of variations of the holiday, including some of the more risqué versions in which the hags were not only the embodiment of winter, but also fertility goddesses that often required significant attention from one or more of their subjects.

  With such a subject dominating the conversation, I, Lake and Dyer were relieved when we arrived at the crossroads at Dean’s Corners and took a much-needed break. While we were at the roadhouse, I felt impelled to discuss our destination with the proprietor. Dean’s Corners sits at the intersection of several roads, some to Aylesbury, another to Dunwich, and others to points near and far. It was imperative that we avoid Dunwich country and so I asked the shopkeeper to confirm the turn-off for Quirk. With a nonchalant gesture he confirmed that the rutted dirt trail I had identified was indeed Quirk Road, but then casually informed me that taking the car into Quirk was impossible. Our destination was on the far side of the river and the unseasonably warm spell had swollen the Miskatonic beyond its banks, washing a good portion of the bridge away. The village had erected an ad hoc rope bridge that reestablished foot traffic and allowed some goods to pass, but it would be weeks before the road would be open.

  The solution, suggested the proprietor, a man named Addams, was for us to leave our vehicle with him and travel out to the bridge in the back of a farm wagon which ran from the store to the bridge daily. Otherwise, we would have to leave the car unguarded on the side of the road. Such a plan seemed reasonable to us all, and within the hour we had repacked our supplies into the wagon, and rolled the car into a barn. The going down the rutted dirt path was slow and rough, but I was grateful that we weren’t trying to traverse this particular trail on our own. It was late afternoon when we finally reached the crossing. The sun was low on the horizon, and long shadows crept out of the thick woods to grasp at us with insubstantial inky grey tendrils.

  As Addams had said, the river was swollen, and while the foundations of the bridge were still in place, the bridge itself was severely damaged and unstable. A contraption of scavenged ropes and wood formed a crude rope bridge that clung to the foundations like a parasitic vine crawling up a tree. The four of us cast obvious looks of concern about the stability of such an engineering nightmare, but had little choice but to proceed. As the youngest and most foolhardy, Wilmarth crossed first. The boards were slick but the ropes held, and within half an hour we had moved all of our supplies and ourselves from one side of the engorged Miskatonic River to the other. As we bade farewell to the wagon, its driver reminded us that he would be back for us early on Tuesday morning.

  Laden down by our equipment, it was some while before the muddy road leading from the bridge led us to Quirk. By the time we reached the center of town, which consisted of little more than three or four houses clustered together, it was dusk and the air which had been chilly all day was now turning frigid. As we wandered tiredly into the common, a large figure came down off the porch to greet us. His voice was deep, and I was not at all sure he was speaking English. Fortunately, Wilmarth seemed familiar with the dialect, which I later learned was actually English, but with a thick accent and tainted by the inclusion of words and grammar from Manx, the native language of the Isle of Man.

  According to this fellow, we had reached the farm of the family Clague, while Quirk proper was several miles still down the road. At this information the three of us let out an audible moan of disappointment, and our supplies made an audible thump as they were dropped to the ground. There followed a rapid exchange between Wilmarth and the young John Clague, which ended with the farmer leading us to primitive but acceptable quarters where we could lodge for the night. While we unpacked and made the bedrolls ready, John returned to the main house. A few moments later a younger man named Joseph joined us with a loaf of bread, some hard cheese and a pot of thick brown gravy. It was a hearty feast for travelers such as ourselves and we were grateful for it, the shelter, and the restful slumber that came later.

  The next morning we were invited to eat with the extended Clague family, a boisterous bunch that numbered more than two dozen. We were glad of the company and the warm food and hot coffee, and although I did not speak the language it was clear that John Clague had been reprimanded by both his mother and wife for not providing us with better accommodations. After the meal had ended and only we four and three of the family elders remained at the table, the conversation, which had been facilitated by Wilmarth, turned to what business we had in the area. Through Wilmarth we explained our mission, which was greeted with mild amusement by the elders, particularly Ambrose Clague, who wondered why it was people in cities always seemed to forget their country cousins
and then had to mount expeditions to rediscover them. Put that way, Lake, Dyer and I had no choice but to laugh.

  For some time after that the conversation was most genial, and we learned that the Clague family had only recently immigrated to the area from the Isle of Man, having inherited the land from a local who had married one of the Clague daughters while recovering from wounds received in the war. The poor fellow had himself inherited the property from his parents, but hadn’t survived for long after the nuptials. Though ostensibly part of Quirk, the Clagues seemed uninterested in speaking of the village. Indeed, when we suggested that one of the older Clague boys drive us into town, the faces of our hosts turned suddenly dour and there was no mistaking that such an event was not going to occur. Wilmarth’s translation backed up this conclusion, though it seemed that much of the reticence had to do with timing, and that perhaps now was the wrong time to visit Quirk.

  It was Wilmarth who came up with a plan that would allow us to carry out our tasks with little additional effort. Rather than traveling on to Quirk and establishing a base there, Wilmarth proposed that instead we establish ourselves at the Clague farm. Wilmarth and I would stay at the house interviewing and examining the family, while Lake and Dyer ranged out into the surrounding countryside to conduct their surveys. It seemed a practical solution, and the Clagues quickly warmed to the idea, particularly after we agreed to a small fee for the privilege of using their property, and hired two of the younger men to assist Lake and Dyer.

  Within the hour the field expedition had departed, though they were told in no uncertain terms to return before nightfall. At the same time, Wilmarth had begun interviewing the elders concerning family folklore and history, and I had set up an area in which I could examine patients. It was only a few minutes after I began examining my first patient when the flaw in our design presented itself. Despite good intentions and efforts on everyone’s part, the language barrier was simply too great and I found myself unable to communicate with my patients. I described my problem to Wilmarth and together we realized a solution. Using some rope and sheets we were able to create a small area in the sitting room in which I could examine patients in private, while Wilmarth and other family members could sit in the larger area. In this manner Wilmarth could still carry out his group discussions, and aid me in translation as needed. Soon the family, Wilmarth and I fell into a comfortable routine that was both relaxed and genial. My examination of the family men revealed everything one would expect to find in a rural farm family including arthritis, improperly set and healed bones, a missing digit or two and, in the elders, early signs of senility. Oddly enough, there was no sign of conditions that were common amongst my patients in Arkham, such as gout, diabetes, or cirrhosis. Indeed, after spending the morning examining the men folk of the Clague family, I was utterly impressed with their overall state of health and wellbeing.