Re-Animator

by Jeff Rovin

  “Cain, get out of here!”

  “Herbert, what the hell is it?”

  Just then a black object, vaguely round, rose behind West’s neck; there was a flash of white, and West yelped. Whatever it was had bitten him—and also, apparently, punctured his pride.

  “Cain—quick, get it off of me!”

  Cain lunged forward, West turning and presenting his back. Cain still couldn’t make out what the object was, but it squealed horribly when he clubbed it. The head craned back and bared its fangs. West seized the opportunity to fill his fists with the creature and tug it off. He hurled it, stiff-armed, across the room; the mass landed hard against an old highboy, behind which it quickly disappeared.

  West scrambled to his feet and grabbed an old croquet mallet.

  “Shit, Cain, get it!”

  “West, what the hell is it?”

  “Later! Later!”

  West jabbed the mallet’s rounded head behind the furniture, lunging with ever-longer thrusts.

  “Cain, it’s coming out the other side! Get it!”

  “You want me to catch it?”

  “I want you to break it’s damn neck!”

  The animal squealed when the mallet poked it; it fled out the other side, scampering behind a stack of cartons.

  “Shit!”

  “I’ll get it,” Cain said, tearing at the cardboard containers.

  “No, there it goes—under the oil burner.”

  “Huh? It’ll burn!”

  West pursed his lips. “Not in this world.”

  Cain moved toward the old iron drum and was about to shove the bat beneath it when the animal leaped at him. The force of the blow surprised him, and he literally flew backward several feet, spilling into the cartons. The animal wrapped its arms and legs around his throat, the powerful claws digging into his flesh. West hurried over, and, pulling at the animal, they were able to rip it off. With a yell, Cain flung it hard to one side; the animal hit the concrete wall and stuck there for a moment, then slid slowly to the floor, leaving behind a dark smear of blood and entrails.

  After feeling the puncture wounds at his throat and determining that they weren’t severe, Cain hurried over to the carcass.

  “Rufus! No . . .”

  He turned on West, who backed slowly toward the cartons.

  “What is this? What kind of madness?”

  “Madness?” West laughed. “Are you that blind?” Suddenly, West’s mouth fell open, and he pointed wildly. “Cain, behind you—look out!”

  Cain spun, his bat at the ready. The cat’s shadow moved in the swaying light, but the animal itself was still. When he turned back to West, the young man was leaning against the wall, giggling maniacally.

  “Daniel, you’re priceless! You jump for a dead cat and you call me mad.”

  Cain lowered the bat and stared in amazement, first at West and then at Rufus. Everything was dreamlike, surreal; he had to get upstairs, back to sanity.

  Tugging a plastic sheet from the top of the highboy, Cain gently wrapped the cat within it and headed upstairs. He was determined to examine the animal and see exactly how it had died. After that, finding out just who was mad would be simple. If the cat hadn’t suffocated and his roommate were playing some kind of game, then West was mad. He’d put him out the next morning, and that would be the end of it.

  But if the cat had died in the trash, then Cain had problems.

  Very serious problems.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The two young men were bent over the table in West’s room, the cat spread before them on the plastic sheet. Cain was still bare-chested, while West wore his tie and shirt-sleeves, both garments blood-splattered. Cain was composed now and staring blankly at the cat, whereas West was agitated and in disarray, something wrong almost everywhere in his appearance: one brow was arched, the other straight; his mouth was twisted on one side, flat on the other; even his sleeves had been hastily rolled to uneven lengths.

  Inwardly, however, the men were the opposite of what they appeared. Cain’s brain was whirling with doubt and disbelief, while West’s was a picture of reason itself.

  “It’s really quite simple,” he explained patiently. “All life is a physical, magnetic and chemical process, correct? It stands to reason, that if one can find extremely fresh specimens and recharge that chemical process—bang, we have reanimation!”

  “Your theory is not new, West.”

  He sat back on the stool. “But my reagent is. Even Gruber didn’t have this mixture. He was a genius, but his feet were set on the wrong path, on recharging the brain through the circulatory system. He felt it was a more even means of distributing the compound, one which would provide less of a shock to the system. Unfortunately, that method also required a larger dose of the chemical, which was what killed him.”

  Cain faced him. “You mean he tried this on himself?”

  West waved his hands from side to side. “That isn’t important now. The point is, with the addition of certain buffers—phosphorus, mostly—”

  “Which accounts for the yellow glow?”

  “And also shepherds the reagent evenly to all corners of the brain. With my reformulation, I can reanimate the brain directly. Then it takes over, performing a system analysis and dispensing the remainder of the chemical exactly where it’s needed for complete reactivation of the organism.” He paused, his enthusiasm dampened. “But there’s a problem.” He pulled a notebook from a stack of papers on the floor and slid it before his companion. “Here . . . read!”

  Cain opened the journal, forced his tired eyes to focus. “ ‘With various animating solutions, I have killed and brought to animated life a number of rabbits, guinea pigs, cats, and dogs—’ ”

  “I’ve broken the six-to-twelve-minute barrier,” West interrupted excitedly. “I’ve conquered brain death.”

  Cain shook his head. “Herbert, what you’ve found is a way of making muscles expand and contract mechanically after death. We can do that now, with electricity.”

  “No!” West roared. “That is not what I have done!” He dragged his hands across his face, said tensely, “I expected more from you, Daniel. Please, just read on.”

  Cain resumed with a sigh. “ ‘With the higher animals and the consequent increase in strength of the solution, the reaction has become more violent; unfortunately, even a fractional decrease in the size of the dosage fails to bring about any response. As Gruber had predicted it’s all or nothing and, as a result, my research has become more difficult.’ ”

  “You see, Daniel, what has happened is not rote restimulation. The brain and brain functions actually do return . . . but there’s a side effect. Extreme trauma, and so far I haven’t been able to find a way around it. Which is why I need you to help me.”

  “Help you? Are you mad?”

  “Not at all. You are the perfect person to assist me. You’re hard-working, bright, people respect you, and you have access to—certain authorities.”

  Cain looked up. “Dean Halsey?”

  “He’s a dull-witted man, but we can trust him, unlike that wretch Hill. Dean Halsey wants honor for his institution, and we can give it to him.” He gripped Cain’s forearm. “Daniel, do you realize what is at hand? We can defeat death! We can achieve every doctor’s dream! You’ll be famous—and not just for one lifetime. If we succeed, you may very well live forever!”

  Cain glanced at the book, flipping back through the pages. “You seem very confident, Herbert. I’m not. Not at all.”

  “I believe I mentioned when we first met that I’m always sure of what I say.”

  “The fact that you said it means diddly to me. And you didn’t answer me before. You haven’t done this . . . on people, have you?”

  West absently scratched the back of his neck and looked away, then around. “I’ve done all I can here. I’ll need new lab space.”

  “Herbert, tell me the truth.”

  West looked back, his nostrils flaring. “I’ll tell you
what I wish to tell you until you agree to join me.”

  “In that case, you can keep your secrets.”

  West slapped the table so hard the cat bounced. “Dammit, Cain, you will help me!”

  “No!”

  “Why? Because it’s—what was your trite expression? Mad?”

  “No, Herbert, because frankly I don’t believe you! I don’t believe anything you’ve told me.”

  West’s brow wrinkled, and he stretched both hands toward the cat. “How can you say that? You’ve seen the results!”

  “I’ve also seen the hard-on you have for Dr. Hill, and you know what I think? I think you want to use me to get in good with Dean Halsey. That way you can embarrass Hill in some way, either screw around with his laser drill or—or I don’t know what.”

  “You’re tired, Daniel. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I’m thinking very clearly, friend—at least, clear enough to know that Rufus wasn’t dead to begin with. You drugged him and reduced his vital signs. You lowered his body temperature. He couldn’t have been dead.”

  West studied his companion, then sat back. He nodded once, then slipped his hands beneath the cat. “Do you agree that he’s dead now?” He let the animal thump on the table. “Answer me, Daniel. Do you agree that he’s dead now?”

  Reluctantly, Cain nodded.

  “Fine.”

  West went to the refrigerator, withdrew the vial of formula, and fished the hypodermic from his medical bag.

  Cain rose. “West, no. This is . . . grotesque.”

  “Ignorance is grotesque.”

  He filled the hypodermic halfway and returned to the table. Cain pulled him back.

  “West, stop!”

  He squirmed away. “I’ll show you, then you’ll help me.”

  “No!”

  “Yes you will, damn you. You’re a man of science; it’s time you started behaving like one.”

  West had a point, and, though he was loath to comply, Cain stood beside him as West bent over the bloody carcass. It couldn’t work; he had examined the animal, which had not only suffocated but had lost most of its heart and all of one lung when it hit the wall.

  “Science,” West said solemnly. “A discipline designed to eliminate the unknown. The need to know, to explore; that is why I brought the infernal beast back to life in the first place.”

  Once again, Cain could not help but admire West’s confidence, and he watched with unwilling fascination as his roommate placed the needle directly behind the cat’s left ear.

  “You really inject it directly into the brain?”

  “Of course.”

  “But the needle—it would physically destroy the tissue.”

  “The formula compensates.” West smiled. “Like a benevolent virus, it uses healthy cells to replicate itself; in this case, copying healthy cells to replace any which have been damaged.” He emptied the syringe and stood. “Don’t expect it to tango, Daniel. It has a broken back.”

  Numb, Cain stared over West’s shoulder. Almost at once, the animal’s eyes opened, and its paws began to twitch.

  “Oh—my—God.”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  The small head craned around, trembling violently; the mouth pulled open wide, and Rufus mewed horribly.

  “Herbert . . . why is it making that noise?”

  West smiled. “Birth is always painful.”

  Cain shook his head. “But it was dead—”

  “Twice,” West noted smugly. “And Daniel . . . you wanted to know about people. I think this will interest you enormously.” Like a kid on Christmas morning, the enthusiastic West ran to the refrigerator and recovered the mass of paper toweling. Cradling it in his hands, he approached warily. “Before I show you this, Daniel, I must know. Are you with me?”

  Cain looked anxiously from West to the cat mewing pitifully, then back to West.

  “I—I don’t know. God, this is all so insane!”

  West looked on disapprovingly. “Still thinking with your heart and not your brain, eh? Well, no matter. This will persuade you, I’m sure of it.”

  Shoving the squirming cat to one side, West pulled over an empty tray and lay the towels inside. Then he neatly uncovered the brain.

  Cain gasped. “West, what—!”

  “Come now, Daniel. Surely you recognize the human brain.”

  “Yes, but where did it come from?”

  “Dr. Hill. He neglected it,” West replied, “when he left yesterday’s class in a huff.”

  Cain felt weak. “Oh, Christ, West, it’s her. The woman we lost the other morning . . . Wendy.”

  West looked up excitedly. “You know exactly when she died?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me, man! It was early in the day, wasn’t it?”

  “A few minutes before noon,” Cain answered numbly. “I can check Mace’s log.”

  “As I thought,” West repeated, tapping his chin. “Not as fresh a specimen as I’d have liked, but fresh enough to explain what happened.”

  “What . . . happened?”

  “You’ll see.”

  West went about his work gleefully, refilling the syringe and poking it into the gray mass. Almost at once, the brain began to wriggle from side to side—like a Jell-O mold, Cain reflected.

  “Herbert, this can’t be! The brain can’t be in pain like Rufus, it has no feeling!”

  “Not for physical pain,” West pointed out. “Don’t you realize what this is? The brain is emotionally alive; it wasn’t ready to die. You’ve read about poltergeists, about the dead that refuse to accept their death. That is precisely what we’re witnessing here! It’s what Hill stole from Professor Gruber, the search for the soul, the seat of human life. It is here in the brain, Daniel. Do you understand? We have the power to rekindle life!”

  Cain thought he was going to retch as he watched the woman’s brain shake so hard it actually crept across the pan. So intently was he watching the brain that he’d forgotten about the cat and was utterly unaware of Megan as she entered the room. The first hint they had of her presence was when she howled a lung-ripping scream.

  “It’s him! Jesus, Dan, it’s Rufus! How—how?!”

  “Megan, what are you doing here?”

  His own discomfort forgotten, Cain went to the young woman and escorted her from the room, leading her out into the fresh morning air. The shrieks quickly turned to moans and then to quiet sobbing. Inside, the cat had also quieted, the small dose of formula finally wearing off; glaring angrily out the door, West ignored the slippery agitation of the brain.

  “Damn her!”

  The last thing they needed was for Dean Halsey’s daughter to tell her father what had transpired. Her frantic recital would quickly undo whatever credibility and reason Cain could bring to the case; he would have to leave, then, and quickly, lest someone connect these experiments with what had happened to Professor Gruber back in Switzerland.

  Because it was already two days dead, the brain would be nearly useless to him. West dumped the still-jiggling mass into the wastebasket, followed it with the cat. Pulling out the liner, he tied it shut and, laying it aside, flopped onto the cot.

  It had been a long day, and he was exhausted. Setting his wristwatch to wake him in two hours, West knew there was only one way to resolve the matter of the troublesome Megan Halsey. Either her father would cooperate willingly, or he’d cooperate unwillingly. But cooperate he would, providing West with the resources and autonomy he required.

  West fell asleep just as the trashbag, too, stopped shaking. Outside, the birds welcomed the morning, and traffic began to collect on Hazard Weeden Boulevard; it was the start of another ordinary weekday in sleepy Arkham, Massachusetts.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “Sir, Herbert West has effected reanimation in dead animal tissue.”

  Seated in a plush armchair beside Dean Halsey’s desk, Cain did not quite believe the words as they passed from his own lips. Halsey’s expressio
n showed that he didn’t believe them either, his mouth drooping at the edges, brow furrowing painfully beneath the neatly brushed white hair. But there was something else in his expression, in his reserve—something dark and unpleasant.

  “Mr. Cain, I’m surprised. In the three years I’ve known you, I thought you were above juvenile pranks.”

  “Dean Halsey, this isn’t a prank. I’ve seen it! He brought back a dead animal, a cat—brought it back to life!”

  Halsey continued signing correspondence as if he hadn’t heard Cain speak. “No, I hadn’t expected such nonsense from you, Mr. Cain, but I should have guessed it when you took up with Mr. West.”

  Cain leaned across the desk. “Look, I know he’s unstable, but I’ve seen the results! For that matter, so has your daughter.”

  Damn! He’d said it without thinking and braced himself for the inevitable. The dean tossed his glasses aside.

  “Did she? Which brings up an interesting question, young man. Just what have you been doing with my daughter?”

  “Studying, sir.”

  “Is that all? You haven’t involved Megan in your insanity?”

  “No, sir. Well, not exactly involved. She forgot her book and came by this morning . . . she walked in on an experiment. I never intended to involve her.”

  Halsey folded his hands and stared at them, his fingers white around the knuckles. “Tell me, then. In what way are you involved with her?”

  Cain swallowed hard. “As you know, sir, we . . . study together.”

  “Medicine or each other?”

  The young man ached to answer truthfully, to say that his daughter was a woman of twenty, that they were in love and intended to marry, that what they did in private was their business and not his. But he also wanted to retain his membership in the student body, and, remembering Megan’s words, “the last of the Puritans,” he said nothing.

  “As I thought,” the older man snorted.