Dawn of the Living-Impaired

by Christine Morgan

  Herbert tucked down the corner of his mouth in a rather dubious sort of way.

  “It’s true!” she said. “My cousin says it’s exactly the same as ever, except for one white spot just on its head, where the angels kissed it alive again.”

  He removed his spectacles long enough to rub his closed eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, the way Sarah’s mother did when she had one of her headaches. “And the cat?”

  “In that new song. The little girls were singing it just yesterday while they jumped rope.”

  “I wasn’t listening.”

  “It’s about a man who can’t get rid of his cat. No matter what he does, the cat keeps coming back. He sends it away on a boat, and the boat sinks but the cat comes back. Then he tries a train, but the train goes off the rails and the cat comes back. He even tries dynamite.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Herbert.

  “That’s how the song goes.” She cleared her throat, daintily, and sang. “Ole Mr. Johnson had troubles of his own … he had a yellow cat that wouldn’t leave his home … he tried and he tried to give the cat away … but the cat came back the very next day! Yes, the cat came back … they thought he was a goner but … the cat came back … he just wouldn’t stay away!”

  “No, I meant, I believe you that’s how the song goes,” he said. “But you can’t think it’s true.”

  “Why not? Cats do have nine lives, after all.” She giggled.

  “If you’re going to tease and make fun of me, too --”

  “I’m not, honestly!” She held out the paper packet. “Would you like a licorice candy?”

  He studied her a moment longer, wary, then relented just when she thought he was going to pick up his cigar box and go. “Yes, please.”

  So they sat, and shared the candies. She did most of the talking, not quite chattering like a magpie. It did not escape her attention that Sebastian glared at them throughout the rest of recess.

  Nor did it escape her attention that, after school, instead of taking his usual route home, Sebastian – with a furtive air – went by way of the winding lane through Owl’s Green. Following Herbert West, whose aunties lived in a ramshackle old house on the other side.

  *

  Sarah caught up with them on the wooded hill above the creek. She heard them before she saw them, too … or, rather, heard Sebastian.

  “… my girl!”

  There must have been some scuffling already; Herbert’s shirt was untucked and his spectacles hung on crooked by an earpiece. His eyes burned pale gas-flame blue with anger. Their book-satchels, and the box of dead mice, had been dropped on the path.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Herbert said, smacking away the accusing finger Sebastian jabbed at his face. “Point that at me again, and I’ll break it, see if I don’t.”

  “I’d like to see you try --”

  “Sebastian!” she cried, rushing toward the boys. “Stop it!”

  “Go away, Sarah!”

  “I said, stop it! Leave him be!”

  She hadn’t known she could push so hard.

  Sebastian yelled, arms pinwheeling, as he stumbled backward. Chunks of dark, crumbly soil gave way under his heels. Roots tore like little threads. Herbert grabbed for him, but missed. And Sebastian plunged over the edge.

  He landed headfirst on the rocks, with an awful crunching thud. His body went all loose, flopping into the mud and muck.

  “Ooh, we’ll be in trouble!” fretted Sarah as she and Herbert scrambled down the embankment. “Is he dead? Do you think he’s dead?”

  “He must be, after such a fall.”

  “Well, do something!”

  “Me? You’re the one who pushed him.”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to be such an excellent candidate for early admission to medical school at Miskatonic University!”

  He blinked, then puffed up a bit, as if impressed she remembered. What a time for him to not be quite so hopeless after all!

  They reached the bottom without falling themselves. The creek was low. Sebastian sprawled faceup on the bank, feet in the mud, a hand in the rippling water, surrounded by the loose earth he’d taken down with him

  One eye was shut, the other open with the white part gone reddish. Darker red trickles ran from his nose and mouth. Herbert crouched over him, first pressing his fingers to Sebastian’s neck, then bending to set his ear to the other boy’s chest.

  Sarah felt sick, as if she were going to vomit up her lunch – not to mention all those licorice candies. Or as if she might faint, the way ladies did, with a gasp and lifting her wrist to her brow.

  Yet, she also felt strangely curious, interested. Distant from everything, somehow, the way she felt about stories in the newspaper that took place far away, but were still exciting to read.

  It was Sebastian there, Sebastian Crewe; she knew it was.

  Or was it?

  His face didn’t look the same. Parts of it looked lumpy, pushed out of place. And his eyes, of course, his eyes definitely didn’t look the same. His body lay limp, disjointed.

  The longer she stared at him, the more it really did begin to seem it wasn’t Sebastian at all. More as if someone had made a fairly cunning likeness, a scarecrow or boy-sized rag doll, and dressed it in Sebastian’s clothes and a wig.

  But it was Sebastian, it was!

  Wasn’t it?

  “If he is,” she said, “if he’s dead, I mean, you can fix it, can’t you? You can bring him back. Like the cat in the song, and my cousin’s goldie-fishie. Or, wait, I know! The headmaster!”

  “What are you yammering about?”

  “That flask he keeps in his coat! The revivifying, he calls it. We asked Miss Phelps once and she said it means something to liven a person up … then she whispered something to Mrs. Daunley about how the old goat hardly needed it. But it might help, mightn’t it? If we could get Sebastian to drink some?”

  Herbert gave her an impatient, scornful look. “It’s only gin, or whiskey, in that flask. You’d need something far stronger and more chemically complex to …” He trailed off, his expression becoming thoughtful. “… hmm, though I do wonder …”

  “Never mind it, then!” said Sarah. “What about Sebastian?”

  “His skull’s fractured in several places,” Herbert said, probing at the hairy, bloody mess that was the back of Sebastian’s head. “The dura is torn … look … you can even see his brain …”

  Sarah wrung her hands. “Is he going to be all right?”

  Fascinated, Herbert ignored her question. He took a slim wooden pencil from his pocket and poked around with it. He wiggled the pencil. He twisted it like a corkscrew, working it deeper. It made ghastly scraping and squishing noises.

  Suddenly, Sebastian’s arms and legs jerked, wild spasmodic jerks, like a puppet with tangled strings.

  “He moved!” Sarah squealed, skittering a step back.

  “Reflex,” said Herbert, almost absently, wiping his fingers on his shirt to take a better grip on the pencil. “Involuntary. Nerve impulses responding to stimulation of the motor cortex --”

  “Yes, fine. But it’s helping! He’s moving! Do it again!”

  “All right.” He turned Sebastian’s head to the side.

  Sarah tried not to grimace at the sounds of the pencil digging around in the broken skull. It grated against bone, which was bad. And squelched in brains, which was worse. The juicy squelching reminded her of Sunday suppers as her father carved a nice fat roasted chicken.

  Sebastian’s whole body bucked and lurched. His back arched up from the ground. His hands beat the air, as if swatting invisible flies. His left leg drummed madly, the way a dog’s might during a vigorous rib-scratching. He thumped down again with a gurgling groan.

  “You did it!” Sarah cried. She hopped up and down, clapping. “Whew, and good thing, too. I thought he was a goner!”

  “Oh, he is.” Herbert prodded some more. A strange, cold grin curved his lips as he watched Sebastian’s fingers twitc
h.

  “But, he moved,” she said.

  “That was me,” Herbert said. “Manipulating the pencil within his brain triggers muscle movement.”

  “You did that? You made his legs move and his fingers twitch?”

  “Yes.”

  She clapped again. “What else can you make him do?”

  Herbert sat back on his heels and looked at her then, a long and rather odd look. Not the warm and admiring kind of look a girl might hope for from a boy, but a cool, evaluating one. He absently pushed his spectacles further up his nose as he did so, leaving a reddish mark on his fair skin, and the smudge of a thumbprint on one glass lens.

  “What else can I make him do?” he repeated, askance.

  Sarah nodded vigorously. “Can you make him sit up? Walk? Talk? Do a funny dance?”

  “A funny dance? You do realize, he’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly.”

  “We killed him?”

  “You killed him. You pushed him off.”

  “Well, you stuck a pencil in his brains.”

  “Only after the fall broke his skull.”

  “You still did. Besides, how can he be dead if he’s moving?”

  “I told you,” Herbert said, with an impatient sigh.

  “The pencil, nerves, motor cortex, fine-fine-fine-yes.” She flapped her hand. “But if you can make him move, make him walk, then it’s all right.”

  “Just how, exactly, is it all right?”

  “We won’t get in trouble. No one will have to know.”

  “His skull’s smashed open.”

  “Then he can wear a cap! Honestly, Herbert West! Now, stand him up. Can you, or can’t you?”

  He set his jaw, showing that his pride had been stung. “Perhaps.”

  “Then get on with it.” Sarah stepped daintily around to the other side of Sebastian and leaned over to peer into his lumpy, distorted face.

  Funny, she no longer felt sick in the slightest. A momentary qualm from the licorice candies, no doubt. After all, while this was Sebastian, it really wasn’t, was it? Not the Sebastian Crewe she’d known since forever, lively and bothersome.

  His open eye, the one that had gone bloodshot, gazed past her, toward the treetops, with a blank, empty stare. She wondered, if she shined a light and peered very close into his dilated pupil, she might see the pencil’s tip working around back there.

  “This makes the fingers twitch …” Herbert murmured as he fiddled and poked. “And this, the legs …”

  “Stand him up,” Sarah urged. “What about his eye, can you open his other eye? He can’t go home, or around town, with one eye shut. Someone will notice.”

  “I’m trying. And don’t you think they’ll notice if I’m walking behind him every step, wiggling a pencil in the back of his head?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Herbert hissed a breath through his teeth. He seemed on the verge of carrying on the argument, but at that moment a muffled sound like the crackle of gristle came from deep inside Sebastian’s head and the pencil sank in another half-inch.

  Sebastian’s whole body lurched. The shut eyelid flew wide open – though that eye was, itself, canted off at an angle not the same as the other. His chest and stomach heaved. A choked, gurgling noise burst from his throat.

  “Hhchhgluurk!” said Sebastian, or something like that.

  His right arm flung suddenly upward in a clumsy arc. The back of his hand smacked Sarah on the hip, then slid down her leg, leaving a muddy blotch. His hooked fingers snag-tangled at her skirt.

  She yelped, skipping back, snatching her skirt from his grip. His hand landed on her shoe. With another yelp, she kicked it away. It plopped into the creek again with a splash.

  Sarah turned to Herbert, whose whole face was alight with excitement.

  “Did you see --?” he began.

  “That wasn’t funny!” she cut in.

  “What? But … you told me to …”

  “Not to make him grab me. How rude!”

  “I didn’t try to make him grab you. It was involuntary, like I said.”

  “Well, it wasn’t funny!”

  His lips quirked, as if holding back a smile. It brought out a dimple, just one hidden lopsided dimple, on his cheek. If she truly had been very cross with him, she couldn’t have stayed that way long. Not confronted with such an adorable dimple.

  Doing her best to look cross, nonetheless, she folded her arms with a huff, the way she’d often seen her mother do.

  “But didn’t you see?” cried Herbert, half in frustration, half in delighted exuberance. “He moved, he even vocalized!”

  “Hmf,” said Sarah.

  Finally, he said, “Fine, fine; I’m sorry,” in the by-rote tone they all used when lectured by a teacher. Then a devilish kind of sparkle lit his pale blue eyes. “And he’s sorry, too. Tell Sarah you’re sorry, Sebastian.” He gave the pencil another corkscrew twist.

  Instead, Sebastian’s whole body lunged up from the ground. “Ggllyaaachhk!” He tottered in an unsteady, staggering circle. His arms waved. His fingers jerked in spasmodic, clutching fists.

  “Yes! Look at him! He’s up! That’s independent, volitional motion! Not mere reflex!” Herbert nearly danced with glee, and Sarah thought that surely he must, in the spirit of exuberance, kiss her now.

  She did the prim-and-pretty forward lean again, but all Herbert did was continue to babble about the motor cortex, staring at Sebastian, lurching back and forth.

  Then Sebastian made a blundering, but decisive, grab for Herbert. “Grahhhh!”

  Herbert ducked away from the groping hands, uttering a yelp that sounded more excited than scared. “Did you see? He’s attacking me!”

  “He’s trying to kill you!”

  “Acting entirely on his own!”

  “Sebastian!” Sarah shouted. “Stop it!”

  Sebastian did not stop it. His ankles knocked together stupidly as he stumbled toward Herbert. Awful noises, grunting and groaning and gobbling noises, spewed from his mouth. So did bubbles of slobbering drool. It was quite, quite disgusting.

  “Herbert, make him quit!”

  “… doesn’t seem able to speak, but …”

  A moment later, neither was Herbert, because Sebastian had him by the neck.

  “Oh, honestly!” Sarah dashed up behind Sebastian and drove the heel of her hand hard against the end of the pencil, where it jutted out from his blood-matted dark hair.

  The sensation of it was indescribably horrid, a sinking gelatinous but chunky squish, like sticking the handle of a wooden spoon into a mound of cold veal scraps encased in aspic jelly. Sebastian stiffened up on his tip-toes, quivering all over, and pitched headlong to collapse bonelessly face-down in the mud. Then he stopped moving altogether.

  “Herbert? Are you all right?”

  “What --” He coughed, rubbing his throat. “What did you do?”

  “He was hurting you. I stopped him.”

  “You killed him.”

  “You said he was already a goner.”

  “Yes, but …” Herbert knelt beside Sebastian, lifted a limp arm by the wrist, and let it drop. He heaved a sigh.

  It was hardly the note of thanks she’d expected. She waited. She tapped her foot a little. But Herbert just kept peering and poking.

  “Well, you’re welcome,” Sarah finally said, letting a sharp little hint of indignation show.

  “Hm?” Adjusting his spectacles, he glanced up, as if surprised to see her still standing there.

  “I saved your life!”

  “Oh. Mm-hmm.” He pinched the end of the pencil and wiggled it. The only response was a thick dribble from the hole in the back of Sebastian’s head. “Hand me that stick, would you?”

  She bent and picked up a stick by her shoe. “This one?”

  “Yes. And that rock … no, the other, the flat one with the edge …”

  “Why?”

  “I need to open his skull if I’m to ge
t a better look at his brain. Once I pry up this piece, here …”

  “But he’s dead.”

  “I know.” That avid, excited sparkle had returned to his pale blue eyes. “He’s dead, now. He was dead before. But, for a while in between, he wasn’t. All I have to do is figure out how.”

  For more excellent work from Christine Morgan, check out AND HELL FOLLOWED and DIG TWO GRAVES Vol. 1, two terrifying anthologies brought to you by Death’s Head Press!