by Will Hill
Wallace moved.
He covered the distance between himself and the abomination that had been his colleague in two strides of his long legs, his knife raised in the air in both hands. Scott spun round at the last moment, a snarl on his face, his eyes glowing an oily crimson, but was not fast enough; Wallace thrust his knife out with all his strength, and drove it into Scott’s chest. There was a sickening crunch as his sternum cracked in two, and a gout of blood sprayed from the new hole in his back, horribly bright across the white snow. Scott’s eyes widened, barely a foot away from Wallace’s. Then he exploded with a sound like a bursting balloon, spraying a huge quantity of blood across Wallace, across Paterson, and across the trees and floor of the forest.
Wallace stared, his mind reeling, his body paralysed with incredulity. Steam billowed from his blood-soaked coat as he tried to comprehend what had happened; tried to understand what could have caused Scott to explode like he had been stuffed full of gunpowder.
His heart, he thought. Was because I punctured his heart?
On the ground before him, Paterson was looking down at himself with wide eyes; his arms and torso were glistening red, as though they had been dipped in dye. The younger man’s chest was heaving up and down, and he seemed to be on the verge of panic. Then he raised his head, his skin almost translucent, his eyes huge, and whispered two words that brought Wallace instantly to his senses.
“Behind … you …”
Wallace whirled round, his heart climbing into his throat, his legs seeming to move impossibly slowly, the hand that was still holding his blood-smeared knife rising almost involuntarily.
Hunched in front of him was the creature he had seen clinging to Scott’s back.
He could see it clearly now, even through the fear that was tightening in his chest, threatening to paralyse him. Its limbs were little more than covered bones, its skin grey and blotchy, its chest concave, its midriff wrapped in rags. A long beard, white and grey and matted, covered the lower half of its face and descended almost to its navel. A mane of tangled hair hung down its back from its scalp.
Its fingernails were thick and curved, yellow points as sharp as razors.
The gaping wounds he had hacked into its flesh were gone.
Its eyes glowed a terrible crimson.
Behind him, Wallace heard Paterson whispering, “Oh God,” over and over again in a low refrain of desperation. He stared at the creature; it was regarding him with its terrible eyes, the distance between them no more than ten feet. It took a shambling step forward, a low growl rising from its throat, its mouth hanging open, and tilted its head to one side, as though it were examining him. Wallace met its gaze, waiting for it to attack, telling himself to aim for the creature’s heart.
Then the light dimmed in its eyes, and Wallace gasped. Without the devilish red glow, the creature’s face, although now ravaged and ghostly pale, was suddenly familiar. It was a face he had looked at every day as the Orlean had surged determinedly across the Atlantic.
“Logan?” he said. “Dear God, Logan, is that you?”
The creature snarled, and the crimson in its eyes intensified again. Wallace stared, his mind reeling. Logan had been lost their first winter in the New World, assumed long dead by everyone who had known him. And in truth, if it was him, he looked dead; Wallace could not imagine how any man could have survived for half a decade in the brutal wilderness of the interior, not under natural circumstances, at least. But it was Logan, he was sure it was. Shrunken and shrivelled, possessed by God alone knew what, but still the man he had once thought of as a friend.
“What has befallen you?” he managed. “Tell me, Logan.”
The creature snarled again, and took a half-step backwards. Steam was rising from its uncovered skin, blooming into the freezing air in clouds of pale grey. Behind him, Wallace heard Paterson scramble to his feet, but paid the younger man no mind; his attention was focused entirely on the ghoulish apparition before him. He no longer felt certain that the creature was going to attack him; it suddenly seemed wary, almost apprehensive. As he watched, it took another step backwards, away from him.
“Logan,” he repeated. “Alan Logan. That was your name.”
The creature growled, its glowing eyes darting left and right, like a cornered animal. Then it opened its mouth, wide enough that Wallace saw the sharp yellow-white points of its teeth, tipped back its head, and unleashed a quavering howl of abject misery that echoed through the forest. As the distant wolves began to answer, as Wallace stared at the damned creature with the fear in his heart rapidly transforming into sympathy, there was a movement behind the emaciated grey shape.
Thunk.
Wallace saw a glint of metal, and then the creature’s head was spinning up into the air, trailing blood. It landed with a gentle crunch in a bank of snow at the foot of one of the trees, as a gout of blood gushed out of the stump of its neck, splattering the white ground around it. The creature’s body took a faltering step forward, its hands opening and closing on nothing, then pitched forward and crashed to the ground. Behind it stood Paterson, his long knife in his hand, a wild look in his eyes.
“Got it,” he breathed. “I got it, John.”
Wallace didn’t respond; he was looking at the disembodied head lying in the snow, his heart frozen in his chest. Its eyes were blinking rapidly, and its mouth was twisting silently, as though it was trying to speak.
Not dead, he realised, his mind teetering on the brink of collapse. It’s not dead. Dear God.
“John?” repeated Paterson, but Wallace ignored him. He walked slowly towards the head, his feet crunching through the snow, his skin covered in gooseflesh below the layers of his clothing, and crouched down beside it. A whistling noise was emerging from between the head’s lips, and he lowered himself down beside it, listening closely.
“… Wallace …” it whispered. “John … Wallace. I … know … you.”
He turned and stared at Alan Logan, for that was who this creature was, or had been. There was no longer any doubt. The stricken man stared back at him for a long moment, an expression on its face that was something close to peaceful. Then its eyes burst with red light, and the head lunged forward, moving in defiance of the laws of physics, and its teeth snapped shut with a loud crunch less than an inch from John Wallace’s nose. He recoiled, scrambled to his feet, and backed away, his eyes locked on the severed head as it rolled and rocked and thrashed in the snow. Then a hand fell on his shoulder, and he almost cried out as he turned to face the pale, frightened face of Paterson.
“I got him,” repeated Paterson. “Didn’t I? I got him, John.”
Wallace took a deep breath, then walked stiffly across to Logan’s body. He crouched down, and positioned the heavy blade of his knife over the centre of the pale grey chest.
“You got him,” he said. “Stand back.”
He brought the knife down.
III
21st May 1816
Dover, England
“Ticket please, sir.”
Wallace handed over the sheaf of documents the travel agent on the Dover wharf had provided him with. As the inspector studied them, he looked around at the men and women boarding the ship, their luggage piled high on carts. Many of them were young men, in groups of three or four, embarking on the grand tour of Europe that had come to define the youth of a certain class of Englishman. To Wallace, they looked like gods, their skin glowing, their parted hair slicked firmly to their heads, their conversation loud and happy and delivered in accents that could have cut glass.
He had left the New World on the next ship to arrive at York Factory, some three months after he and Paterson had stumbled out of the forest, their bodies soaked with blood and bearing a story of horrors that he knew few had believed. But there had been no proof against them of foul play, and no charges brought. Wallace had been ordered to stay within the York Factory compound, which was absolutely fine with him; he had lost his love of the wilderness.
From A
berdeen he had made his way south, stopping at the Hudson’s Bay Company offices in London to collect the balance of his pay, intending to be on his way as quickly as possible. But in the bustling street outside, a voice from the past had called out to him.
“Is that John Wallace?”
He turned, a frown rising instinctively on to his face; the majority of men who knew that name were either an ocean away, or dead. But hurrying towards him along the pavement, older and greyer and wider than he had been, was Heath, a broad smile on his round face.
“It is you,” he exclaimed, stopping in front of Wallace and pumping his hand up and down. “I thought as much. You are a hard man to forget, sir.”
Wallace allowed his frown to slowly turn into a smile. “As are you,” he said. “Even after six long years.”
“Has it been that long?” asked Heath. “I suppose it has. Remarkable how the time flies, is it not?”
Wallace’s smile widened, as he remembered the glacial speed of life at York Factory, where time seemed to stand still as the wind howled and the snow fell.
“It is,” he said.
“I assume the lure of civilisation eventually proved too strong?” said Heath. “They say a season in the north is equivalent to a year in warmer climes.”
“Who says so?” asked Wallace.
“Everybody,” said Heath, smiling. “Or perhaps nobody. You appear to have survived the wilderness intact, I am glad to see. I had no doubt that you were suited to it, from the moment I set eyes on you.”
“I survived,” said Wallace, his smile faltering. “Others were not so lucky.”
Heath nodded gravely. “Such is the way,” he said. “A life of adventure is not for everyone.”
Wallace narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever been to the north?” he asked. “Personally, I mean. Have you seen York Factory for yourself?”
Heath’s smile returned. “Why, my good sir,” he said, “it is more than likely that you slept in the comfort of a bunkhouse build by my own two hands. I sailed in 1790, and did not return for more than eight years. I served my time, worry not.”
“And would you go back?” asked Wallace.
“Not for all the tobacco in Virginia,” said Heath, his smile widening. “Good day, Mister Wallace. The very best of luck to you.” The man tipped his hat, and disappeared through the doors of the Company offices.
Wallace stared after him for a long moment, then turned and walked away.
In a travel office on Piccadilly, he had chartered a coach to take him to Dover, from where he intended to depart on a new journey, one that he hoped would prove significantly less eventful than the last. He endured the uncomfortable journey in silence; his meagre possessions sealed in a case on the seat beside him, his wages tucked firmly into the inner pocket of his coat, his mind focused on the prospect of peace, and rest.
“You have a carriage meeting you at Le Havre?” asked the inspector.
“It’s been arranged,” said Wallace.
“As far as Paris?”
“Correct.”
“May I ask your final destination?” said the inspector.
“Geneva, Switzerland” said Wallace. “I intend to spend the summer by the lake.”
“And your name?”
Wallace paused. “Frankenstein,” he said, eventually. “Victor Frankenstein.”
About the Author
Before quitting his job in publishing to write Department 19, Will Hill worked as a bartender, a bookseller and a door-to-door charity worker. He grew up in the north-east of England, is scared of spiders, and is a big fan of cats. He lives in east London with his girlfriend, where he splits his time between staring out of the window and staring at a computer screen. The latter tends to be more productive.
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Copyright
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2014
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Copyright © Will Hill 2014
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