As the other guests turned to stare in amazement, the barn doors flew open with a loud crash, revealing a white void beyond their threshold. There was a sound like a great wind roaring. With one final, mighty tug, Johnny Pearl was yanked off his feet and sent flying into the emptiness.
The last thing he saw as he was sucked into the maelstrom at the heart of nothing was Katie leaning out over the threshold, her hand still outstretched in a vain attempt to stop what was happening.
“I’ll wait for you, Johnny—!” she called after him. “No matter what—I’ll be waiting!”
And then the barn doors slammed shut.
Everything was blurry, and his left eye ached as if it had been yanked out of his head and stuck back in again. He coughed fitfully, expelling a lung-full of thick, foul-tasting liquid. Though his eyes rolled in their sockets like greased marbles, he was somehow aware of others standing over him. He tried to follow the ill-defined blobs that bobbed in and out of his impaired field of vision, but it was difficult to move his head. All he could make out was that one of the persons leaning over him was male and seemed to be very old. Suddenly the sound cut in, loud enough to make him wince.
“—neck brace. I repeat—don’t try to move your head just yet. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Mirablis froze as the subject opened its mouth to reply. He glanced anxiously at Pompey, who showed him the revolver was ready, just in case.
But instead of screaming and clawing at his own flesh, the hanged man whispered one word—“Why?”—then lapsed once more into unconsciousness.
Mirablis grinned and shook his fists in the face of God. “Yes!” he shouted. “At long last—I’ve beaten you at your own game, Jehovah!” Still giddy with triumph, he motioned for his servant to put away the revolver. “I must enter all this into my journals while it is all still fresh in my mind! See that our new friend is made as comfortable as possible, and alert me the moment he begins to show signs of emerging from dormancy!”
As the old man headed down the platform steps, he paused halfway, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that it is time I picked a name for our new friend. He needs to be called something, doesn’t he? And it is only fitting that I name my creation, don’t you agree?” His wrinkled brow creased even further, and a mischievous light dawned in his eyes. “Ah! Now I have it! I’ll call him—Lynch!”
Chapter Nine
The darkness flowed over him, pouring in through the openings in his skull to flood his being from the inside out, like ink in a bottle. Then, in the very heart of the darkness there emerged a light—at first dim, then gradually growing in intensity, until I made his eyes swim with tears.
“Excellent!” said a voice from somewhere behind the light. As the candle was moved away, an old man’s wrinkled face emerged from the half-world of shadows. “I was afraid the tear duct might have been damaged during the replacement, but that appears not to be the case,” the ancient stranger said as he returned the candle to the miner’s lamp he wore strapped to his head.
A Negro male with salt and pepper hair loomed suddenly into view. There was something peculiar about the black man’s appearance, though he couldn’t quite place it at first. Then he realized what it was: The whites of his eyes were glowing.
“Wh-where—?” he whispered hoarsely. His throat ached as if it had been cleaned with a curry comb.
“You needn’t worry, Mr. Lynch. You’re amongst friends now.”
He frowned. “Lynch?”
“Yes. That’s your name. Don’t you remember?”
Though his mind was a jumble of pictures, voices and places, none of them in order, what the old man claimed didn’t sound right to him. But he said nothing. It was easier simply to accept what he was being told than question it. If the old man said his name was Lynch, then that was who he was.
He tried to turn his head to get a better look at his surroundings but met with resistance. Confused, he reached for his collarbone and encountered metal and leather.
The old man read the consternation on his face and patted his hand. “Don’t worry, it’s merely for … cosmetic purposes,” he said gently.
“What—what happened?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you not remember?”
“N-no.”
“You’ve been away for awhile, my dear boy, but now you’re back.”
“I want to sit up,” he said, his tone urgent.
“Very well. Pompey, help Mr. Lynch up.” The old man moved aside, watching his patient’s movements with the same appraising stare a horse breeder gives a new born colt.
From what Lynch could see, they were in a cave that had been retrofitted for human habitation. Mixed in with the more mundane pieces of furniture, such as a table and chairs, were items of such an arcane nature it was hard to tell if they were medical instruments or art objects. After taking in his surroundings, he turned his body slightly toward the old man.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
“I am Doctor Anton Mirablis, late of the Academy of Sciences, former physician to His Excellency, Napoleon I, and graduate of the University of Vienna—”
“You a sawbones?”
Mirablis winced slightly. “In so many words—yes.”
“What’s wrong with my neck, Doc?”
In way of a reply, Mirablis picked up a silver-chased hand mirror from the nearby table and held it so that it reflected Lynch’s body from the torso on up. The face that looked back at him was his own, yet not his. His head and face were as hairless as those of a newborn babe. There was new scarring about his bright blue left eye—which stood in extreme contrast to the brown eye on his right. The brace that supported his upper neck extended from just below his chin to his shoulders and looked like a cross between a medieval torture device and a corset. After a long moment, Lynch finally turned his gaze back to Mirablis.
“You said I’ve been away. Where was that?”
“Where no one need ever go again,” the old man replied.
It really wasn’t that difficult for Lynch to accept the fact that he had died and been brought back to life by this kindly old man with the long white hair and slight European accent. It did bother him, however, that he could not remember much about the life he had lead before his death, even though Dr. Mirablis had assured him that such memory loss—he called it “amnesia”—was not uncommon in connection with electrical shocks.
It had been three days since he had been delivered from the artificial womb of the tank, and Lynch was now able to move about without Pompey being there to make sure he didn’t fall. It had taken him a while to grow accustomed to the neck brace—especially how it necessitated that he turn his entire body if he wished to look to either side—but it soon became second nature to him. Mirablis was pleased by how quickly he had adapted to the situation.
Lynch sat in a chair as the old man poked and prodded him and hit his knee with a little toy tomahawk-looking hammer.
Every so often he would mutter to himself and scribble something down in a big leather-bound book on the table.
“How am I doin’, Doc?”
“Your progress is most exceptional, my dear boy!” he replied. “Your recovery following revivification is much swifter than those of either Pompey or Sasquatch.”
Noticing how Lynch shifted uneasily upon the mention of the patchwork creature’s name, Mirablis simply laughed and shook his head. “You should not be afraid of poor Sasquatch!” he chided. “He cannot help being as I have made him. And, in a way, you owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“What do you mean?”
“Though I devised the method that brought you back—it was Sasquatch who provided the energy to rekindle your spark of life.”
“How can that be?” Lynch frowned, even more baffled than before.
“I, myself, have seen Sasquatch summon the lightning the way a country gentleman might whistle up his hounds. It has proven most advantageous for my work to be able to summon the celestial fire at my whim, rather than wai
ting for an opportune thunderstorm. It is amazing that such a creature composed of illiterate savages, little removed from their prehistoric ancestors, should hold such awesome power, is it not? But then again—is it any more amazing that the dead rise from their graves? But enough about Sasquatch!” Mirablis produced a small, smooth rock from the pocket of his waistcoat, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you see this stone, Lynch? In a moment, I’m going to let it drop. I want you to grab it before it strikes the ground while looking straight ahead. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Lynch replied, his gaze automatically fixing on the other man’s eyes.
“Very good.” To the old man’s surprise, no sooner had his fingers loosened their grip on the stone then Lynch’s hand snatched it away. Indeed, the movement was so quick, a casual viewer might have thought the younger man had simply grabbed the stone out of his hand.
“Amazing! Truly amazing!” Mirablis said, mopping his wrinkled brow with a handkerchief. “Such reflexes—!”
“It wasn’t just reflexes,” Lynch said matter-of-factly. “I knew when you were going to drop it.”
The doctor lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I looked at your eyes. A split second before you let go, I saw the corner of your eyes tighten and your pupil contract.
That’s when I knew to make my move.”
Mirablis stopped daubing his brow. “Most extraordinary. How did you know to look for these signs, dear boy?”
Lynch shrugged as best he could while wearing a neck brace. “I just did. Do you think it’s something I learned back when I was alive the first time, Doc?”
“It’s possible,” Mirablis said absently. The old man took Lynch’s hands and opened them, staring at the palms as if they held some mystery within their lines. “But I did not expect such an instinctual response from a man of your background.…”
“Background?”
“You were a settler … a farmer,” Mirablis said cautiously. “You were killed by Indians. Do you remember?”
There was a faraway look in Lynch’s brown eye, while the blue remained disturbingly clear. “I remember a cabin. And something about Injuns. But everything else is foggy.”
“You memory might come back, or it might not return at all. But in case you do not reclaim your lost memories—do not dwell overmuch on it, my friend. In many ways, the life that was once yours is no more an integral part of your new existence than a cocoon is to the butterfly.
“You are of a new breed—Homo Mirablis. I hope you don’t think me too forward for naming your species after myself. You are stronger now, possessed of a stamina beyond that of mortal men. You can withstand incredible physical stress and trauma without registering a moment’s pain. You need little more than an hour’s sleep a day, and to eat only once or twice a month. Your eyesight is as sharp as that of a cat. No matter if it is the dead of winter or the height of summer, weather means nothing to your physical comfort. Disease, old age, infirmity … these things no longer hold meaning for you. You are free to pursue all your dreams, all your ambitions without fear or distraction.”
“That all sounds mighty nice, Doc. But what are the drawbacks?”
“Drawbacks?” Mirablis shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”
“Well—everything’s got two sides, Doc.”
Mirablis’s cheeks flamed red. “You are speaking nonsense! There is no drawback to immortality! I am very tired now and need to rest.” He turned and hurried back to his aboveground quarters with the jerky movements of a man trying to contain his anger.
Lynch could not understand what he did to upset Doc Mirablis. He certainly had not intended to do such a thing. So far the old gentleman had shown him nothing but kindness. It made him feel bad to think he had done something to agitate him in such a way.
He returned to the narrow camp cot that served as his bed and sat down on its far edge, staring at the stalagmites in the cave. He felt as he had when his father used to punish him for whispering in church; except he could not remember what his father’s face looked like, or what his name was.
The sound of a foot scraping the ground nearby startled him from his reverie. He glanced up and saw Sasquatch hovering in the shadows, the whites of his eyes glowing eerily in the gloom of the cavern. Lynch suppressed his natural urge to shout in fear and instead met the creature’s lambent gaze.
“What do you want?”
The crooked giant took a tentative step forward, eyes burning like twin suns. “She says she still waits for you.”
Lynch was not sure what surprised him more: that the creature’s voice was like that of rocks being ground together, or that Sasquatch had spoken Cheyenne—and he had understood him perfectly.
Chapter Ten
When Mirablis next came to see Lynch, the old man wore a contrite expression on his face. “I have been thinking about what you said the other day. You are right. It is only fair that you understand—truly understand—the reasons for what I do and what I have done. It is important to me that you comprehend the scope of my experiments and discoveries, so that you may help me in my work, in your own unique way, as Pompey and Sasquatch do in theirs.
“In order to do this, my dear Lynch, I must tell you my story. It begins in a different world, indeed, a different century, than the one we inhabit now. Do you know that I was not brought into this world as Anton Mirablis? My true name is of no importance, really. I cast aside my old identity when I fled Europe for this wondrous country of yours. A new life is deserving of a new name, don’t you agree?
“Still, for all of America’s raw-boned lawlessness, it is nothing compared to the chaos and madness of the Terror and the wars that followed. This was the world of my youth. I was a gifted child, showing a natural aptitude for the physical sciences early in life. My parents were among those who benefited from the fall of the ancient regime and therefore could afford to indulge my precocious nature.
“I was little more than a boy when I was shipped off to the university in Vienna to study medicine. It was there I gained the attention of a brilliant anatomist of the name Viktor von Frankenstein … perhaps you have heard of him?”
Lynch frowned and squinted. “The name sounds familiar—but I can’t remember nothin’ about it except that it’s from a made-up story.”
“Oh, Viktor was real enough, I assure you! Just as Kit Carson and Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill are real. And the story told about my old friend and colleague was just as far removed from the truth as the tales about their exploits.
“I soon learned that Viktor and I shared similar interests—mainly a desire to break Death’s grip on the mind of man. He needed someone to help him with his research, but he did not want a mere assistant—he required someone as intelligent and as dedicated as himself. He needed someone who could be trusted to understand the problems such unorthodox experiments faced, someone willing to brave the dangers they held, both physically and socially. And, to his credit, he was capable of recognizing those qualities in me despite my tender years.
“Ours was a close and, by default, secretive relationship. The intensity of our shared obsession, at times, bound us more tightly than lovers. We worked side by side, in an atmosphere of such emotional intensity that it was bound that we would eventually have a serious falling out. What caused our disagreement was a divergence between us on how best to realize our goal. Viktor was convinced that a body stitched together from the undamaged pieces of cadavers could be given life through applying electrical current to the nervous system. However, I was concerned with the question of decay, which led to my creation of the elixir re-vitae as a means of restoring and preserving soft tissues.
“Essentially, our differences lay in our own very personal interpretations of the act of Creation. For Viktor, it was all very Promethean and Old Testament, with lightning and fire from Heaven and the like. He would fashion himself a man of clay and breathe the fire of Life into it and that was that. I, on the other hand, looked n
ot to mythology, but man himself—or should I say, woman?—for my inspiration. Dissecting the cadavers of pregnant women revealed to me that we are creatures of the sea, and that within every female there is a secret ocean, in which the evolution of our species is re-enacted, from briny shrimp to naked ape.
“In the end, though Viktor was my elder, it was he who suffered the problem most associated with youth—impatience. He wanted results. My method was far too slow to suit his tastes. In any case, there was a serious falling out between us, which resulted in us going our separate ways.
“I made the best of my situation by attaching myself to Napoleon’s personal entourage, eventually becoming one of the physicians in charge of the battlefield hospitals. This gave me unprecedented—and unsupervised—access to all the amputated limbs I could ever want. However, when I traveled with him to Egypt, my interest was piqued by rumors of certain recipes and formulae concerning the preservation and resurrection of the dead found in a scroll believed to be written by the lord high embalmer to the pharaohs.
“However, not long after my return to Europe from the mysterious Orient, I received a package containing the journals and notes of my former friend and colleague. Along with these was a letter from Viktor, informing me that he had been forced to abandon his experiments. He conceded my method of reviving the dead was superior to his own—though he warned me of dire consequences should I pursue my interests.
“As I read his journals, I learned that Viktor did, indeed, build a man from the bodies of the dead. He succeeded in bringing it back to life using the harnessed power of a thunderstorm. That much of the story is true. However, the creature that rose from that slab was no more capable of narrating its own plight than it could fly to the moon. The thing was … damaged in the brain.
And, to make matters worse, not long after it was revived, it began to rot. To spend so many years and so much energy on research, and to have nothing to show for it but a wretched, stinking imbecile! It was all too much for Viktor, I’m afraid.
Lynch Page 5
