by Jeff Rovin
She looked at him. “I still love you, and I always will. But I’ve been thinking—in spite of that, you should go away. Transfer to another school, get away from the doubts and the stares. You need some time alone to think about all of this, and I need to think about what to do with Daddy and Dr. Hill.”
Cain smiled. “Then let me help you. Y’know, it’s funny. I came here to suggest that you get away, go and live your life. Find somebody. But when I try to imagine being somewhere or doing something without you, I know that what I’ll want to do is drop what I’m—”
The splintering of the door drowned out the rest of Cain’s words. The couple jumped reflexively as a pale fist came through, followed by another. The fingers splayed, and the arms withdrew, pulling the door with them; arms flailing, Allan Halsey stepped through the huge hole.
“Daddy!”
Before he knew what was happening, Cain was in Halsey’s grip, being pressed against the wall. Halsey dispatched him with a hard blow against the old plaster, then dropped Cain to the floor and turned on his daughter.
“No, Daddy!”
The zombie chased her into the darkened living room, exhibiting no trace of familiarity with her or his surroundings. There was only single-minded purpose in his wild eyes. When she bumped up against the piano and pleaded with him, he simply scooped her into his arms and headed for the door. When she screamed, he grabbed a lace coverlet from the arm of a chair and stuffed it violently into her mouth. She continued to struggle, and he swung her head hard against the brick of the fireplace. Megan went limp, and, with a snort of satisfaction, her father left the way he’d entered.
Lenny Wengler panted hard as he jogged down Wengler Street. The young attorney did it every day, rain or sun; his great-great-great-grandfather had built this section of town, and it filled him with satisfaction to run each morning past the old trees Isaac Wengler had planted with his own hands, the stately mansions he’d built, the rental properties he himself owned up and down the street. He liked to make sure everyone was keeping his homes neat, the grounds manicured, the façades clean. It was a heavy responsibility being a landlord in a town where appearances were important, and tradition—austerity, dignity, and pride—was expected to be upheld at all costs. He noticed a tag-sale sign on a tree and ripped it off without ever missing a step; he wadded it tightly and dropped it into a sewer grating as he crossed the street.
Wengler breathed deeply as the sun rose over the river. There was something awe-inspiring about the sunrise and money contemplated in tandem. One allowed him to enjoy the other fully, and he smiled as he savored the sweet new day.
As he always did, he ran toward the Halsey home, hoping to catch a glimpse of Megan leaving for her morning run. If anything could improve on the beautiful harmony of daybreak and money, it was the sight of the young woman in her shorts and T-shirt breathing heavily as she ran down the road.
Glancing toward the house, he saw something he couldn’t quite understand: Dean Halsey carrying his daughter in his arms. Halsey looked as if he’d fallen out of bed and down a flight of stairs. Sucking down a deep breath, Wengler hurried over.
“Allan, what happened? Is Megan all right?”
Thoughts of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation pranced through his head as he saw that Megan was unconscious. He hoped there hadn’t been an explosion; his most expensive home was right next door.
“What’s wrong? Can I do anything?”
Halsey continued walking, oblivious to Wengler’s approach. Wengler came around by Halsey’s side, saw his face and whistled.
“You look beat. Here, let me take her!” he said. He slipped his arms under Megan’s shoulders. “I’ll run her to the hospital.”
Halsey growled and tried to pull her away. Wengler reached for her again.
“Say, old boy, don’t be ridiculous! You’re in shock, and your daughter needs—”
Halsey jumped forward and locked his teeth on Wengler’s nose. The young man squealed as the zombie snapped it off and moved down to his throat. With Megan still in his arms, he held on to Wengler’s suntanned flesh, oblivious to the young man’s cries and the pounding of his fists. Jerking his head back, he ripped away most of the attorney’s windpipe. Wengler’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he dropped, blood pumping energetically from the wound.
Spitting out the nose and throat tissue, Halsey stepped over the body and continued on his way. Another early-rising jogger, engrossed in her Walkman, saw the zombie and his daughter and just shook her head. It was, she decided, one of the more transparent hazing gags she’d seen in recent years.
Dressed in his green surgical attire and carrying a medical bag, Dr. Hill strode boldly from the elevator and down the corridor toward the morgue. Perched on his shoulders was the head from his desk; hidden behind a mask and cap, it had not drawn undue attention from the few people he met. Hill’s real head was in the bag, held upright by surgical sponges stuffed on the sides.
It had been an unusually long ride from his office. Since the head couldn’t see, it had had the body press each floor to be sure and get the right one. The head had simply counted the “dings” as they descended and ordered the body out when they reached the basement.
Because the plaster head was held on with a carefully concealed neck brace, Hill’s body was able to move quickly down the hall. It breezed past Mace’s desk. The guard barely looked up from a copy of Boudoir.
“Is that you, Dr. Hill?”
From inside the medical bag, the head said in muffled tones, “Yesss . . . it’s meee.”
“Gonna be here for a while?”
“Yessss.”
“Can’t here ya through the mask, Doc—”
“I—said—yesss,” he repeated distinctly.
Mace nodded with approval, then returned to the magazine, switching his cigar from side to side while Hill fumbled for his key. Finally opening the door, Hill accidentally brushed his head against the jamb as he entered, and one of his fake ears fell off; he left it, hoping Mace hadn’t heard. Listening just inside the autopsy room, Hill was delighted when the guard got up and left, mumbling about finally having time to bop his baloney.
“Sexual . . . deviant,” he muttered as the bag was placed on the operating table. Hill squinted as the top was unzippered, the white light pouring in. But the fresh air was welcomed, and he gulped it down; as he did so, he raised a stream of bubbles in the pool of blood which surrounded the base of his neck. “Thaaaat’s . . . better,” he gasped, then looked around.
The room looked different from this height, bigger and more important. He felt like a child again, awed and invigorated by life; it impressed him almost as much as his own power over death.
“Piiick . . . me . . . up,” he ordered, and his body did so, again by the hair. When he was facing the morgue, he asked to be put down and then ably directed the body toward the morgue. It returned wheeling a cadaver. Hill was pleased at how good he was getting at this and reflected that it was not unlike driving a car—albeit one whose alignment was crude and response slightly delayed. He wondered how far he could be from the body and still control it and whether he’d be able to manage two at the same time.
“In . . . goooood . . . time,” he told himself. After all, he had eternity.
The body’s heavy footsteps thudded loudly in the large room as it went about its chores. First it shut and bolted the double doors. Then it moved the head onto a small stainless-steel instrument table and rolled the corpse to one side of it. The operating table itself had to be free—for later, Hill thought giddily. Finally, the body retrieved the laser drill from its hook at the head of the instrument table.
The corpse was that of an old man, in his eighties. He would have been relatively tame at the end of his life and thus ideal, Hill had decided, as the second member of his army of lobotomized slaves.
It was, he thought, the dawn of a new age of intelligence. The next step in evolution, the unimind—not just an almighty ruler, but a single intelligenc
e who would be a part of every human. He would put West to work finding a way to link his mind with other bodies, and then he would become like God himself, a part of all, supervising the research of Herbert West in one city, making love to a woman in another, all the while taking an energizing blood bath. And his enemies, the scientists who had crossed him or hated him—he would make a museum of their still-living heads and visit them daily, taunting them with his power and achievements. Especially Gruber. He’d have his rotted head dug up and reanimated. Perhaps he would pack them into satellites and send them into space, with enough serum to keep them alive for a lonely eternity. Or shrink them, in the manner of headhunters, still alive, feeling every moment of torment.
He wondered if he could also become a cheetah, racing at lightning speeds after a gazelle, or a hawk chasing a prairie dog, or a shark prowling the seas . . . with heads of his enemies bobbing about. And what about the long dead, like Edison or Michelangelo? Could he bring them back, too? Put them to work creating new wonders for his amusement?
And the stars. To a man who could live forever, traveling to the farthest reaches of the universe was hardly a problem. He could visit other worlds, conquer them, use their science to become even more powerful.
Then there was the greatest mystery of all. He remembered nothing from the brief period when he was dead, but with the proper recording devices could he die again and come back with a complete awareness of everything that had transpired?
The possibilities were endless. He could conquer, he could be resurrected. He could make a miniseries of his life and force everyone to watch. And applaud. And watch again. The calendar would start from the year 1 C.H., and on his birthday he’d find a way to make the sun itself shine more brightly!
The body tapped him lightly on his head. He came around, the sound of novae and crowds cheering giving way to the low hum of the laser drill generator. Hill shut his eyes.
“Soooon . . . soooon,” he told himself. First he must build the house before he could live in it.
West walked briskly up Wengler Street, his eyes on the ground. The concrete was old, and the roots of neighboring trees had split it here and there. Despite all he knew, he still marveled at the phenomenon. It was what had started him on his career—as a child, staring at the walks in Toronto, wanting to know how what appeared to be frail and perishable could bend cement to its will. Learning about how new cells replaced old ones over time, like soldiers being sent to the front, eventually putting enough pressure on the obstacle to break it.
His parents had sent him to a psychiatrist because, while other children played soccer, he sat on the lawn and talked to the street. They didn’t understand that he was talking out the things he’d read in science texts, thinking aloud in order to proceed to the next logical step. The last time he’d talked to his parents, they still didn’t understand. He wondered if the fire had been simple to comprehend. It had been child’s play. Literally.
He didn’t need them or anyone now, except Cain. He was the only one who could help him stop that lunatic Carl Hill.
He felt the sole vial of reagent in the pocket of his black overcoat. They would triumph. They’d pin all of this lunacy on Hill and be hailed as heroes; there was nothing the college wouldn’t give him then, and he’d be able to continue his research unbothered. It wouldn’t matter, then, what Cain did. He liked the young man and enjoyed being with him, but he was not a true scientist. He would make a fine general practitioner and husband.
West checked the numbers of the houses. When he reached 775, he hurried up the long, curving walk and rang the bell. In the early-morning light, he noticed that no weeds had cracked the walk at Dean Halsey’s home; they’d all been cut down. He smirked, but the smile vanished when he saw the broken door. He hurried up the front steps into the foyer.
“Daniel!”
He dropped beside the body and felt for a pulse.
“Thank God. Daniel!” He slapped both sides of his face. “Come on, wake up!”
Cain moaned, winced.
“Dan, what happened?”
Cain felt the back of his head. “Dean Halsey—”
“He did this?” West looked quickly at the wound. “A contusion, maybe a mild concussion. You’ll be all right.”
Cain started. “Meg! Oh my God.”
“What happened?”
Cain pressed his palm to his forehead. “Halsey—strong, like that other body. He came through the door, but that’s all I remember.”
“Hill must have sent him for Megan,” West reported. “I don’t think there’s anyone here now.”
“Where then, Herbert?”
“At the hospital, I’d imagine.” He rose, hands on his hips. “Can you stand up?”
Cain pushed off the floor, and the room went black; he fell back against the wall. West started toward him, but Cain held up his hand.
“No—I’m fine. Let’s go.”
The two walked hurriedly toward Miskatonic, whose white walls shone in the rising sun. The chrome of the marquee glistened red like fire; if hell had a marquee, Cain told himself, it would look like that. And if hell had a master, he would certainly resemble Dr. Carl Hill. After all he’d done these past few days, Cain was convinced that he’d learn soon enough about hell firsthand.
Hill’s body shifted the pan around so the head had a clear view of the surgery.
“Fiiiine . . . begiiin.”
The gloved hands flicked on the instrument. The red beam sizzled to life, and the body put the drill to the old man’s forehead. Smoke rose from the pale flesh, and an acrid smell filled the room, like burning rubber. Although he didn’t need to breathe, the fine smoke stung his eyes; he had never before appreciated how valuable were such simple things as being able to avert one’s head or wipe one’s eyes. Bloody tears formed, leaving tracks down the side of his nose.
There was a knock on the exit to the rear of the room. Hill looked back too quickly, and his head did a slow pirouette on the bloody paraffin. He was able to steady himself by tensing his neck and ear muscles, and retained his balance.
“Goooo . . .” he said impatiently to his ambulatory half.
The body obediently hung the drill on its clip and made for the double doors in front.
Hill rolled his eyes. “Noooo . . . stupiiid. The . . . baaack . . . dooooor!”
The body stopped. Its shoulders drooped, and it seemed hurt. But it turned and walked stoutly toward the rear of the autopsy room, where it threw the huge bolt and opened the metal door.
Hill’s face brightened when he saw Halsey in the doorway, the robed Megan unconscious in his arms.
“Gooooood. Enterrrr . . .”
Halsey toddled along, a strip of Wengler’s flesh still lodged in the side of his mouth. Hill was glad to see Halsey had obviously shown some initiative, though he hoped he hadn’t been followed; he needed a bit more time to finish his preparations.
The zombie placed Megan on the operating table, her head inches from that of Hill. The surgeon’s eyes were saucers, the skin of his face tight with expectation.
“Oh . . . yeeeessss . . .”
Halsey was standing several paces back, staring at the ceiling. Hill looked over and caught the zombie’s attention; he jerked his eyes toward the young woman, and Halsey came forward obediently.
“Take . . . the robe . . . offff.”
Halsey grabbed a fistful of fabric and stepped back. The robe tore away, and he discarded it.
Hill ran his eyes along her naked form. “Tie . . . herrrr!” he commanded. “Sheee . . . must . . . not . . . leeeave . . .”
His body came over and began binding her to the table, tying the straps tightly around her wrists and ankles. Hill stretched his neck, rose up an inch.
“Sooo . . . lovely . . .” he leered. “You . . . will . . . keeeep . . . your . . . heeead.”
Hill had his body pull off its rubber gloves and sent it, with uncharacteristic grace and reverence, to Megan’s side. Its hands moved to her breas
ts, gently cupping and caressing them, now and then squeezing harder as his passion rose. Hill shut his eyes, savoring every moment. She was sweet and wholesome to the touch, not like the rough women he was used to buying in Springfield or Boston. He moved one hand lower, to her flat belly. His thumb and index finger were callused from the months of pressing so hard on the laser drill. The skin was thick and dead, which frustrated him; he had to lay his open palm on her to feel her softness completely, her warm belly thrilling him as it rose and fell beneath his hand.
Megan stirred. Her head rocked slowly from side to side, and her eyes fluttered open. Hill felt a single tremor shoot through her.
In the first moments of wakefulness, she still couldn’t place where she was or what she was seeing. The head beside her was huge and grotesque, like a Halloween mask. Its eyes were shut, but there were streams of dried blood along the cheeks and caked in the tangled hair. The tongue, visible in the wide-open mouth, was swollen and reddish-purple; there was bloody spittle around it, and a foul, tart odor rose from within. It was the scent of death, and it overpowered even the sour smell of burning rubber which seemed to hang in the air.
Megan looked down. She felt the hands on her, saw what they were doing; then she saw where she was. With a mounting sense of horror, she looked to the right and saw her father standing idly by. Suddenly it all came back to her, what her father had done, and her fears escaped in a single gut-wrenching scream.
Hill’s eyes popped open. Megan saw them and shrieked again, simultaneously trying to rise. Finding that she was lashed to the table, she tugged violently against the straps; one of the leather pieces slipped from its metal tooth, and her left arm flew free. It struck Hill’s body, which went sprawling back against the instrument table. The hit was a solid one, too great for the neck brace, and the plaster head toppled off, shattering on the tiles. Gaping at the huge clot, from which fresh blood was percolating, Megan’s throat went raw, her wrists and ankles bloody as she tore to get free.
Hill rasped something like a laugh and ordered the head to pick him up. It did so under the ears, tilting him so he could stare into Megan’s face.
