Del stared at him, searching his thoughts. Even during the short time he had spent with Icarus, Tom had learned to shield his thoughts even more, and Del could only pick up a few tidbits. But he received the name of Tim Dobbs, and a hazy image of Tom’s non-identical twin brother, locked up in a poorhouse, slowly dying of the same debilitating illness that had claimed Tom.
‘You want me to help him bring Tim here?” Del exclaimed.
“Well, I certainly can’t do it,” retorted Icarus. “I can’t sneak out during the daylight hours, and I certainly can’t influence anyone to let someone out of a workhouse.” He turned. “It’s up to you, Del.”
Del stared at him. He had no wish to help Icarus in his plan to create new zombies, but it seemed his decision to stay had trapped him in Icarus’s bizarre plans. He could only manage a weak nod for Tom. “Alright,” he managed. “Come with me tomorrow, and we’ll seek out the workhouse where your brother is being held.”
Tom nodded vigorously, glad he could finally do something constructive to help his sibling. Then Del retired to his bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.
Del and Tom left early the next morning, after Del had given him his old prison tunic to wear. He threw his coat on top, wrapped a scarf around his face, and borrowed a broad-brimmed hat from Icarus.
The temperature had fallen and a leaden sky hung heavily over the city. A light drizzle settled in not long after their departure, forcing the Monday workers deeper into their coats. But it didn’t bother Del, who came from a colder climate, or Tom – who was now undead. The newly created zombie pointed out directions to Del, escorting him through the streets, back towards the East End. Although Tom’s ruined face was hidden beneath his scarf, people still shied away from him. At first Del wondered if they could sense what he had become, but after skimming a few minds he realised the truth was far simpler. His shabby appearance disgusted them. It seemed on this world people reviled the poor and infirm, treating them as outcasts rather than unfortunates who needed help. Whenever someone turned their nose up at Tom’s alcoholic stench, Del scowled at them in disapproval.
They finally reached the workhouse at around lunch-time. The gates stood wide open, revealing a grim, black edifice, quite the ugliest building Del had ever seen. Despite the dismal weather, Del could see plenty of workers labouring outside, under the watchful eye of an overseer who stood protected beneath an umbrella. Large men in shabby clothes broke rocks with mallets while others trundled wheelbarrows back and forth. Del wondered what the point of such mindless, backbreaking labour was. What were the stones used for? Surely a machine could crush them better?
The overseer approached Tom, recognising him by his dirty old coat. “Oy! Faceless!” he called. “Come here now!” He drew a large baton from his belt.
Del lifted a hand, sending a suggestion to placate him. But the man was furious that one of his best workers had run away, and wanted to beat the stuffing out of him for deserting. Del really had to lean on him. “Tom … works for me now,” he told him firmly. “We are here to … pick up his brother.”
The overseer glared at him, but finally succumbed to the pressure and lowered his club. “What could a fine toff like you possibly want with the Faceless Ones?” he growled. “Tom’s strong enough, but his blind brother’s fucking useless!”
“That’s … my decision.”
The overseer sniffed, then shrugged. “I don’t want that syphilitic little shit here anymore any way. All he does is complain how much his face hurts.” He directed Del and Tom towards the building. “He’s inside. He’s only good enough for women’s work.”
Inside the workhouse a clammy miasma hung heavy in the air, reeking of unwashed human flesh and the stench of despair. Tom knew where to go, and led Del down a long corridor lined with many rooms. Inside each were crammed dozens, perhaps a hundred people, each performing a mindless task in harsh silence. Overseers made sure no-one spoke, and occasionally cracked a baton down on a bench in front of a particularly slow worker. Del was outraged to see young children sitting in with the adults, performing the same desultory and often dangerous duties. People in one room pulled apart old rope and rags for the thread, which was then delivered to another area for weaving into new cloth, or making into felt. Others sorted through various scraps for anything that could be reused, such as old nails, screws and bits of wire that wasn’t too badly rusted. On Del’s world machines performed such duties, not people.
Tom’s brother Tim sat in one corner of the sorting room, hunched over in darkness, picking at a coil of rope. He was surrounded by the very old, the very young and some invalids. He mumbled under his breath as he worked, and because no-one wanted to sit near him in case they caught his disease, he was able to rock back and forth. Amidst the numb despair of all in the room, Del felt his pain keenly – the constant burning of his slowly necrotising flesh.
Tom pushed his way through the labouring crowds. He tried to call to his brother, but only managed another groan. Since such noises were the norm in here, Tim didn’t even stop work, pulling strands from the lump of old rope in his gnarled, bony fingers. Tom grabbed him by a shoulder to shake him and he yelled in indignation.
“’Ands off you bastard!” he slurred. “I’m workin’ as fast as I can!”
“Tim Dobbs – it is your brother, Tom,” Del told him. This is great, he thought darkly. Tim can’t see, Tom can’t speak – and I still need to read minds to be able to converse! Although this was becoming easier.
“Tom?” Tim exclaimed, finally lifting his head. Although there wasn’t much point - the disease had eaten away his eyes and most of the flesh around them, leaving two gaping sockets in his face. “Is that you? Say something!”
Tom could only wheeze. He grabbed his brother, lifting him easily from his chair. Tim was about as tall, but far more slightly built, almost a skeleton beneath his ragged raiment.
“He … he can’t talk anymore.”
“Who said that? Who’re you?”
“My name is … Adam. I’ve come to take you to someone who can help you. He has already helped Tom.”
“But he can’t even speak any more!”
“Yes, but he won’t get any worse. His disease … has been stopped.”
Tom squeezed Tim’s arms to emphasise Del’s point. Tim lifted his sightless eyes to him. “Has … has the pain stopped too?”
Tom managed to grunt assent.
“Bloody Hell! What’re we waiting for?” He tried to stumble out and nearly fell flat on his face. The racket attracted the room’s overseer, who immediately charged forward with his baton in hand – until Del glared pointedly at him.
“This man is coming with me.”
“Fine, good riddance to the whimpering little bastard.”
Tim was so weak that Tom and Del had to help him walk. His pain kept him from eating, and he was rapidly wasting away. Both could see that he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. He staggered and tripped over his patched, ragged pants as they half-carried him out. His desperate desire to be finally free from pain was so intense it made Del dizzy. How does he cope? If I felt like that all the time I would put myself into a death-trance! But perhaps humans couldn’t do that.
Slowly they headed back to Icarus’ basement. Carts and carriages rattled past, splashing them with filthy water from the street. I definitely need to get myself one of those carts, Del thought. But how? I would need somewhere to keep the horses…
It wasn’t long before Tom scooped Tim into his arms, carrying him like he was a small child. Tom had always been the stronger twin, but now he seemed like a veritable giant to Tim. His silent brother smelled weird too, sort of old and … dusty, like a long-abandoned grave. But he held Tim with loving care, and Tim knew he was safe in his arms, despite the fact he had no idea what lay in store. It had to be better than his miserable, painful existence in the poorhouse.
They reached the basement several hours later, at the end of the day. They had only stopped once, so Del coul
d buy some pies. Tim could only manage a few bites of one, and Tom didn’t eat anything at all. Del finished everything in less than a minute.
Icarus must have been waiting impatiently, because the cellar door opened for them as soon as they entered the alley. Icarus greeted them at the entrance of his underground lair. “At last! You certainly took your time.”
“The poorhouse was across town, and we had no transport,” Del answered testily. He was wet through, and desperately wanted to get to the fire. He released Tim and headed across the room.
“And this must be Tim. Let me look at you.” Tim flinched as someone gripped his face. Whoever lived down here had icy fingers and long nails, and one of his hands felt like it was made of metal. “My name is Icarus. I will not hurt you.”
“The other fella – Adam – said you could help me,” Tim gasped.
“I can, if you’ll let me. You’re still alive – you have a choice. Unfortunately your brother didn’t. He was dead when Del brought him down, and I had to resurrect him.”
“What?” Tim gasped. He could smell smoke surrounding him, and the heat made him feel like he’d descended into the bowels of Hell. “Tom was … dead?” No wonder his touch had been so cold!
“Afeared so. Some like Del would say he’s still dead, that I made him into some sort of walking corpse. But he has his spirit. It was with his body, hovering over it, too concerned about you to leave. I need to know if you want the same thing done to you. Like I said, I can save you, but you will be … changed. You will be like Tom. Cured of all your ailments, stronger, faster but with a strange new need for … something you will have to discover on your own.”
“Blimey, this is all a bit much!” Tim gasped. “I need to sit down.” Tom helped him over to a stool. “I’m just a simple fella. You say the only way you can save is by killin’ me an’ makin’ me into some sort of … zombie?”
“Yes. But you’ll retain your wits. You won’t be a slave.”
Tim was silent for almost a minute. Then he said; “Can you make me see again?”
“Your syphilis appears to have completely eaten your eyes away – not even any optic nerves left. But I think I know a way.”
Tim sighed. “Well … I pretty much spend all day wishin’ I was dead, so you might as well do it.”
Del suddenly stalked from his fireside place and marched out of the room. Tom stared questioningly after him.
Icarus flipped a hand. “He still has religious issues about the procedure. Do you?”
“I’m in too much pain to care.”
“Very well. Tom – you can help me set up the machine.”
Tom grunted, squeezed Tim’s shoulder reassuringly, and crossed the lab to help Icarus prepare the device. Please let this work, Tim prayed to whatever deity still listened to him. I really can’t take much more of this pain.
Tom and Icarus worked quickly, connecting the Immortality Machine and powering up the generator. Tom sensed Icarus’ rising excitement in his quick movements, and realised that this was something he enjoyed doing.
When the device was ready, Tom went to his brother and helped him undress. Then he walked him over to the machine and carefully helped him up onto the platform. Whatever has been done to Tom, he’s still my brother, Tim reasoned. He is still as protective of me as always. Tim was stretched out on the cold metal grille, his arms and legs pulled into metal manacles. Only then did concern rise to temper his pain. “Um – you sure these shackles are necessary?”
“Unfortunately. The electricity can cause severe spasms.”
“Electricity? Jesus, what have you shoved me into here?” Tim exclaimed.
As the whine of the generator rose, Icarus had to shout over it. “Time is short. D’you want to go through with this or not?”
Tom gave a loud grunt, that sounded like ‘do it’.
“Alright, alright – just get it over with!”
Icarus leaned over Tim, and the sick man felt him press a thumb against his forehead, digging in a long nail. He dragged it across his skin, making a strange gesture, almost like a magical sigil. “Take a deep breath, because it will be your last!”
Icarus motioned to Tom, who was holding the lever to drop the platform.
Tim sucked in a gasp – and was plunged into icy salt water. Shock forced all the air from his lungs. The awful liquid seared his empty sockets like acid, but he had no time to acknowledge the agony – a new pain flooded into him through the water, locking his limbs rigid. He felt like he had been grabbed by some enormous beast and was being shaken like a baby’s rattle. Only the manacles kept him from being torn apart by his own convulsing muscles.
Then, abruptly, everything ceased, and Tim lay in cool darkness, completely still and free of pain.
It was something he hadn’t experienced for …. God only knew how long. It was … ecstatic! Like his entire body was cocooned in cotton. There was a grinding noise from above, and Tim became aware of something else.
Light. An eerie golden light, flooding into his dark world. Could it be possible? Could his sight be returning?
The chains holding his platform rattled and he was lifted from the liquid. The water ran from his face, clearing his eyes. The soft yellow light dissolved into an overhead lamp that glowed with an unusual constancy. He tried to shout “I can see” and belched out what felt like a gallon of water. It was then he realised he wasn’t breathing. He felt someone remove his manacles and sat up, looking around in wild joy. Was this what the world used to look like? So golden with flames flickering around the edges of his vision? He noticed his brother Tom watching him. He was wearing a shabby old brown coat and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face so only his eyes were showing. But they were the same brown eyes that Tim remembered – the eyes he hadn’t had for months. “Can I get a mirror?” he asked.
Another man – Tim assumed he was Icarus – scuttled across the large, smoke-filled room to grab something from a work bench. He was a small, skinny fellow who appeared to be wearing some sort of weird steel helmet. When he approached Tim with a small hand-mirror, the newly created zombie realised that half his face was metal. Had he succumbed to syphilis as well?
The mirror had been broken at some stage, and Tim saw his face divided into fragments. But his reflection was clear enough to show what the ravages of disease had wrought. Only his fleshless eye-sockets remained, scars of necrotic tissue radiating out from the empty holes. But in the middle of each flickered an eldritch candle flame. “Jesus Christ,” Tim whispered. Any doubts he might have had about his new condition were dashed. “I can see,” he whispered. Then, louder – “I can see!” He whooped with delight. He turned to Icarus. “This is incredible! Can you make Tom speak again?”
“I didn’t know he had lost his voice when I put him in the tank,” Icarus rasped. “Had I known, I could have easily restored his ability to speak. But now it would be too difficult, since he is already locked into his new form. I could look into it, I suppose.” He turned to Tom. “D’you want your voice back?”
Tom grunted; he didn’t really care.
“Fair enough. Well, I suppose I’d better let that squeamish sod Del know that I’ve finished my nefarious necromantic practices and that he can come back in now."
Chapter 9
The Subterranean Sideshow
Now Icarus had two burly assistants to help him, work progressed quickly on his difference engine. Within a week a frame for the device was erected. While Icarus worked on refining each cog so it meshed perfectly with the others, the brothers installed each piece as per his instructions. While Tom was content in the smoky basement, Tim required something different to regenerate his undead flesh. No matter how many spells he cast, Icarus couldn’t help him. This was something Tim had to discover on his own, and one evening, as emaciated as a skeleton, Tim left on his own. It didn’t take him long.
Thinking a bit of horizontal entertainment might soothe him, Tim approached a sleazy brothel he used to frequent before hi
s syphilis had become too obvious. Although he was wearing a mask, his flaming eyes still terrified everyone in the place, and the owner grabbed his rifle to blow away the risen dead. Although Tim was faster and stronger than before, he couldn’t outrun a bullet. The man shot him in the back as he fled and he sprawled on the damp cobbles. He felt a flaring agony, but also the strange sensation of regeneration. The wound healed almost immediately, and all the flesh returned to his bony body. He realised that the gunpowder had restored him. Being knocked to the ground also served to stop his pursuer; thinking he was dead, the pimp returned to his building, enabling Tim to escape.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” he told Icarus later.
“It could be worse I suppose,” Icarus mused. “It could be electricity.”
Meanwhile, Del went back to work on the streets. However it seemed as soon as he brought home a decent sum, Icarus immediately claimed it for his work. The difference engine required the most refined parts, and only the best would do. Del didn’t mind selling himself – he never lacked for customers – but he began to feel like he was getting nowhere fast. Surely I can be more than this, he thought. I was once a famous explorer!
One afternoon, while the brothers were out, Del approached Icarus, who was seated at his work bench putting together yet another sequence of cogs. He had vowed this would be the finest calculation device in the world, able to process truly enormous sums. “Your machine is taking shape nicely,” he remarked.
Icarus looked up. “Oh yes. It shouldn’t be much longer now. Only a few more weeks.” His one eye gleamed with sudden excitement. “We appear to be alone. Shall we retire for a little while?” He gestured towards the room down the hall. “I have just made some improvements on the shaft and added a rotating-“
Del folded his arms. “Not now Icarus. I’d like to talk.”
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