Re-Animated States of America

by Craig Mullins

  “He appears to be a Mexican wrestler—a Luchador,” Herbert said. “I found him at the morgue; he didn’t have any plans, so I invited him over. He looks to have died in the ring. His arm appears to be shattered and he has multiple internal injuries, but all I need is a reaction to know if the re-agent is viable.”

  “So…can I have his mask?” Jehovah asked, a smile on his skull.

  “Yes you may,” West replied, as he removed a syringe from his medical bag.

  In the background, Gabriel looked on; another jet of steam released into the air.

  Walking over to the table that Gabriel had threatened to upset, West dipped the syringe into a Styrofoam cup and pulled back on the plunger. A familiar green fluid filled the barrel, and filled West’s face with a sinister glow.

  “Here goes everything,” he said, and returned to his subject. With more care than was warranted for the dead, West lifted the wrestler’s head, unsnapped the back of his mask and inserted the needle, slowly pushing in the plunger.

  He stepped back, pushed up the sleeve of his lab coat, and tapped the face of his watch.

  “The subject isn’t very fresh, so I don’t expect miracles,” he said, as his partners looked on. Gabriel had become an asset in situations like this, as his inhuman strength had come into play more than once when the necks of out of control cadavers needed snapped.

  Moments passed, then the wrestler’s good arm shot up—startling even West—and went straight to the mask on his face. He felt around, as if expecting it to be gone, but finding it secure, he began to sit up.

  “Fascinating,” West exclaimed. “The wrestler’s condition must have gone a long way in preserving his body; his ability to return to normal function after so much time has passed.”

  Both of the wrestler’s feet were now on the floor, his limp arm useless at his side. He looked through rotten eyes, his head swiveling on tense, atrophied muscles.

  “What’s he thinking, Herbert?” Jehovah asked.

  “I believe he’s re-living his death; or at least what he was doing before he died,” West replied. “Maybe we should stop him, before…” But it was too late, as the wrestler was up and running across the lab.

  Gabriel immediately took chase, but his diving suit hindered speed, if not strength. By the time Gabriel reached the Luchador, he had already climbed up on one of the sturdier lab tables and turned, knocking over precious minerals as he did so, towards the crowd. He stood there, one arm flexed with purpose, the other flaccid. His shirt was blazoned with a human fist gripping a spine with the words “Does this belong to you?” below it.

  Gabriel had time to raise his arms in protest, but that was all, as the Luchador launched himself off the table, the elbow of his good arm a dagger aimed right at the Deep One’s helmet, the broken arm flapping behind him like a scarf in the wind.

  The blow landed, and Gabriel was down, the wheel of his hit-and-miss grinding on the concrete floor. The wrestler was up in an instant and reaching for Gabriel’s arm, but instead grabbed hold of one of the hoses connecting the water tank to the heater. The hose snapped instantly, releasing a pressure-fueled spray into the wrestler’s face, melting his eyes on contact. He clawed at them, removing his mask in the process, revealing a horribly scarred visage that screamed in pain.

  “Gabriel, get down,” Herbert shouted, and shots rang out, two bullets hitting their mark. The wrestler stumbled, almost fell, but regained his footing, and came after West. Not being able to help either of his companions, Jehovah only screamed for Gabriel to get up and do something.

  Herbert fired again, once more hitting his target, but he suffered a “clothesline” for his troubles. The wrestler jumped over the now-prone doctor, stopped, turned, and was felled with one mighty swing of Gabriel’s gauntleted hand, which caved his head like a rotten jack-o’-lantern.

  Herbert—not as used to physical violence as Gabriel—took some time getting to his feet, but when he did, he was greeted by Jehovah wearing the Luchador mask and doing his awkward best to look evil.

  “What do you think, Herbert?” he asked.

  “It suits you, Jehovah. It truly does,” he replied. “Now, let’s patch up Gabriel’s suit and get out of here before his tag-team partner shows up.”

  Death's Construction

  Herbert West and Jehovah were cocooned twenty feet above the ground in hammocks that West had fashioned from a mutant strain of Spanish moss. They hung close enough together that Herbert could hear that Jehovah was gently snoring. The only other noise in the forest, besides the steady rain hitting the canopy above, was the occasional whoosh of steam from Gabriel’s deep sea diving suit. The Deep One stood sentinel on the weed-choked ground below them, and Herbert had no idea if he slept or not.Sleep, for Herbert West, was very hard to come by these days, as his mind was constantly racing. How had this happened, where had everyone gone, why had some people stayed behind? These were just some of the questions Herbert asked himself almost every day. So far, none of the questions had been adequately answered; in fact, most of their travels had just brought about more questions.

  His travel journal was now brimming with information, sketches and equations that only scratched the surface of the new world, that begged to be investigated further, but danger and necessity had demanded they move on, so move on they did.

  He removed his glasses and placed them in his breast pocket, closed his eyes, and tried hard to rest, but all he could do was relive his past encounters: the cannibal fields of green hell, the Deep One encounter that almost killed him in the Miskatonic River-flooded streets of Arkham, living with and being accepted by the Grassmen of the Ohio River Valley, swimming with the creatures that lived beneath the streets of Innsmouth. So many things had happened to him, to both of them, and it seemed their adventures had only just begun.

  Sleep had almost pulled him into that place of subconscious adventure, when he heard a heavy thud that pulled him back into the waking world.

  He peered out of his cocoon and saw that Jehovah’s skeletal frame was still bowing his hammock ever so slightly, so he looked down to see if Gabriel had finally fallen over from fatigue.

  Gabriel, the steam-powered fishman, had indeed fallen over, but fatigue was in no way a factor, as his torso and arms looked to be wrapped tightly by a very large bat. Gabriel struggled to free himself, so Herbert decided he had better see what he could do to help. Quietly, he slipped out of his hammock and dropped down to a large branch that served as a walkway to the trunk of the tree, and he did his best to shimmy down it to the ground below.

  Gabriel had already partially removed the bat (or whatever the creature was) and Herbert West got his first good look at the thing when they rolled into a patch of moonlight.

  It looked like a stingray that had taken a wrong turn at the ocean, and Gabriel continued to struggle against it, as its flaps were once more pinning his arms to his side. Its tail was also tightly coiled around his left leg.

  The fishman’s almost frantic thrashing had roused Jehovah, who stuck his head out of his hammock and shouted down to Herbert West.

  “What the hell’s going on down there?” he asked. “What’s a man-dog have to do to get some sleep around here?”

  “Gabriel’s been attacked by some kind of fish,” Herbert replied. “I suggest you stay inside until I determine whether there are others.”

  Jehovah pulled his head back inside, but not before Herbert heard him complain. “What the hell kind of world is this that a fishman gets attacked by a flying fish in the middle of the goddamned woods?”

  Asks a dog with a human head, Herbert thought, and allowed himself time to smile.

  Knowing that Gabriel really didn’t need his help, Herbert stood back and watched the fight. With a fury that would cost a man his limbs, the fishman finally pulled his arms free from the creature and unspooled its tail from his leg.

  He pulled them tight, stretching them to the limits of his massive reach, and his bulbous eyes gaped at the creature’s
lamprey-like mouth that still sucked in his direction. Gabriel’s suit had once again protected him from harm.

  While Gabe held the creature at arm’s length, Herbert bent down to look through his backpack, which was propped up at the base of the tree, along with more of their supplies. Finding what he was looking for, he removed a small flashlight, and closed the pack.

  He didn’t like using it at night (but when else would one use a flashlight?), for fear of attracting unsavorys, but under the circumstances, he didn’t have a choice.

  He turned the crank until the flashlight illuminated the canopy above them, and his suspicions where realized. Dozens of the stingrays were hanging upside down from the branches above them, tails coiled around branches, flaps wrapped tightly, their eyes reflecting in the flashlight’s beam.

  He turned just in time to see Gabriel’s captive float like a leaf into the darkness, silently trailing its tail, which he now saw was tipped with a gleaming stinger.

  Herbert West still felt a little uneasy around the fishman, mostly due to the lack of communication between them (and the fact that his brethren had almost killed him all those months ago), but he had shown no ill will towards them thus far, and had actually come in quite handy a time or two, so Herbert was happy to foster the unspoken peace they shared.

  The rays that clustered in the treetops showed no interest in dropping on their heads, but Herbert West decided it best they move to another location, much to the dismay of Jehovah, who was usually the one begging to move on.

  They gathered their things, the heaviest being hefted by Gabriel, and marched single-file through the forest, Herbert in the lead, the fishman protecting the rear, and Jehovah hiding in the middle.

  The rain, which often contained unseen horrors, was turning into a downpour, but they were forced to leave the forest’s protection for the open land around it, and soon their luck ran out, as they seemed to be trapped between it and a river that was threatening to overflow its banks.

  The ground on the other side was high enough that Herbert West felt crossing the river was a good idea, and they looked through rain-soaked eyes for a way across. Gabriel stopped and seemed to be distracted by schools of fish that looked like diamond tears fighting the current, but soon he continued along, as if he realized he was the only one of the three protected from the elements.

  Down the river, they discovered a rope bridge that looked more like the crooked spine of some snake-like beast, and much to Jehovah’s dismay, it was decided that they would cross it.

  Cautiously, they crossed one at a time, with Gabriel following last. The bridge creaked with his weight but held, and the three made it safely to the other side of the river, which was now spilling over into the grassland that bordered on the forest. Herbert West knew their safety would be short-lived with the speed of the rising river, so without word, they continued to higher ground. The rain prevented much in the way of conversation, so he hoped that his companions would trust his instinct and follow; plus, he knew full well that Jehovah had a fear of water, and the effects it had on his rot-softened body.

  All they needed was some sort of shelter until the rain abated, and every once in a while, the Gods looked down on them and, with a cosmic hand, provided what they needed.

  Jehovah’s un-bespectacled eyes were the first to see the structures, and without regard for life or limb, he bounded past Herbert West and entered the nearest one. The storm was reaching its apex and demanded they seek shelter, so who was Herbert to argue? He quickly joined his companion in what looked like a very simple hut, constructed from a stucco-like substance. Without prompting, Gabriel stopped at the open door and stood just outside it. He looked in, turned around and stood outside, blocking much of the rain from entering.

  Jehovah shook himself, sending drops of water and other matter in every direction, then broke the silence by asking Herbert if he might start a fire, or at the very least provide him with a means of drying off. Herbert West obliged him by removing one of several shirts he had stuffed into his backpack, and while it was already wet from the rain, it helped a little in drying off Jehovah’s slight build.

  “We’ll stay here until the storm is over, then I’d like to look out back. I saw some odd looking structures that I’d like to check out,” Herbert said, throwing the shirt to the ground.

  “You’re not keeping that?” Jehovah said, slightly offended.

  “I thought we might burn it,” he responded. “It didn’t fit anyway.”

  Good to his word, Herbert West lit the shirt on fire, and even though it was wet and burned all too quickly, it helped to remove the chill from Jehovah’s exposed bones. With the sound of the rhythmic raindrops and Gabriel’s whooshing, they both fell into a dream-like slumber.

  Gabriel’s lack of communication skills seemed to bother him at times more than it did Herbert and Jehovah, and he would resort to using noise to get their attention, so they both awoke to the sound of the fishman pounding on the side of the hut they occupied, and as they looked about, shocking images filled their line of sight.

  The interior of the hut was intricately designed with bas reliefs of humans and creatures in agonizing poses, mouths agape, hands reaching out at unknown attackers. The walls were a jigsaw puzzle of pain.

  Sunlight came in from a window that lay bare a few feet from where Jehovah still lay, and outside, Herbert West could see that there were indeed more structures, some just like the one they slept in, and others far more alien.

  Herbert West was taking stock of his inventory and slipping his arm through his backpack when Gabriel again pounded the doorframe of the hut, this time dislodging a chunk of material that fell to the sandy floor with a hollow thud.

  “I believe he wants us to see something,” Herbert said, and walked towards the door.

  Jehovah followed with a spring in his step, having rested quite soundly the night before, and as they exited the hut, they found themselves surrounded by a village on a scale that neither of them imagined from what they saw the night before.

  Buildings of all shapes and sizes, placed in a most haphazard array, spread out on the sandy ground, and it was instantly noticed by both of them that they contained neither windows nor doors, just openings serving as both. The carvings apparent on the inside of their hut were mirrored on the outsides as well, some intricate, others barren.

  The wall of the closest building contained what were either a centaur or horse and rider, and another was composed of corpses stacked like logs, alternating the heads and feet of each.

  Jehovah noticed that Herbert West was ignoring these details and heading down a winding street towards the backside of town, when he called out, “Don’t you think we should find out who lives here?”

  Herbert replied, not caring if the words carried back to their intended recipient, “From the looks of things, this place has been abandoned for a long, long time. I have a feeling the key to a great many things lies in these ruins.”

  Jehovah ran ahead, leaving Gabriel to plod along, and he saw what Herbert West had been talking about the night before: Large pyramids lay on the outskirts of the town, and Herbert was making a straight line for them.

  “I’ve seen structures like these in our travels, Jehovah,” he said. “And this is our chance to finally investigate one up close.”

  “I don’t know, Herbert, maybe the reason why the town is empty is because whatever lives in those pyramids ate them,” Jehovah said dryly.

  “But won’t it be satisfying to know that?” Herbert replied as he stopped at the base of largest pyramid.

  “I honestly don’t care, Herbert. I’m more concerned about not satisfying what comes out of there,” he said, and walked towards the opening between the two structures.

  Jehovah noted to himself that the surfaces of the Pyramids were covered in the same humans, animals and creatures that were represents on the other buildings, and was about to point it out when he saw a creature that just about stopped his reanimated heart.


  “It’s OK, Jehovah,” Herbert said. “It’s stone like the rest. It must be their representation of the Sphinx, and these, the Great Pyramids.”

  The structure was immense, sixty feet tall or more, and looked like a single creature carved from stone. Its back was arched and mountainous; the hanging ribs forming the tresses. The multi-jointed legs, six in total, supported the roof. The head was flat, wide and slung low, and the eyes, several on each side, were leering.

  Herbert West’s explanation of the thing did little to calm Jehovah’s nerves, and he backed away in Gabriel’s direction, which, surprisingly, Herbert West was also doing. He removed his backpack as he did so, and once there, he grabbed the copper tank that was hanging from Gabe’s arm. He replaced it with the pack and put the tank on his own back, and, looking in Jehovah’s direction, he said, “Call it a hunch.” Then he donned a pair of goggles, an oxygen mask, and walked towards the statue.

  He disappeared behind the structure and left the two of them standing, without a clue to his intentions.

  In a blur that sent Jehovah reeling, Gabriel bent, picked him up and moved towards the closest clutch of huts, which were still a ways off. Jehovah shouted, then looked, then shouted some more, as he saw the sands beneath the statue shake, then part like the red sea.

  An insect the size of a short train rose from those sands and rattled, sand cascading down in sheets. It resembled a flatworm, its head bulbous with just a single feature: a circular mouth filled with razorwire teeth. Its body, which was made of flat segments, was suspended under an arch of segmented legs, each segment like an overturned thorn. When it moved (and it did so in a fluid, zigzag pattern), its body shook like a death rattle.

  Jehovah called out for Dr. West, but heard no reply. Gabriel clearly intended on protecting him from the creature, but what was an eight-foot-tall fishman going to do against a creature of that size?

  As they reached the closest of the huts, Jehovah jumped down, ran inside and made room for Gabe to enter, but he had already moved off towards the statue, no doubt in search of Herbert West.