The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (60 page)

At the heart of the chaos, the creature confronted the only other survivor, gripping his shirt and swinging him round. Staverton found himself looking into the terror-stricken eyes of his former employer.

“I know you,” Robert Walton gasped. “You – ”

Anger welled up in Staverton. Anger at the loss of everything he had once wanted to be, anger at his rejection, and anger now at Walton’s ultimate cruelty. It sluiced away all other emotions. “I was one of the best you had, Walton.”

The creature’s grip on Walton’s shoulder tightened. “If he did not know that then,” it said, “he soon will. Open your bag. It is time to begin the real work.”

Robert Walton looked out of the tall window, studying the group of men below as they got into their black vehicles and began to leave the Institute. His eyes were cold, unemotional. Satisfied that the procession of cars would soon be swallowed by the forest, carrying back to Westminster its lackeys with their glib report, he turned. His movements were a little stiff, as if he were recovering from a minor accident. Those cold eyes met the uneasy gaze of Staverton.

“It must be nearly time,” said Walton in his deep, cultured voice. “My dear fellow, you must be exhausted. Such a demanding operation. But you can have all the rest you want soon.”

Staverton drew himself together with an effort. He looked as if he’d been without sleep for days, his face grey, his eyes shrunken.

“Come along,” said Walton suddenly. “Let us have done with this wretched business.”

Outside on the landing, two armed guards stiffened, but Walton spoke to them softly, reassuringly: order had been restored, chaos explained, glossed over. Then he motioned Staverton to follow him.

They went down into the heart of the Institute. There were no guards here, but at the foot of an old staircase, the door was securely
locked. Walton took out a thick key and undid the padlock, gesturing Staverton within. The latter went forward resignedly.

The chamber was lit by a number of dangling bulbs. Almost empty now, devoid of the frightful creatures that had until recently inhabited it, it boasted a single occupant, stretched out on a slab, a mock-tomb. A white sheet covered the being from the neck down.

Walton leaned over the face and its eyes flickered open. “Ah, we have chosen the perfect moment to come to you.”

The being on the slab, huge, misshapen, skin like putty, hair matted and straggling, tried to sit up, but failed.

“It will be a while yet before you are able to move,” said Walton. “But you will learn.”

Staverton watched grimly: it was like seeing a child playing with a damaged spider.

“I must congratulate you, Staverton,” said Walton. “Your workmanship is superb. Unique in fact. I am sure our friend would agree. Tell me, how was my first performance?”

The eyes in the creature stared up at him, fear mingled with loathing.

“Immaculate,” muttered Staverton. “None of them realized. None of them will ever know. You have become Robert Walton. You have his coldness, his cynicism, his lack of compassion. You have mastered that far more quickly than you have mastered your new body.”

Walton looked down at the prone figure. “Yes, it won’t be easy to forget the constraints of that monstrous shape. But you, Robert Walton that was,” he added, leaning closer to the eyes that bored into his, “You have a lifetime to learn how to manipulate it. Many lifetimes. Yes, so many lifetimes. Eternity, no less. It is what you always desired.”

“Dennis Etchison is a poet of loneliness and alienation” writes Ramsey Campbell in his introduction to the author’s first collection
, The Dark Country. “
His transplant trilogy is one of the most chilling achievements in contemporary horror I can think of; in particular, ‘The Dead Line’ manages to live up to the most horrifying first line ever written
.”

More recently, Etchison won the World Fantasy Award for his anthology
MetaHorror,
and the publication of such novels as
Darkside, Shadowman
and
California Gothic
have allowed him to develop as a stylist in the longer form. However, when he returns to the short story – as with the recent Bram Stoker Award-nominated “The Dog Park” (from
Dark Voices 5)
or in the classic tale which follows – it is easy to understand Campbell’s opinion that “Dennis Etchison is the finest writer of short stories now working in the field.” It also happens to be an opinion I wholeheartedly agree with
. . .

T
HIS MORNING
I put ground glass in my wife’s eyes. She didn’t mind. She didn’t make a sound. She never does.

I took an empty bottle from the table. I wrapped it in a towel and swung it, smashing it gently against the side of her bed. When the glass shattered it made a faint, very faint sound like wind chimes
in a thick fog. No one noticed, of course, least of all Karen. Then I placed it under my shoe and stepped down hard, rocking my weight back and forth until I felt fine sand underfoot. I knelt and picked up a few sharp grains on the end of my finger, rose and dropped them onto her corneas. First one, then the other. She doesn’t blink, you know. It was easy.

Then I had to leave. I saw the technicians coming. But already it was too late; the damage had been done. I don’t know if they found the mess under the bed. I suppose someone will. The janitors or the orderlies, perhaps. But it won’t matter to them, I’m sure.

I slipped outside the glass observation wall as the technicians descended the lines, adjusting respirators, reading printouts and making notations on their pocket recorders. I remember that I thought then of clean, college-trained farmers combing rows of crops, checking the condition of the coming harvest, turning down a cover here, patting a loose mound there, touching the beds with a horticulturist’s fussiness, ready to prune wherever necessary for the demands of the marketplace. They may not have seen me at all. And what if they had? What was I but a concerned husband come to pay his respects to a loved one? I might have been lectured about the risk of bringing unwanted germs into the area, though they must know how unlikely that is with the high-intensity UV lights and sonic purifiers and other sanitary precautions. I did make a point of passing near the Children’s Communicable Diseases Ward on my way there, however; one always hopes.

Then, standing alone behind the windows, isolated and empty as an expectant father waiting for his flesh and blood to be delivered at last into his own hands, I had the sudden, unshakable feeling that I was being watched.

By whom?

The technicians were still intent on their readouts.

Another visitor? It was unlikely; hardly anyone else bothers to observe. A guilty few still do stop by during the lonely hours, seeking silent expiation from a friend, relative or lover, or merely to satisfy some morbid curiosity; the most recently-acquired neomorts usually receive dutiful visitations at the beginning, but invariably the newly-grieved are so overwhelmed by the impersonalness of the procedure that they soon learn to stay away to preserve their own sanity.

I kept careful track of the progress of the white coats on the other side of the windows, ready to move on at the first sign of undue concern over my wife’s bed.

And it was then that I saw her face shining behind my own in the pane. She was alert and standing for the first time since the stroke,
nearly eighteen months ago. I gripped the handrail until my nails were white, staring in disbelief at Karen’s transparent reflection.

I turned. And shrank back against the wall. The cold sweat must have been on my face, because she reached out shakily and pressed my hand.

“Can I get you anything?”

Her hair was beautiful again, not the stringy, matted mass I had come to know. Her makeup was freshly applied, her lips dark at the edges and parted just so, opening on a warm, pink interior, her teeth no longer discolored but once more a luminous bonewhite. And her eyes. They were perfect.

I lunged for her.

She sidestepped gracefully and supported my arm. I looked closely at her face as I allowed her to hold me a moment longer. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

“Are you all right?” she said.

She was so much like Karen I had to stop the backs of my fingers from stroking the soft, wispy down at her temple, as they had done so many, many times. She had always liked that. And so, I remembered, had I; it was so long ago I had almost forgotten.

“Sorry,” I managed. I adjusted my clothing, smoothing my hair down from the laminar airflow around the beds. “I’m not feeling well.”

“I understand.”

Did she?

“My name is Emily Richterhausen,” she said.

I straightened and introduced myself. If she had seen me inside the restricted area she said nothing. But she couldn’t have been here that long. I would have noticed her.

“A relative?” she asked.

“My wife.”

“Has . . . has she been here long?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me – ”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” She moved in front of me. “I could get you a cup of coffee, you know, from the machines. We could both have one. Or some water.”

It was obvious that she wanted to talk. She needed it. Perhaps I did, too. I realized that I needed to explain myself, to pass off my presence before she could guess my plan.

“Do you come here often, Emily?” It was a foolish question. I knew I hadn’t seen her before.

“It’s my husband,” she said.

“I see.”

“Oh, he’s not one of . . . them. Not yet. He’s in Intensive Care.”
The lovely face began to change. “A coma. It’s been weeks. They say he may regain consciousness. One of the doctors said that. How long can it go on, do you know?”

I walked with her to a bench in the waiting area.

“An accident?” I said.

“A heart attack. He was driving to work. The car crossed the divider. It was awful.” She fumbled for a handkerchief. I gave her mine. “They say it was a miracle he survived at all. You should have seen the car. No, you shouldn’t have. No one should have. A miracle.”

“Well,” I told her, trying to sound comforting, “as I understand it, there is no ‘usual’ in comatose cases. It can go on indefinitely, as long as brain death hasn’t occured. Until then there’s always hope. I saw a news item the other day about a young man who woke up after four years. He asked if he had missed his homework assignment. You’ve probably heard – ”

“Brain death,” she repeated, mouthing the words uneasily. I saw her shudder.

“That’s the latest Supreme Court ruling. Even then,” I went on quickly, “there’s still hope. You remember that girl in New Jersey? She’s still alive. She may pull out of it at any time,” I lied. “And there are others like her. A great many, in fact. Why – ”

“There
is
hope, isn’t there?”

“I’m sure of it,” I said, as kindly as possible.

“But then,” she said, “supposing . . . What is it that actually happens, afterwards? How does it work? Oh, I know about the Maintenance and Cultivation Act. The doctor explained everything at the beginning, just in case.” She glanced back toward the Neomort Ward and took a deep, uncertain breath. She didn’t really want to know, not now. “It looks so nice and clean, doesn’t it? They can still be of great service to society. The kidneys, the eyes, even the heart. It’s a wonderful thing. Isn’t it?”

“It’s remarkable,” I agreed. “Your husband, had he signed the papers?”

“No. He kept putting it off. William never liked to dwell on such matters. He didn’t believe in courting disaster. Now I only wish I had forced him to talk about it, while there was still time.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I said immediately. I couldn’t bear the sight of her crying. “You’ll see. The odds are very much on your side.”

We sat side by side in silence as an orderly wheeled a stainless-steel cleaning cart off the elevator and headed past us to the observation area. I could not help but notice the special scent of her skin. Spring flowers. It was so unlike the hospital, the antisepticized cloud that
hangs over everything until it has settled into the very pores of the skin. I studied her discreetly: the tiny, exquisite whorls of her ear, the blood pulsing rapidly and naturally beneath her healthy skin. Somewhere an electronic air ionizer was whirring, and a muffled bell began to chime in a distant hallway.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gone on like that. But tell me about your wife.” She faced me. “Isn’t it strange?” We were inches apart. “It’s so reassuring to talk to someone else who understands. I don’t think the doctors really know how it is for us, for those who wait.”

“They can’t,” I said.

“I’m a good listener, really I am. William always said that.”

“My – my wife signed the Universal Donor Release two years ago,” I began reluctantly, “the last time she renewed her driver’s license.” Good until her next birthday, I thought. As simple as that. Too simple. Karen, how could you have known? How could I? I should have. I should have found out. I should have stopped your hand. “She’s here now. She’s been here since last year. Her electroencephalogram was certified almost immediately.”