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I got off the train together with a group of European witches who, from their conversations that, may I add, I was an unwilling participant of, seemed to have arrived for a summit taking place a few towns to the north where the track had not been laid. The merry company piled into a regular bus not far from the station while I hailed a taxi, and that was where our ways parted, but not before they had issued a polite invitation to me, for the summit’s unofficial part.
The cab driver – an older man who seemed unfriendly to everybody by default – was completely unperturbed by the address I gave him, only mentioning that it was going to cost me, for how far outside civilization (his words not mine) it was. We spent the trip in silence, which in my experience was unusual but preferred and even appreciated, and the only words we exchanged at the end of it were “here we are” spoken with a thick accent and followed by the end sum I owed, and a “thank you” on both sides. In any case, the peace and complete lack of fear the driver expressed over the destination of our rather short journey led me to think, the rumours were just rumours after all, for humans tend to be skittish when it comes to things such as the dead roaming the countryside outside their door.
The area around the manor appears dishevelled on the first look, and there are clearly not many people involved in keeping it in a good condition. If it were not for the gate and the walls surrounding the manor grounds that have been kept in pristine condition and well-secured, I would have almost believed that I had the wrong address, or that I had been chasing gossip all along. One of the old aristocratic families (a peculiar term that has had different meanings in different parts of Europe) owns this place, that I was sure of, with huge land surrounding a big house, and even with a private cemetery tucked into one corner. Curious beings, humans.
There was nobody in sight whom I could have asked to open the gate for me, and breaking and entering in these peculiar circumstances seemed… even less wise than what humans in horror movies do. Nevertheless, I felt like I was being watched. I wrote it down to a security camera that was probably hidden somewhere in the foliage or behind a fake stone in the wall and pointed at the gate. There was, however, a bell button on the wall next to the gate, so I did what any person would, under such circumstances: I pressed it.
The heavy wrought iron gate opened, with that testifying, there was somebody on the property. Unless, of course, a ghost or two had taken up residency in the manor. In which case this would only be a little less dangerous than the venture I originally embarked on. Fickly flavour of the undead, ghosts. Greatly enjoy a fresh meal in the shape of an unwitting trespasser’s soul, should the opportunity arise. Efficient hunters, too, especially in groups. The people who get to call themselves “ghost hunters” on popular media and internet can consider themselves lucky, for they have never met one. The ones who do not get to do that… well, they are the ones who actually came across one. Two lonely influencers wandering into something they should not would appease a ghost’s appetite for a month. If they dragged a whole team in with them, that’s a year at least.
I walked through the gate and down a mossy cobblestone path that at first wound through a second, living, wall that surrounded the property and was formed of old, tall trees and unkempt shrubs, and later continued among large semi-maintained flowerbeds with lilies, roses, carnations and gladioli. All flowers that have something to do with the funerary traditions of humans. And so, I was assured that a human lived there after all, for ghosts rarely, if ever, have a passion for gardening. The feeling of being watched was omnipresent now, and I began doubting it was due to a hidden camera, for I knew I could be in a domain where horror that most humans have only seen on television lurks in the shadows.
I had reached a large round flowerbed occupied by colourful hydrangea bushes and surrounded by a semi-circle of old statues depicting what humans think Angels must look like (not that there is much resemblance there), when I finally noticed them. There, behind broken columns that seemed to be the survivors of a larger composition on both sides of the path, lurked three figures.
“Oh, pardon my intrusion!” I might as well say something. Diffuse the situation and all that. “I must have taken a wrong turn at Berlin, never could tell the left from the right that well, you know. Mind directing me to the nearest train station?”
A little humour never hurt anyone; however, it notoriously has little effect on the undead. These three beings had been people once, but little seemed to have remained from those times, save for their rather… extravagant… appearances that would have sooner been at place at a punk gathering or a metal concert than in the middle of a garden like this. I reason, they must have been why I felt I was being watched earlier, for I do not for a moment believe the three zombies had manifested out of thin air seconds before I noticed them. The only thing that surprises me even now is how silently they had approached, for those struck by the ailment of Lazarus tend to make a lot of noise, for somebody who is quite dead, as they move about.
Nonetheless, there we were. I chastised myself for not having noticed anything earlier, or rather, for having become unreasonably careless. Running was not an option any longer at that moment, since the undead had me surrounded from three sides, the escape route on the fourth closed off by default, by the large hydrangea bushes. The zombies approached, their hands reaching for me, ready to claw, rend and tear my flesh. I figured, as I raised my hand, I would just have to come back later, and when I did, I would this time come prepared to take down whoever stood in my path.
“Halt!”
The voice came from the house, and to my surprise the zombies stopped as if waiting for an order, or a permission, to proceed. I decided, I would wait as well, for as cliché as it is, my enemies have always been very keen on telling me of their plans before attempting to kill me, and this appeared to be no exception.
“He’s a guest,” the same voice continued, sounding rather unimpressed and even displeased, if I may say so, about my presence and the commotion it had caused. Nonetheless, the three undead turned and just walked away. I could have sworn, one of them groaned in a most annoyed manner.
Well. I must admit there was no better time this could have happened. I would have personally preferred if this mysterious person had intervened a bit sooner, before I had made a fool out of myself by revealing I had come underprepared for confrontation with the undead, but I suppose one must count their blessings where they can.
Upon approaching the stairs that led to the elevated entrance, I was met by a man who had visibly not expected he would have to meet or entertain any guests today nor had he actually prepared to do so, far as I could judge from the stubble on his face, and the coat that he had carelessly tossed over a two-piece suit on his way out to see what the commotion was about. In the research I conducted before departing on my journey, I had not been able to find a coherent description of the person I was looking for, but if I had had to make an educated guess at that moment, I would have nonetheless said, that was him. There are usually things giving away a person’s identity even when no descriptors have been given beforehand, and both the impressive scar and the unnaturally blue eye (indeed, only one of them, for the right one had been turned white and dead by what- or who- ever had left the upper-mentioned scar) were telling me, as a figure of speech, of course, that this was, indeed, the person whom my sources had been referring to only by the humble name of Dr. Dead.
“Pale Man,” he addressed me before I could have spoken a word. Not particularly polite, but then again, I had not been particularly polite, either, barging in without an announcement or an invitation in advance. “To what do I owe the honour?”
“You always this kind to intruders?” I began ascending the stairs, for the man did not appear inclined in the slightest, to descend to meet me.
“I know who you are, Pale Man,” the man grimaced, “so I figured I’d listen to what you have to say. Might be interesting.”
“So, you wouldn’t have bothered for a regular bloke showing up? Does nobody here ever order takeout, or would that be one of those promotional mixed meal offers? Order over 40 Euro, and we throw in the delivery boy as a chew toy for your zombies.”
“You have not answered my question yet, Pale Man.” Here, he knocked on the ground a couple of times, with the cane he had been leaning on until now. I reckoned, that was a sign of him getting irritated. I tend to make people feel that way a lot, particularly those who have been dabbling in things normal people ought to avoid.
“I was in the neighbourhood, and I thought, well, if I’m here, might as well check on those weird rumours, maybe I’ll even get to see a real zombie, close up! You know, townspeople and their gossip.”
“What do you want?” my unwilling and unimpressed host repeated his question. “I hardly think you are here to ask to be turned.”
“I guess that answers my question.” It served me no purpose to delay things any longer. “You are Doctor Dead, then?”
“No, I am his well-meaning, chatty neighbour. The doctor lives down the road, in a cave. Of course, I am Doctor Dead! And you still haven’t given me a reason why I shouldn’t rescind my hospitality this instant.”
“Truth to be told, I cannot give you one, so you will have to decide that yourself.”
The doctor cocked an eyebrow at this peculiar confession of mine.
“There have been rumours circulating,” I continued. “Rumours of a mad scientist raising the dead. Rumours of a mad scientist with zombies under his command. I wanted to see for myself if there’s a lick of truth to them. You know, to skip ahead of the events, in case, quite inevitable, mind you, that you attract the attention of the people whom I really would not want to catch the attention of, myself. Got to be honest about that once in a while. Mostly annoying people. Religious organizations and the likes. Though nothing is more annoying that the American secret services. The Black Door group are a nuisance like you wouldn’t believe it. So. Is that a good enough reason, or am I going to be chased out the gate by your three pets? Mind you, I haven’t had a decent leg day in decades.”
“They are not pets,” Dr. Dead, who had been listening to my reason with a scowl on his face, corrected me, and I knew that I had achieved that which I wanted. “Very well.”
He gestured at the door, and I proceeded, with the doctor following. He closed the door behind us, and I found myself in a large hall with a grand staircase at the far end, and doors and corridors branching off into the manor itself. A large window behind the stairs opened to an overgrown inner yard, with an old fountain barely visible amidst all the brambles and bushes that had been permitted to run wild for years, if not entire decades.
We never ascended to the second floor, however, and instead the doctor followed a door to the right and led me into a perfectly normal drawing room.
“I am deeply disappointed by your lack of interior decorations here, doctor,” I noted, after I had taken a seat in the chair kindly pointed out to me by the host; it was one of a set that stood, facing each other. “Necromancers usually have such interesting, tacky stuff. Bones, ominous tomes, cursed pendants, dried human heads, cheap gift store daggers and bootleg wizard staves... you know, the works.”
(In my defence, that man looks exactly like somebody who would have all that and more on display.)
“I didn’t exactly have the time to prepare for your visit, Pale Man. Forgive my, for not getting my collection of human skulls ready on time for your viewing pleasure.”
Here, I was handed a glass of what was probably wine. I would have appreciated a question beforehand as to what kind of drink I wanted, or whether I wanted one at all, but I suppose an unannounced guest should not be picky in this manner. Anyway, going back to what I said before, it was probably wine.
“I assure you, Pale Man, I did not invite you inside just to poison you,” it appears my host was aware of the reasons for my hesitation, for he voiced my worries when he had taken a seat across from me. “If I wanted to get rid of you, I’d have simply let Victor tear you to pieces. He is very good at that.”
“What? And pass up the opportunity to obtain a new zombie? You wouldn’t even have to drag me in from anywhere, I’m already inside!”
“For one, this is my house, Pale Man, not my laboratory.” The doctor’s right eye twitched. “You think I’d be so stupid, to work where I live? Do you even know what that work entails? Think I’d be stupid enough, to bring the virus in here? And two, I haven’t heard you ask to turn you. Why would I need a zombie who didn’t want to be a zombie in the first place? No, that takes a long time. Much longer than if they consent. I don’t have the time for that.”
“So, it works on consent?” I have to admit, that is a new one. Neither the undead of Lazarus nor the Iron Dead normally stop to ask for permission, to add people to their ranks. Neither would they probably honour, a no. “That’s something you don’t hear every day.”
“I am sure you don’t, Pale Man.”
“You turn everyone who asks?” I finally took a sip from the glass I had been handed. A rather strong yet sweet wine; something my brother, Slate, would be able to appreciate much better than I did. But again, I guess I was not in the position to complain.
“Depends. There are people in this world who have some… odd… ideas about love and eternity. But, who of us wouldn’t want to see their loved ones live and be young, forever, so who am I, to judge.”
“I fail to see why people would ask to be turned in the first place. It’s not every day you exchange wows that swap ‘till death do us part’ for ‘and not even death will part us’. Are they,” I thought of what little I had seen upon my arrival, “conscious?”
“Every living being is conscious.”
“One of your creations out there seemed quite disappointed that you didn’t let it tear me apart.”
“That is Victor. I would think he was, indeed. But yes, if that is what you are asking, the three outside have a certain degree of… understanding… of their situation. Victor and Patient Zero are prototypes, to put it one way. Victor was the first one turned by Patient Zero, and Patient Zero… well, that’s self-explanatory. Tommy just… I seem to have simply acquired that guy, during early testing. Just my luck, we dug right where somebody had buried the poor sod earlier.
“Each of them have their own character and understanding of the world around them. Victor seems to have an affinity for art and cooking, and sometimes I wonder if he might have been an artist, before he sunk so deep to need saving. Tommy is the calmest, peaceful even, but you do not want to get between him and his hunt. And if you want somebody to give you a condescending talking down to, Patient Zero is your zombie. Or maybe it’s just me he gets confrontational with. I should test that sometime. Anyway, no, they are not just wandering corpses like the ones struck by the Lazarus virus.”
So, there is a consciousness in there, behind the dead eyes and the grey skin. I wonder if the people who come to see Dr. Dead, to be turned, are aware of the full extent of what their life is going to be like. Then again, humans are strange enough creatures, and I for one know that a lot of them would jump at the chance and do whatever it takes, to live forever, even if that forever looked like the trio wandering the doctor’s estate.
My concern, however, lay someplace else. There are necromancers among sorcerers. Show-off carnival clowns who do not present much of a concern, or a problem, because most of the time they are a danger to themselves rather than to those around them. Then there is Lazarus, whose only concern and purpose in life is to spread the disease a humble son of a carpenter bestowed upon him in an attempt to hammer out the kinks, as some people would put it, before his own grand comeback, which now grants people four days off and a heap of chocolate eggs that are impossible to eat with dignity. There is also Dracula, obsessed with perfecting the Iron Dead, which are an entire can of worms on their own.
And then there is this guy.
“So, what’s the purpose of this?” I decided there had not yet been invented a better way of learning things than asking outright. Maybe I would get lucky, for Dr. Dead seemed braggart enough about his achievements.
“Is it not clear?”
From the way he looked at me, I could tell the doctor was surprised. Annoyed, even, that I had asked about this detail rather than solving the mystery myself.
“Well, I truly, honestly see no reason to add more to the number of zombies already wandering around. Even if they are… special… zombies, to put it one way.”
“I do not think you realize how that sounds. But for the purpose of giving a completely obvious answer to an ignorant question; it’s the perfect human being that I am looking to create.”
“So, you’re what? Trying to be the next Frankenstein here?” Truly, the doctor’s words sounded like I had already heard them somewhere before. In a different manner, but the meaning was almost the same as when they had been spoken by Victor Frankenstein, as the latter waxed lyrical about life and death, and perfection, before it all came crumbling down around him. “I’ve seen how well that went.”
“Frankenstein? Oh, please, Pale Man! Frankenstein was a fool!” Dr. Dead appeared almost insulted by the comparison/insinuation, the way he spat that sentence out. “He succeeded at what he wanted to do, sure, but where’s the backup plan? The “ah shit, I didn’t mean to do this” plan? When faced with what he perceived as failure, he stuck his head in the sand and pretended everything was fine until it was too late. And look where that brought him!”
“He died while chasing his creation, wishing he had never made the Creature.”
“I have read the accounts on it.”
“The ones that the Watch has? How would one like you have access to their archives?”
“The Watch,” the doctor snarled. “Oh, spare me that nonsense! Half the time they don’t even know what it is they have on their hands, let alone what it means. On my ventures, I have indeed come across quite a few very… interesting… documents. There is an old proverb, in one part of this continent, that even the devil dances for money. You just need to know how much of it.”
I milled over these words in my mind. Information brokers were nothing new, having existed in each and every century before this conversation, and will likely continue to exist until the end of the time itself. At the end, it was not my business, or duty, to explain to people just how great of a trouble they could get into, should they come across information that was not meant for the eyes of anyone save for those on the Watch’s payroll.
Here, I was interrupted in an almost rude manner, for my host was unaware of what was going around in my head right now. And even if he were, I doubt I would have been granted the luxury to ponder on it some more.
“It’s funny you bring up Frankenstein and his failures, though, because you are not one to lecture me on the morals of turning people undead, Pale Man.” The doctor shook a finger at me, and I quite honestly did not know if to be insulted of amused by this gesture. “I know full well, you have dabbled in the obscure and what a lot of people would call, the dark arts. Anyone worth their salt knows that. And, I also know of your own zombies.”
This was a low blow, and one that I, admittedly, felt like I had deserved. The question of how my host had come to possess this knowledge, which I had tried to keep secreted away as best as I could, did not even cross my mind at first.
“I think that a man who created those poor beings,” Dr. Dead continued, “only to abandon them to a pitiful existence far away where he would not have to look at them, because he couldn’t face the duties his actions put upon him, regardless of whether to care for them or to destroy them, has no place to lecture somebody else who knows what he is doing and is fully prepared to bear the consequences, whatever those might be. You were thinking only of yourself and your want for… progress, as you put it, Alistair.”
“How do you know of this?” I wondered, at that moment, whether this was truly a regular human, or if there was perhaps an old acquaintance of mine in there merely piloting what had once been, a human being, around. Strangely, that seems to happen with enviably accurate frequency these days.
“Well, first of all,” Dr. Dead picked up his glass, “you seem to forget that, if you let us, humans, write up accounts of encountering the supernatural, then sooner or later somebody will look further into it. There’s folks out there who are quite dedicated to saving everything their favourite author, artist, musician or, hell, even mycologist, ever says or does. Now as well as in the past. You shouldn’t have let that old furball Sir Arthur babble around like that, even in front of a strictly limited audience. There was indeed a brilliant chap there who came home and wrote everything down almost word for word. Human brain can truly be a magnificent machine. And second, do you really think your Portland is the only city in the world with an under-city?”
I must have looked as perplexed as I felt, not that I enjoy admitting this, for here my host began laughing.
“Ever been to Brussels, Pale Man? Wonderful place, and you wouldn’t believe how it’s teeming with life on multiple levels!”
Brussels. Of course, it would be Brussels. I have to take a look around there, preferably soon.
For now, I filed that away in my mind and decided, unless I wanted this situation to last for longer than both of us probably wanted it to be, I had to come clear and state my other reason for this visit.
“I am not particularly interested in stopping you, quite honestly,” I admitted, and saw how my host’s eyebrows shot up at once in clear surprise.
“That’s a new one.” Dr. Dead narrowed his eyes, and for the first time I noticed a subtle movement of his hand, as if he were to reach for something in his pocket, out of pure instinct, the moment I spoke again.
So, there have been others before me. Possibly somebody from the Order, or perhaps a lackey of Dracula’s, and I can now guess the one reason why the Watch is not yet interested in the doctor. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or, as far as the Watch is concerned, a tolerated nuisance.
“In return for that, I have a request.”
“Hmm.”
All my cards on the table, we sat in silence for a moment again, save for the doctor’s fingers tapping the armrest of his chair.
“Show me how to cure the Lazarus virus, before it sets in. Before a bitten human becomes a zombie.”
His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think, I have a cure?”
“You were the one talking about a backup plan just now.”
Dr. Dead began cackling, in a very madman-kind of way. Honestly, I am surprised he had been able to keep up the appearance of a completely sane person until that very moment.
“And what if I do have a cure?” I swear, he was mocking me when he finally spoke. “Why would I just hand it to you, Pale Man? It’s not exactly in my best interests, for you to have something that you could use on my own creations.”
A good question. I would not be inclined to make promises, too, were I in his place.
“Like I said,” I picked up my glass and took a sip again, as I continued, for I saw I had to apply more pressure if I wanted to see things go my way, and I had full confidence in my fame that had clearly preceded me in this case, “I am not interested in meddling with your work, as long as you don’t decide to release your… creations… onto the general mortal populace. If you do, that’s when it will become a problem. However. As you can imagine, it is also not in my best interests, to let a mad scientist run (“Really now?”) around turning people into zombies, even if those specific zombies consent. At least not if there is nothing that I gain in return.”
I saw it in his face then. I saw how his nostrils flared, how his lips drew back as he flashed his teeth in a snarl, like an animal, for a second. I saw that Dr. Dead knew, he had been cornered without realizing it, and that he was, at that very moment, calculating a way out that did not include anyone’s untimely death, which would have looked very bad on everybody’s yearly review. I had to apply just a little more pressure, just another few words, and he would give in and do as he was told.
Here, the door opened, and we both turned our heads. Or I did, anyway, for Dr. Dead was sitting, facing it by default. A nice little arrangement, I must give that to the doctor, for I had a magnificent view of the large window behind the host’s back, where one of the undead figures had been looming right outside in the yard for the duration of our conversation. Incidentally, it was the same zombie who had been rather upset at not being able to do its job earlier.
“I heard voices in here, is everything alright, Se—” the girl who had just entered silenced at once, as soon as she saw me.
“Everything’s fine, dearest.”
She crossed the room (a pretty, young woman, I must admit, and matched in her attire and even colour choices to the doctor to the point) and took a seat next to the doctor, perching herself on the armrest of the chair. Without haste, the man took her hand and kissed it, after which they both turned to look at me.
“You didn’t say we were having guests,” the newcomer spoke.
“He’s not really a guest. More like a trespasser who was found stuck in a tree and got invited in.”
I guess that is one way to put it.
“If I am interrupting…” she began.
“You are just on time, dearest,” Dr. Dead interrupted her in a soothing voice, before he grinned at me.
Whoever she was, she had done, perhaps, the most important thing for the doctor in his life, without even realizing it herself. Namely, she had interrupted us and distracted me for long enough for Dr. Dead to find a way out of the corner I had driven him into just moments before the door opened.
“Colette will have a stroke if she has to change plans for dinner now,” oblivious to anything that had happened because of her, the girl spoke again, addressing the doctor. “You can be the one to tell her.”
“I assure you, Miss…” here, I spoke up, fearful this might continue for longer than I had the patience for, but also painfully aware that this was not the time to let it run thin; the ball was, as humans say, in the doctor’s court now, and I knew that he knew what the consequences could be.
“Missis!” the girl interjected, sharply, that being the first time she spoke to me directly.
“I assure you, Missis,” I corrected myself accordingly, “I will be long gone before I can cause a stroke in anyone. I arrived to see for myself whether the rumours might be true, and I find they are, indeed, true. I shall leave as soon as all matters have been settled.”
“He wants the antidote,” Dr. Dead interrupted me, seemingly no longer in the mood to dilly-dally around, either. Our conversation was clearly going on his nerves, especially after the last part of it, and that was not a good thing for anyone involved.
“You’re a hunter, then?” The newcomer raised her voice again, unbothered to hide the contempt she felt for me at that moment. “Oh, we’ve had to deal with your ilk! One of you, homicidal freaks, almost killed us both!”
“He is Lord Byron, dearest,” the doctor spoke up, gently, before she had had the chance to throw more insults at me. “The Pale Man. No need to be harsh with him. If anything, the creatures of the night speak good of him, if warily so.”
She seemed to know what that meant; clearly, there are very few, if any at all, secrets between this odd couple. This knowledge, however, did not seem to work to change her disposition towards me in the slightest. Neither did it appear as if Dr. Dead had shared it for that purpose.
He got up from his chair and took a breath, before making the first step and wincing. “Always a lovely feeling, that one. Imagine if you got up and were rested, but no. Don’t go anywhere, Pale Man. I mean it,” in an almost comical way, he shook his finger at me again, “for your own good. If you go wandering around, you might run into the boys again, and I really do not feel like running to save you right now. At all. Or you might also run into Madame Colette, or Stroud. Stroud has a gun, while Colette has a marvellous talent to promote just about anything she has in her hands at that moment, to a ranged weapon. Not sure which would be worse, to be honest. One would definitely be a lot funnier that the rest.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him,” the lady of the house promised, as she slipped from her peculiar seat right into the newly vacated chair and remained sitting in an utmost unladylike manner, her legs dangling over the armrest.
How utterly adorable humans are, in their belief that they would be able to prevent things from happening, should a higher being wish for them to happen. However, I did intend to remain in this room, for, truth to be told, I had no wish to walk right into the three undead outside, not to mention that leaving now would jeopardize the intention I had come here with.
“I’m trusting you,” the doctor agreed.
He then snapped his fingers, and the deadman outside the window perked up, watching its master most intently. The doctor pointed at the girl, and then he left the room, a limp to him as he walked. The deadman resumed his previous occupation, namely, standing on guard.
Other people would have probably found a topic for conversation. Something about weather, perhaps. Maybe a chit-chat about how the neighbourhood was not what it used to be. Us? We just sat in silence. I have never found idle talk to my liking, for it tends to distract from the important things, and the lady of the house likewise did not appear to be interested in a conversation. Indeed, the only time she acknowledged my presence was when she noticed my look, giving me a long one of her own in return, before she turned her head and looked out the window.
A strange girl. Of course, anyone who has willingly chosen to be as close to insane scientists as she is, usually has something strange going on about them as well, whether they like it or not. The fact is, I was and still am simply not sure what it was that I had in front of me there. A body snatcher, an old acquaintance of mine, or even simply a well-masked creature of the night would have already addressed me, if only to threaten me, as soon as the human was out of hearing range. She merely ignored me idly. In fact, the deadman keeping watch outside appeared more interested in me than this woman was.
Then again, people who assume there to be no hybrids from humans getting frisky with demons, angels, werewolves, shapeshifters and other supernatural beings able to reproduce with other species are… I suppose they sleep soundly at night. Just look at old Mags, if you need an example. And that is without taking all the human-esque races into question. Those lucky to pass as human sometimes never learn about their true origin. There are a lot of people going about their daily business out there who do not know one of their great- (etc.) grandparents was a shapeshifter, a werewolf, a witch, an elf, a dwarf, a goblin (etc. etc.), or some entity masking as human.
Now that I think of it, I find it unlikely she did not, at least subconsciously, know she would interrupt something very important if she opened that door.
It did not take long, for the doctor himself to return, and when he did, he carried a small plastic vial with him, like the ones that OTC painkillers are sold at the pharmacy.
“Here,” he tossed me the bottle, “the antidote. There is a catch to it, though.”
“Let me guess; whoever takes it, becomes your slave forever.”
“Ha! If only!” The doctor pretended to appreciate my attempt at a joke. “No, Pale Man, as much as I would enjoy that, it simply isn’t my style. The catch is, whoever takes these, must take one pill daily, until the day they die. Miss just one day, and the virus will come back with vengeance. Not even I could stop it then.”
“I take it, that is roughly the amount for a couple of months in there?”
“Observant, aren’t we?”
Of course, he would only give me a small amount. An insurance, that regardless of whom I pass them on to, I will not be interested in Dr. Dead’s own demise. Something we both know could inevitably make us accomplices, for I have no means of reproducing the substance on my own unless I want to march into the Watch’s HQ and declare, I have something that surpasses their own technology. At the same time, it is also something that says, he is not interested in a squabble between us. The antidote is a bone for me to throw at some poor sod, to make them reliant on me, for better or for worse.
Malicious compliance at its best. Bravo.
“And when they die? What becomes of them? Will they turn?”
When you are dead, you notoriously no longer have the ability to take any medicine, let alone an antidote that will keep your cold dead remains from reanimating as a ghoul, or a zombie, or even the Iron Dead (although I am not sure there even is an antidote to the latter, unless its fire, lots of fire, and more fire afterwards).
“No bloody idea.” The doctor shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that far in the testing yet. Maybe you’ll make a scientific discovery.”
I put the bottle away in my pocket, heavily aware of the fact that this did, indeed, link us together now. Such a small, insignificant item, to hold such tremendous power over people. I have walked into a trap of my own making, together with the insane doctor.
I bid my farewell to the lady of the house, before following the doctor out the door. I concluded that the girl was either not aware of her own heritage, or she simply did not care about me possibly knowing of her mysterious bloodline, for she made no attempt to follow us, instead choosing to remain seated and probably would stay so, until her husband returned.
I noted that my host had taken the cane with him. I suppose that meant I was going to be shown out the gate as well, to make sure I did not go wandering around where I was not supposed to. As for me, I was not particularly keen on the idea to do so in the first place, for I did not burn with the desire to run into Dr. Dead’s peculiar home security system again, one of whom I incidentally spotted hulking around the perimeter as soon as we had left the house.
“Oh, by the way,” I mentioned when we had already passed the infamous hydrangea bushes.
I have found that different people take these things differently. Most go into denial right after, some become unreasonably angry that you even dare suggest something like that, some become furious with the person in question, and some treat it as a joke altogether. I wondered which one the doctor would be.
“That lady of yours. Do you know she’s not entirely human?”
Some would say that I was feeling a little vengeful. Perhaps it was so. But mostly, it was that I, unfortunately, need this man alive from now on. So, this was done just in case if she turned out to be something of the unpleasant kind of the creatures of the night.
Then, on the contrary to what I had expected, the doctor laughed.
“Oh, yes, I know!” he stated, without missing a beat. “We’re just not sure what the non-human part is.”
Hm. Although what am I feeling surprised about? Something humans say, how did it go again… something about cups and lids. Far as humans go, I suppose these two have truly found somebody to match their freak, then.
We were almost at the gate, with only the last line of trees and shrubs separating us from the outside world, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement.
I stopped. Dr. Dead did, too, and quite honestly, I would have thought this to be a trap laid out for me, had he not looked just as perplexed about the situation as I was, when one of his zombies emerged from behind the trees.
“I said, he is a guest,” the doctor spoke, in an irritated tone.
The zombie – a fellow with a rather magnificent beard that put my brother’s to shame – paid no heed to its master, and instead shuffled up to me, albeit displaying no intention to attack. I suppose this was not something that the zombies were supposed to do, or if they were, it did not occur all that often.
It then said something in its almost-human voice.
“That’s a first,” the doctor commented, as if affirming my silent suspicion. “They normally don’t talk to outsiders.”
“What did it say?”
I had to know. I felt it was important, to know what the zombie had said to me. But here, the doctor hesitated.
“There was a word I do not know,” he finally admitted, when the silence had been too long to be comfortable. “The second one, I know. But the first I have never heard them use before. No idea what it means.”
“And what was the second word?”
I felt like I already knew the answer, and yet. I had to ask.
“Dances,” the doctor replied.