Reanimators Read Online Free Page B

reanimated Sally Moore, but I had no reference data with which to understand her life prior to her death; thus when I saw her with her family, I assumed that she had successfully reintegrated, that she was the human equivalent of a risen. Now I knew better, for the frozen child who sat before me was indeed Sally Moore who had returned from the dead not as a risen but as a morbid. Like all morbids, Sally had succumbed to an organic malaise, and in the end she did the only thing that made any sense to her melancholy mind. Unable to function with her family she returned to the last place that seemed to matter to her, the place where she had died. The place she now sat frozen, staring accusingly at my home and laboratory, the place where I had robbed her of that death, and dragged her back into a perverse imitation of that life.

Chapter 3.

    A DEATH IN BOLTON

    It had been just over six months since the death of both my parents at the hands of what had once been Dr. Allan Halsey, who had been brought back to a semblance of life through the reckless actions and research of Herbert West. I swore then in those horrid days that I would wreak vengeance on West, and I spent my nights studying, experimenting, understanding and then finally even surpassing West’s research into reanimation. As West had limited his experiments to men alone, his progress had been horrendously slow, hampered in part by my own not-infrequent sabotage of his work. In contrast, I had begun my work with rats, and such experiments, so many experiments, had moved my knowledge of reanimation beyond even West’s understanding, so much so that in my first attempt to use the reagent on a human I succeeded beyond anything West could have hoped for. Sadly, the subject, a child of just eight years, fell victim to a terminal malaise that seemed a common affliction of my rodent subjects, an affliction I had not yet been able to avoid.
    As February had been bitterly cold, March was unseasonably warm, and I seized the opportunity such mild weather presented to make the trip from Arkham to Bolton to spy on West and, if possible, tamper with his laboratory and reagent. For the most part, the train trip was uneventful and the only thing worth noting was the presence on the train of a most curious individual. According to a helpful steward, the Negro was “Buck” Robinson, an amateur pugilist, and a magnificent specimen of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall and weighing in at over three hundred pounds. The train was crowded, and while many of the passengers were obviously afraid of the fighter, I held no such prejudices. When I asked if I could join him, he graciously adjusted his not inconsiderable frame to accommodate me.
    He was a congenial fellow, and he had a way of speaking that was warm and inviting. His name was James Buchanan Robinson, named by his grandfather who had been an admirer of the president who had worked so hard to balance his desire to abolish slavery and maintain his Federalist views on the Constitution. Robinson, however, was not overly fond of his namesake; he had studied law and politics at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, and greatly disagreed with how Buchanan had administered his presidency. The current Republican administration was, he felt, much more progressive, making great strides in curbing the power of corporations, while supporting unions and workers.
    After nearly twenty minutes of conversation I suddenly smiled and let loose a little chuckle. I apologized, and explained that I was surprised that such a well-spoken and educated man would be involved in fisticuffs. Robinson nodded. In college he had run into money problems, and turned to fighting to pay the bills. After a half dozen fights, it became apparent that he had some aptitude. A promoter recruited him, dubbed him “The Harlem Smoke”—despite the fact that he was from Atlantic City—and when he was between semesters or on college breaks, he would schedule a few fights