RE-ANIMATOR:   ROAD  KILL

The sound of gunshots echoed around the deserted, darkened streets, cutting through even the sounds of the thunder and lightning. Police sirens droned in the distance, growing ever closer.     The black hearse wheeled around the corner, out of the darkness, with a screech of brakes, the headlights cutting through the sheets of rain.  A few seconds later, the cop cars, sirens still screaming, rounded the same corner, following the hearse in hot pursuit.
      Within the hearse, conditions weren't much better. A young man, probably only a few years out of his teens, lay groaning on the back seat, his hands clutched over his stomach. In the half-light, all that could be glimpsed of his condition was a wet, dark fluid leaking out of his stomach, slipping through his fingers.     There were two other men in the car with him, one of whom was driving, the other of whom was working to staunch the youth's bleeding. Both had powerful handguns, Magnums by the looks of them, nearby.
     The one who was leaning over the young man was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a lean, angular face and black hair. The driver was in his late forties, with graying brown hair and a long scar on side of his face.
   "For Chrissakes, Bruce!" yelped the driver. "What the fuck's going on back there?!"
   "The kid's dyin', you asshole!" snarled Bruce. "If it hadn't been for you -"
   "Hey, hey, how the Hell was I supposed to know the cops were settin' us up, hahn? What am I, psychic or something? Jesus! I'm just the driver, for God's sake!"
    "I told you, how many times did I fuckin' tell you?! It was a set-up. Jesus Christ - Roubisoni's gonna be furious. First the restaurant hit, then his wife, and now -"
      The young man gave a loud moan. Bruce ground his teeth, and gripped the young man's hand. "It's okay. You're gonna be okay, Clive, I promise."
    Bruce glanced back up at the driver. "Anthony?"
    Anthony sighed through his teeth. "What?"
    "Lose these cops, okay? Then get us to a hospital. Quickly."
    "Which hospital?"
Bruce exploded. "ANY fuckin' hospital, you dipshit! Just do it right Goddamn _now_!!"
    "Okay, okay," grumbled Anthony, swerved sharply to the left, into a back street, and began to head for Chicago General.
 

The first thing Agent Lance Madsen saw, as his eyelids fluttered open, was the face of Herbert West, in front of him, leaning his chin on his hand, a faintly victorious smile touching his lips. "Ah. I see you're back. About time, too; I was beginning to think it hadn't worked."
     Madsen blinked a few more times, and tried to speak. For some reason, though, it was difficult to say anything; it almost felt as if he had laryngitis. Eventually, though, he managed to croak out one word:
     "Baaaaaaaaacccckkkk....?"
     "Yes, back," said Herbert distractedly, checking his watch and picking up a nearby tape recorder.
       Madsen took a breath, then asked, suspiciously: "Frrrooommm wheeeerrrrre...?"
       Herbert clicked the record button, and began to speak. "Re-animation at one point thirty-two seconds. Subject seems to have suffered no re-animation trauma..." He glanced back at Madsen, a smile quirking his lips. "Well, none more so than expected, anyway. Having difficulty speaking, though. More re-agent may be required."
       "Whaaaaattt..." growled Madsen "...Arrrrrre you _taalkkkiiiinnnggg_ abouuuttt...?"
       "Oh, don't lose your head just yet, Agent Madsen," Herbert said, beginning to giggle unsettlingly, as he took a small vial of glowing liquid from his shirt pocket and dipped a syringe into it. "Just wait while I give you some more re-agent, then we'll talk. Mano a mano. Or mano a cranium, as the case may be."
      Before Madsen could reply, Herbert leaned behind him, syringe in hand.
      Madsen's first instinct was to resist, but, to his horror, found that he could not. He couldn't even turn his head to one side to see what West was doing. _Good God...has he paralysed me?!_
      "Whaaattt..." he tried to ask, then winced at the sharp jab in the back of his neck. Herbert came back into view once more, the syringe in his hand now empty. He laid it to one side on the table, then sat back down in the chair in front of Madsen, his head leaned to one side and his hand resting on the side of his face, observing Madsen with a look of amusement.
      "Oh, do go on, Agent Madsen. I think you'll find it much easier to converse with me now."
      Madsen cleared his throat, and instantly the ability to speak normally returned to him the next time he opened his mouth. His voice was weak, and stunned, but nonetheless clear.
     "What's going on, West? The last I remember...is looking in the desk drawer." His voice became suddenly angry; for a moment Herbert thought that perhaps Madsen had remembered what had happened, but, thankfully, this was not the case.
"Have you shot me up with something? Is that it? You bastard, you've paralysed me or something, haven't you?"
      Herbert chose his words carefully, though when they were delivered, they were not without satirical overtones.  "Well...suffice it to say, Agent Madsen, you're not exactly going to be going salsa dancing any time soon."
     "What do you _mean_?" yelled Madsen. Herbert quickly moved forward, and covered Madsen's mouth with his hand. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Do you want to get us both arrested? Security guards prowl these corridors by night, you know."
     "Just tell me what's going _on_, West!" hissed Madsen, narrowing his eyes malevolently. "Just tell me...and maybe I won't press charges."
     Herbert gave a snort of laughter. "Trust me, Madsen, you are _not_ likely to attempt to do _that_ any time soon, either."
     "Why not?" Madsen shot back, his voice growing more desperate by the minute. "West...I can't feel my body. Why can't I feel my body?"
      "That's just it." Herbert bit his lip to keep from laughing, but his eyes sparkled with malicious glee. "You don't have one. Not any more."
       Madsen stared at Herbert in open-mouthed horror, his eyes widening.   He tried to speak, twice, but his voice failed him. At last, he managed to get the words out: "What the Hell have you _done_ to me?!"
     Herbert shrugged. "What can I say? Those desk drawers nowadays are real death traps. What can you trust, I ask you, if not office furniture?"      Madsen stared at Herbert with a kind of hysterical blankness. "You - cut - off - my - head - in - a -_desk_ - _drawer_?!"
     "That's what I'm saying, yes."
Madsen stared some more, then began to laugh nervously. "No. No, this can't be. I'm talking to you, aren't I?   I _must_ be alive. This is ridiculous!"     "Oh, of course you're _alive_," chuckled Herbert. "I don't think either of us puts much faith into tales of the `living dead', or other supernatural nonsensities. No, Agent Madsen, I can assure you, you are very much alive."
He paused. "Well, in a manner of speaking. You can thank my re-agent for that much."
      As the truth began to dawn on him, Madsen gave a long moan, and closed his eyes. "You murdered me. Then you brought me back. Of course. What could I expect of Dr. Herbert West?" he muttered, more to himself than to Herbert.
     Herbert looked at the severed head in irritation. "Oh, no self-pity, please. You have no idea how much it grates on my nerves."
     "I'd like to run a fucking cheese-grater over your nerves," hissed Madsen, his blue eyes filled with venom.
      Herbert folded his arms. "I don't think you're in much of a position to threaten, Agent Madsen. What would you propose to do, anyway? Bite off my wrists, perhaps?"
     With a sinking feeling in his brain, Madsen realised Herbert was right.   There really was nothing he could do. He was handicapped. Hell, he was _beyond_ handicapped. The only thing left to do was accept the situation.   And bite off Herbert's wrists, first chance he got.
     "Okay," the head said, quietly. "You win, West. What are you going to do with me?"
     Herbert grinned. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You see, Madsen, I'd actually given up re-animation when you came along, because Dan didn't approve. You can imagine how very frustrating that was for me..."
     "Actually, West, I'm finding it incredibly hard to sympathise with you right now."
Herbert continued, ignoring him. "...So, when the opportunity - that's you - presented itself to me practically on a silver platter, well, how could I resist?
     "Forty thousand people die every day, Agent Madsen. I'm sure that at least ninety per cent of them are more likeable than you. I'm sure that far more than that are more deserving of re-animation than you. You were really just a poor dullard in the wrong place, at the wrong time, saying the wrong things to the wrong person."
   Madsen gazed forlornly at Herbert, still uncomprehending. "But..._why_?"
Herbert smiled at him. "To prove that I still could."
 

Bruce slammed a fist against the hospital doors. "Jesus Christ almighty - open up in there, you _bastards_!"
     "There's nobody there, Bruce," Anthony interrupted in an irritable tone of voice, holding Clive upright. "It's nearly midnight. Everyone's gone home."
    Bruce shook his head vigorously, and pounded his fist down on the intercom. "Hello? Is anybody there? For God's sakes, a man is dying out here! Pick up, for the love of Christ, _pick up_!!"
 

Herbert spun around in alarm at the sudden crackle of static on the intercom on the wall. "At _this_ hour...?" he muttered, moving across to the wall.   Over his shoulder, he called to Madsen's head, "Stay quiet, all right?"
      "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere," Madsen rejoindered sarcastically.
Another crackle of static from the intercom, then a voice, a man's voice, desperate and near-hysterical. "...Lo? Is anybody there? For God's sakes, a man is dying out here! Pick up, for the love of Christ, _pick up_!!"
     After a moment's hesitation, Herbert pressed the button and spoke into the intercom. "Hello? This is Dr. Phillips."
     "Oh, thank God - can you open the doors, please? We need help here, we got this kid, he's - aww, shit - he's dying, please, just help us get him to emergency..."
      Herbert paused, torn. He glanced behind him at the blood-soaked office and the glaring severed head, shrugged, then turned back to the intercom, and pressed the button that opened the doors.
 

The buzz of the door signalled to Bruce that Dr. Phillips, whoever the Hell _he_ was, had acquiesced. "Right," he yelled to Anthony, kicking open the doors. "Get him in."
      No sooner had Bruce, Anthony and Clive entered the building than the elevator doors opened, revealing a short, dark-haired, bespectacled man in surgeon's garb. Bruce spotted him, and rushed over to him, yelling, "Hey! Hey, you!"
     "No need to shout, Sir," the doctor replied. "I'm Dr. Phillips. You have the patient?"
     "Yeah! Yeah, he's just there!" Bruce waved a frantic arm in the direction of Clive and Anthony.
     "Right," said Phillips. "Get him into the operating theatre."
Bruce nodded, ran back over to Clive, and picked him up by the feet, as Anthony still held onto his arms. "Which way?" he yelled to Phillips.
     Phillips pointed into the nearest room. "In there."
Bruce and Anthony hastily moved the by-now-unconscious Clive over into the operating theatre, and laid him down onto the slab. Phillips snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a surgical instrument from the set laid out in front of him. "Bullet wound to the stomach, am I correct?"
    "Yeah," said Bruce, mopping the sweat off his forehead. "We were, uh, in this bar and..."
    "Save the alibis for the judge. I'm just a doctor; I don't care what you've done."
Phillips began to operate, then suddenly looked up sharply. "If you two wouldn't _mind_, you had better get out of here. Right now."
      Anthony started to remonstrate, one hand under his coat for his gun, but Bruce stopped him. "Okay. You're the doctor. Come _on_, Tony."
     As the two men trooped out of the room, Herbert turned to the motionless boy lying on the operating table before him. He picked up a stethoscope, placed it over the boy's heart, and listened. Just as he'd suspected; the young man had already joined the Choir Invisible. However, something about the manner of the duo who'd delivered him here told him that informing them that their companion had died was not the wisest course of action.
     Herbert put the stethoscope away, and looked back down at the dead boy.  Then he gave a faint smile. "Well...as long as I'm on a roll this evening..."
 

Anthony paced up and down the corridor, muttering angrily under his breath.   Bruce sat back in a nearby seat and pulled back a sharp drag on a cigarette, his eyes full of worry.
     Anthony suddenly spun around and snapped: "Goddamn it, Bruce, we shoulda jumped him when we had the chance!"
    "The doctor? Tell me, Anthony, if we'd done that, who'd be working to save Clive's life now, huh? Who'd be, by association, working to save our own skinny asses from the wrong end of Roubisoni's revolver? Huh? You wanna
tell me that, Tone?"
     Anthony glowered. "Fuck you, Bruce. Listen, say what you like, but I got a real weird feeling around that guy. I dunno, I just didn't feel like we could trust him not to, you know...rat us in to the cops or the feds."
      "Relax." Bruce opened his jacket to display his Magnum. "Once the surgery's finished, so's he. Maybe once he's got a bullet through the head your `weird feeling' will disappear."
       Anthony ran a hand through his hair. "Shit, man. I didn't think this would get so fucked up. If Clive doesn't pull through, Roubisoni's gonna rip out our lungs and feed 'em to his _dog_, man."
      "Oh, shut your hole," sighed Bruce, standing up. "I don't wanna think about Roubisoni right now, okay? I'm gonna get me a coffee. You want one?"
      Anthony nodded. "Yeah. Straight black."
"I know, I know."
Bruce turned on his heel and walked further up the corridor to the elevator and pressed the `Up' button. The doors closed behind him.
       Within the elevator, Bruce nervously puffed away on his cigarette.  He'd known the risks of the job before he'd even been assigned to take it. A simple bank knockoff, right? Yeah. Right. Someone from the Henenlotter Family must have tipped off the cops, and Bruce was willing to bet it was the same bastard who'd iced Linda a few months back.
     Yeah. Linda. Roubisoni'd taken that real hard. Before that, a whole bunch of his boys were wiped out at a local Italian place, two minutes after finishing their meal. That had been a blow, but nothing like the devastation Roubisoni'd suffered when Linda was offed.     Since then, Roubisoni seemed to have lost all interest in the Family.  He never left his mansion, and just sat there, staring out the window all day. He paid no attention to Family affairs, and had become a shell of a man. Oh, yeah, he still sent them out on jobs - this latest disaster, for one - but could not seriously be considered active any more.    Naturally, the Henenlotter Family had taken the opportunity to encroach even further upon the Roubisonis' turf, trying to make themselves into the new big shots of Chicago.
    All in all, it had not been a terrific past few weeks.
    The doors opened with a PING, interrupting Bruce's train of thought and heralding his arrival on the fifth floor. Bruce stepped out into the silent, darkened corridors of the abandoned hospital.    He looked around, making sure that no-one was around who might remember his appearance in future interviews with police. Once he'd ascertained that there was nobody here at this time of night - except, natch, for that weird Phillips quack - Bruce moved off down the corridor towards the dim light at the end of the corridor, exuding from the instant coffee machine.
     Bruce looked around nervously, even though he knew himself to be alone. Still, hospitals had a tendency to unnerve him, with their tomb-like corridors and the whole aura they gave out - an aura of pain, and sickness, and death. Bruce stayed away from hospitals as much as he could, even though once, during an incident involving his hand and a chainsaw, he'd had to come
in for emergency surgery. That had been a long time ago, though, and he preferred to forget that particular experience.
   He reached the coffee machine, inserted some money, then, after a moment's wait, took the two cups of steaming black liquid from the dispenser, and began to walk back down the long corridor to the elevator. Almost idly, he wondered how Clive was doing. If the kid had died, there'd be Hell to pay.
   Bruce stopped in his tracks. He'd _heard_ something just then. Strains of a voice, maybe?
   He put down the coffee cups on one of the nearby seats, reached into his jacket, and drew his gun with a `click'. There it was again; a soft, rhythmic sound. After listening closely for a moment, Bruce realise: it was _singing_. A Patsy Cline number, from the sound of it.     It was coming from one of the office doors. Bruce slowly walked up the corridor, keeping the sound of his footsteps soft, and listened. He was definitely getting closer; the sound of the singing was getting louder as he moved on. Finally, he stopped in front of one door, pressed his ear against it, and listened in. Yep, whoever it was was definitely in here; he could hear the singer's voice emanating from within, doing Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight".
    Bruce took a deep breath, and called "Hello? Who's in there?"
    His voice echoed through the halls. Within the room beyond the door, there was a sudden, shocked silence. Then, the voice, a high, girlish one, but with enough of a tenor to identify it as belonging to a male, tentatively called back: "Who's that?"
    "I asked first."
   The voice paused. Then: "My name is Lance, Lance Madsen. Who is this?"
   Bruce decided it'd be best to use an alias. "Hi, Lance. I'm Ashley Williams.  Hey, are you a doctor?"
   The voice gave a mirthless chuckle. "No. I most certainly am not. I'm a Special Agent for the FBI." A beat. "Well...I used to be. Before _West_ got to me."
   Bruce frowned in confusion. "Hey, are you in some kinda trouble in there?"
  Another heavy pause. "How to respond to this one..." Bruce heard Madsen mutter. "Well, suffice it to say that there is a reason I haven't answered the door yet."
    Bruce put a hand on the doorknob, and began to twist it, but Madsen suddenly cried out, sharply, "Don't do that!"
    Bruce, startled, let the door snap shut again. "Thank you," he heard Madsen sigh.
Bruce ran a hand through his black hair. "Say...if you're in trouble, do you want me to go get Dr. Phillips? When he's done operating, that is..."
      Madsen gave a strangled gasp. "No! Absolutely, positively NO! Don't you know who he is - what he's _done_?"
      Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Uh...no. Can't say I do."
"He did this to me. It was _him_. He...Oh, look, never mind what he did to me. Just listen to me: get out of here, right now. While you still can. The man you know as Phillips is not what he seems to be. He's insane, a dangerous criminal, a murderer. Just _get out_ of this hospital, and call the police."
      Bruce's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
The voice gave an exasperated sigh, then began to speak again, in a voice that carried the weariness of one who has explained this to many people many times, and is not looking forward to explaining it again. "His name isn't really Dr. Howard Phillips. It's an alias. His real name is Dr. Herbert West. You _have_ heard of Herbert West?"
    Bruce could feel his blood starting to turn to ice. "The guy who used to..._do_ things to dead bodies? Inject them with stuff, bring 'em back to life?"
    "That's the one."
    "But...but he's _dead_!"
    "No, he's Dr. Howard Phillips."
    Bruce suddenly reeled back in horror, realising what was going on. "And that means ...my God, he's operating on Clive!"
   The voice drew a sharp breath. "Ohhh. You're the one who was with the dying man outside, aren't you? I heard you on the intercom. All right, listen to me. Go, now. Don't try to save your friend - it's already too late for him. Just get out and save yourself. Don't try to approach West - or you'll end up the same way as me. Just get out, away from this place, and
away from _him_."
    Bruce gnawed his lower lip, frantic with indecision. "No. Not yet. I have to go get Clive."
    The voice blustered. "Wha - juh - will you _forget_ about Clive?!
    Clive is dead! Do you hear me? If he went into the operating theater with West, he is D - E - A - D! Do you under_stand_, Ashley? Do you comprehend the _meaning_ behind my words? Just save yourself!"
   Bruce paused, thinking it over. Finally: "Okay, fine. I'll leave. But I'm taking you with me. We're gonna go to the cops, and you can explain everything."
    "NO!" shrieked the voice. "Leave me! Don't come in here! Don't - "
    Too late. Bruce's hand was on the doorknob, twisting it, and then pushing the door open with a loud SLAM.
      Bruce leapt into the room, his gun drawn in one hand. Then, taking in the sight before him, he froze. He was rendered actually incapable of moving by the sight that greeted his eyes.
      The office was soaked, drenched, in blood and gore. In the center of it all, resting on the desk, was one severely pissed-off-looking severed head.
     "Well," said the head, blood dripping from its lips. "I hope you're very satisfied."
Bruce stood there, his eyes as large as dinner plates, for what felt like an eternity. He clapped a hand to his mouth to stop himself from screaming, or vomiting, or both.
    "What's the matter?" enquired Madsen's head sardonically. "Have I offended you in some way?"
    Bruce could not bring himself to reply. With a strangled cry of horror, he slammed the door shut, and raced back down the corridor, towards the safety of the elevator. There had been madness in that office, a nightmare, almost the exact embodiment of every anxiety he'd ever had regarding hospitals.     The human mind has amazing capabilities of rationalisation; almost
every horror that life can throw at it, it can somehow make palatable. It is a kind of screening process; those minds that cannot screen it, inevitably go mad.
      By the time the elevator hit the ground floor of the hospital, Bruce had almost managed to rationalise what he had seen in that room. _It had to be something else. Some disabled guy. Maybe he was just sitting behind the desk or something and I didn't see his body and naturally mistook that for..._
      This rationale was quickly and brutally interrupted when the elevator doors opened, and immediately, the body of his partner, Anthony, came flying through the air right at Bruce, smacking into him with full force, knocking him back into the elevator. Bruce uttered a piercing scream, releasing all the tension that seeing the head had created in him, and pushed Anthony off him. "Tony! Tone...you okay?!"
     No answer. Anthony was still breathing, but was definitely out cold, with a huge bruise on one side of his face. Bruce pushed his partner aside, and leapt out into the corridor, clutching his gun so hard his fingers ached.
      From within the corridor, an intense, blood-chilling shriek sounded, but a shriek unlike any Bruce had ever heard - and he'd heard plenty. It wasn't the kind of shriek he'd ever heard anything human utter. It was the shriek of the damned.
    Suddenly, shockingly, something burst out from behind the corner. It stood about six feet tall, and seemed to be - perhaps once had been - human. It was only just barely recognisable as such, though; its skin was so pale as to be completely without color, apart from a faint bluish tinge, and its hair was matted with blood, which also dripped - no, _gushed_ - in a steady stream from its open, slack-jawed, black-lipped mouth. But by far the most horrifying, the most utterly nauseating, thing about it was its stomach. Or lack thereof.
       The thing's entire belly had been split - or perhaps shot - wide open, splattering thick red blood all over the floor, and allowing for a perfect, unobstructed view of its internal organs, intestines, kidneys and stomach, which seemed to squelch and move around, the way they would if the skin covering them were still there.
      That such a thing could be in that condition and still be alive challenged all sane reason, and yet, it _was_; shambling and uttering those wet, choking screams. But despite its physical condition, there was nothing in its speed to indicate that it might be handicapped in any way. It was heading toward Bruce at incredible, perhaps even supernatural, speed, its intentions clearly not peaceful.
        As this thing hurtled itself toward Bruce, a third figure suddenly scooted out from behind the corner and into the corridor. It was, of course, none other than the doctor, Phillips, or, as Bruce now knew him, Herbert West. His calm, cool demeanour earlier exhibited had by now all but vanished; his hair was mussed, his clothes spattered with blood, and he had a large, bleeding gash down one side of his face.
     Upon seeing Bruce, Herbert screamed out: "Use the gun, man! For God's sake, _use the gun_!!"
      But Bruce was rendered incapable of doing anything, not only by sheer horror of this thing before him, but by the truth, slowly dawning on him. He knew what - who - this creature was.
      "_Clive?_" he whispered.
Clive, by way of response, gave another blood-curdling howl, and launched himself at his former partner, wrapping one hand around Bruce's neck and lifting him high into the air. Bruce gasped, the color draining from his face as he kicked and struggled futilely, trying frantically to disengage the boy's grip from around his throat. As he did so, the gun dropped from his hand to the floor, where it slid across the corridor over to Herbert, who, seeing it, snatched it up and fired.
      His shot hit its mark - the bullet slammed into Clive's hand with such force that it severed the limb at the wrist. Clive screamed in pain and rage as Bruce dropped to the floor, the severed hand still having a death grip on
his neck. Clive spun around and rushed at Herbert.
     Bruce, on the floor, managed at last to wrest the still-twitching hand from around his throat, and dived at Clive with a Wakaheiti death cry. Wrapping one strong arm around Clive's neck, Bruce reached down with the other, plunged his hand into Clive's guts, yanked out the large intestine to almost its full length, wound it around Clive's neck, braced his legs against Clive's back, and pulled with all his strength.
    Clive's pasty white face turned red, then purple, as Bruce pulled the gut tighter around his neck. Finally, with a disgusting, moist choking sound, Clive fell face-down to the floor, lifeless.
     Bruce, all his energy drained from this ordeal, collapsed to the floor, his breathing coming in short gasps. His mind wrestled with all that he had seen, heard and felt during this awful night. All he knew for certain was that he witnessed things that no human should ever have to bear witness to.
     Herbert, by contrast, had placed the gun on the nearby chair, and was already straightening his clothes, polishing his fogged-up glasses, then glancing over at Bruce. "Are you all right?"
      Bruce glanced up at Herbert with an expression of disbelief. "All right? All _right_?! I'd say I'm pretty fuckin' far from all right! What did you _do_ to him?"
      Herbert rolled his eyes. "How did I _know_ you'd ask that?   I didn't do anything. I was in the middle of the operation when the anaesthetic suddenly wore off. Crazed with pain, he attacked me and escaped the operating theater, where he attacked your other companion."
      Bruce suddenly remembered what the head had told him. _Clive is dead! Do you hear me? If he went into the operating theater with West, he is D - E - A - D!_
    "NO!" Bruce screamed, grabbing the gun from the chair and pointing it at Herbert. "You're lying! He - was - DEAD!  You did something to him. You shot him up with something - brought him back!"
      Herbert, somewhat alarmed, as one tends to be while in the presence of a hysterical gangster with a gun, tried to cover up. "I assure you, sir, I don't know _what_ - "
    "Shut up!" yelled Bruce, his eyes wild. "Stop lying to me! I know what you are! The head told me! You're Herbert West! Herbert _West_!"
     Herbert cursed under his breath. "Ah, yes. The _head_..." he muttered to himself. "I knew bringing him back was a mistake - listen, Mr...?"
   "Bruce! My name is Bruce!"
  "Bruce. Right. Listen, Bruce, I won't lie to you. I am who...the head...said I am - "
  "Then you die, bastard!" Bruce growled, pulling back the hammer of the gun.
   "No, don't shoot!" Herbert said quickly. "Just let me finish, all right? Let me finish. My name is, indeed, Herbert West. And yes, I did re-animate your friend. However, let me assure you, I had no hand in his initial death. He passed on before I had the chance to operate. Nothing could have saved him beyond that point...nothing, that is, save my re-agent."
    "Your _what_?!"
   "Re-agent. You see, Bruce..." Herbert warily moved closer a step, and, seeing that Bruce was still in too much shock to pull the trigger, moved another step forward.
     "If you had read the newspaper accounts of my, and Dr. Daniel Cain's, misadventures in Arkham, you would probably have heard about my research...into life and death. Over time, I managed to perfect a substance known as the re-agent - which, in layman's terms, brings the dead back to life. It stops death in its tracks, and forces it backwards. Unfortunately, it does tend to have certain detrimental side-effects, which you, of course, witnessed this evening. But when it works - and it has, mind you - what it performs is nothing short of a miracle. It restores those who have died back to their original selves - the same thoughts, and feelings, and memories as before."
    Herbert polished his glasses on the edge of his white coat, wiping off a smear of blood. "Of course, for that to happen, the corpse either has to be very recently dead, or perfectly preserved. Any tissue damage at all can result in the type of unfortunate creature that your friend became." Herbert sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, I have yet to find a corpse so perfectly preserved after the onset of death that I could restore it to mental life as well as physical. I had hoped that, since your friend was so young, perhaps he would be the one...but no."
      As Herbert was speaking, a thought had begun to dawn on Bruce. The talk of `perfectly preserved corpses', which, under the circumstances, should have repelled him, had instead bred an idea, something that could perhaps atone to Roubisoni for Clive's death. Something that, until tonight, he had thought impossible. In the background, Anthony gave a groan and began
to stir.
      "All right, West," Bruce said, in a low, threatening tone. "I've thought about this, and here's what's gonna happen. I'm not going to kill you - but unless you want me to change my mind, here's what you're going to do..."
 

The glowing red numerals on Dan's digital alarm clock spelled out, quite clearly: 2:30 AM. Dan, by now, had gotten to sleep, and was peacefully dozing under the covers.
    Constant threat of discovery, however, had caused him to become a light sleeper; and so it was that he was awoken by the knocking on the door. With a weak grunt of exhaustion, he glanced at the clock, and shook his head to clear it from sleep.
     "Who'zzaire?" he called out.
     "Dan?" called out a familiar, nasal voice from the corridor. "It's me, Herbert."
     Dan groaned, and stuffed the pillow over his head. "Letcher self in, Herbert. 'M trynna sleep."
     "I gave you the only set of keys, remember? Can you open the door..._please_?"
That got Dan's attention. The edge in Herbert's voice had been unmistakable.  Dan sat up, got out of bed, put on the bathrobe hanging over the nearby chair, went to the door, and opened it.
      Herbert stood there on the doorstep, an exceedingly uncomfortable look on his face, and two strange men standing on either side of him. In one hand, he was clutching a large plastic garbage bag. Practically everything about this scene spelled out `trouble'.
    "Herbert?" ventured Dan suspiciously. "Er...who, uh, who are these two gentlemen here, exactly?"
    "Yeah, Herb," interjected Bruce, nudging him in the back with the gun that was hidden from Dan's view. "_Tell_ him."
     Herbert winced. "Dan...these two are Bruce and Anthony. They showed up at the hospital at a rather...inopportune moment, and they, ah, want you to come with them. They know who we are."     Dan looked from Bruce, to Herbert, to Anthony, and back to Herbert.
"And, tell me, Herbert..." he began, trying to keep the rising sense of doom under control. "How _exactly_ did they come to realise our true identities?"
      Suddenly, a fifth voice piped in, muffled-sounding. Coming from the
bag. "I _told_ them, that's how!"
    Dan glanced down in surprise at the plastic bag in Herbert's hand. He then closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, took three deep breaths and asked the million-dollar-question: "Herbert...what's in the bag?"
      Herbert sighed, and, slowly, undid the ties on the bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out, by the hair, the dripping, scowling head of Agent Madsen. "It's the head of the Fed, Dan."
      "Nice to see you again, Dr. _Cain_," said the head dryly.
Dan stared in a kind of blank despair at Madsen, then looked back at Herbert. "Herbert..." he said in a low, extremely dangerous voice.
     "Dan?" Herbert said, beginning to recognise the warning signs.
"Herbert..." Dan continued, in the same tone of voice. "I am going to kill you. And then, I know it's going to feel so _good_, that I'm going to bring you back and kill you _again_!"
     "No need for that, Dr. Cain," interrupted Bruce. "If you and your pal don't do what we tell you to do, then we'll be the ones doin' the killing."
     Dan glared at Bruce. "Who _are_ you, anyway? FBI?"
Bruce and Anthony laughed uproariously at this. "Naw, man. You're way off  the mark there." Bruce brought the gun out from behind Herbert's back, and pointed it at Dan. "We're from the Roubisoni Family. You've heard of us, right?"
      Dan had. The sinking feeling accelerated to a plummet. "Yeah."
 "Right. Well, basically what's going on here is, you and Herb are comin' out of retirement to do us a little favor."
 "And if we refuse?"
Bruce motioned with the gun. "You die."
"Ah. Well, good to see that's cleared up. So, what does this favor involve?"
    Bruce grinned. "Roubisoni'll tell you when we get there. Get some clothes on and let's go."
     "All right." Dan shot an ice-cold look at Herbert, which clearly said: _this is not over_, and moved back into the apartment.
 

The black hearse sped through the dark, rainy night, past Chicago's seedy downtown, full of neon lights and run-down bars, through the middle-class suburban area, and finally, the classy uptown, where anyone who had enough influence and money dwelt.  This was where the millionaires, the celebrities, the businessmen and the irretrievably corrupt lived in decadent
splendor.   Within the hearse, Herbert clutched the black medical bag he'd retrieved from the apartment tightly to his chest, as if it were a shield. Inside the bag, the bottles of re-agent he'd only just had time to grab from the apartment reflected a phosphorescent green glow onto his face.
      Dan sat hunched over on the other side of the back seat, his arms folded, glowering out the window. Herbert glanced over at him nervously, and, after a few minutes, tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder.   "Dan - "
     Dan flinched away. "Don't touch me, Herbert," he said in a low voice that was filled with restrained fury. "Don't even talk to me."
     Herbert awkwardly pulled his hand back. "Dan...I just want you to know I'm sorry. I never intended for any of this to happen - "
    Dan gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah, Madsen's head re-animated _itself_, right?" He turned to the head, which was perched on the dashboard in the front. "No offense there, Lance."
     "None taken," the head called back.
    Dan went back to staring out the window. Herbert, unfortunately, had never known when to give up. "Do you think I like this situation any more than you do? I don't even know what they've got planned for us. They wouldn't tell me."
     Dan finally turned around from the window, his eyes blazing in the half-light. "Don't you _dare_ try and make excuses for yourself," he hissed.
"It won't work. Not this time. You made a promise to me, and you broke it.  As soon as this is over, I'm _leaving_. For real this time. I _never_ want to see you again, got it?"
      Herbert looked as though he'd been slapped. "You...you can't mean that, surely?"
"I've never meant anything more in my life. I used to think you were an okay guy, Herbert. I used to think you could keep your word. Guess I was wrong."
      Dan turned back to the window to stare stonily out at the passing street lights. Herbert, looking hurt, blinked, and turned to look out the other window.
    The hearse turned a corner, and finally pulled up in front of an enormous, beautiful mansion, in front of which was a sculpted metal fountain lit up by colored lights embedded at the bottom of the pond. Anthony pulled the car to a stop, and turned around to whisper to Bruce. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
     "You kidding? After this, we're gonna be Roubisoni's best buddies."
Bruce picked up Madsen's head from the dashboard, turned to the back seat, and gestured with the gun. "All right, you two. We are now entering the Casa Del Roubisoni. Get out, and brace yourselves."
 

The mansion was just as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside; everywhere were the trappings of opulence, all velvet and antiques, crystal chandeliers and invaluable tailored rugs. It looked pretty much as you'd expect any extremely rich person's house to look. And yet, even with all these fabulous material belongings, there was an air of sadness to it all, as if it were all a facade to replace something else.    Dan looked around in awe. He'd never actually been inside a house of such wealth, and despite the circumstances leading to his being here, couldn't help but be impressed. But the aura of loss that permeated the
house soon took over, and he shivered, wondering how much blood had been spilled in order for the house's owner to maintain such luxury.
     Herbert, of course, had no such feelings, and impatiently asked: "So, _Bruce_, where exactly is the elusive Mr. Roubisoni? I gathered we were here to meet him?"
     Bruce glared at Herbert. "You better watch that smart mouth of yours from now on, West, or there won't be enough left of you to re-animate. Just follow me..."
    "Can I wait down here?" interrupted Madsen's head. Bruce nodded, and handed the head to Anthony, who took it without a word and went into the living room.
      Bruce began the arduous climb up the winding staircase that made up the center of the main entrance, and, not wanting to argue, Herbert and Dan followed.
     At last, they reached the top of the staircase, where a heavy oak door soon met their fields of vision. Bruce rapped his knuckles once on the door.
    From within, a smoky, slightly Brooklyn-accented voice called: "Who is it?"
    "It's me, Don Roubisoni. Bruce," Bruce replied. "I called you from the hospital, remember? I brought the...items."
    A brief pause. "Send them in."
    Bruce opened the door, and pushed Dan and Herbert inside. "Have fun," he whispered sardonically, and shut the door.
     The inside of the office was almost completely dark, apart from the roaring fire burning in the hearth. A heavy wooden desk was situated near the  picture window, and the drapes were drawn, allowing the lightning to illuminate the room every few minutes or so. Even the light from the fire was slightly blocked - as Dan's eyes adjusted, he could see why.
     Standing in front of the fireplace, his hand resting on the mantlepiece and gazing into the fire, was Don Christopher Roubisoni.       Roubisoni was in his late forties, and still quite handsome, in an aging kind of way. His dark brown hair was slicked back, and was tinged with gray. His eyes were a faded blue, and reflected a kind of weariness and sadness that Dan had never seen before. His features were sharp, but bore the scars of both violence and encroaching age. He wore an elegantly
tailored dressing-gown, and, on one hand, a simple gold wedding band.     Roubisoni turned away from the fire to gaze, almost nonchalantly, at Herbert and Dan. "Ah. You must be Herbert West, and Dan Cain, am I right?   Please. Have a seat."
     Obligingly, Dan sat down in front of the desk, and Herbert followed suit. Roubisoni, with a cat's grace, walked around behind the desk, and sat down, folding his arms and leaning forward on the desktop. "So. The Demon Doctors of Arkham, in person. I must say, it's quite an honor to meet you."
    "One might say the same for you, Mr. Roubisoni," Herbert answered cagily. "After all, you are somewhat...infamous in these parts."
    Roubisoni chuckled. "Whereas you are infamous everywhere, Dr. West. `The Re-Animator', that's what they call you, isn't it?"
    Herbert sniffed, and polished his glasses. "On occasion, they have been known to call me that, yes. They've also been given to calling me a lot of other things which I'd as soon not repeat in polite company. But surely we're not here merely to discuss each other's relative celebrity, Mr.Roubisoni?"
     Roubisoni gave a slight smile. "You're right, of course. I shouldn't be wasting your time like this. Let's cut to the chase, hm?
  "The reason I bring up your celebrity status, Dr. West - not of course to neglect you, Dr. Cain - "
    "Oh, that's, uh, that's all right." Dan shot an icy stare in Herbert's direction. "I'm not all that proud of it anyway."
    Roubisoni continued. "The reason I bring up your celebrity status is more to do with the reason behind your infamy than anything else. You see, Dr. West, while I am a very rich man, and quite powerful to boot...there are some things even I cannot fully control."
    Roubisoni spun the chair around to face the window, away from Herbert and Dan. A shadow had fallen over his face, and, almost instinctively, he was twisting the wedding band around on his finger. "In my chosen profession, there is ample opportunity to make enemies. And those enemies, if they become familiar enough with you, know exactly what it takes to hurt
you." He paused a moment before going on.
      "I first met Linda Schrage down in Vegas. She was a showgirl, a dancer. I was there on business - debts to pick up, and suchlike. I was in this nightclub - real glitzy, classy affair - and she was the headliner act.
     "God, she was beautiful. And I mean _beautiful_. She had these eyes that just looked right through you, right into your soul, and her dancing, my God, her dancing...You know, until I first saw her, I never thought I'd fall in love, not ever. This is a profitable profession, but it can also be a very lonely one. But as soon as I saw Linda, I just _knew_. That she was
it. The one."
     Herbert, safely out of Roubisoni's view, rolled his eyes and leaned one side of his face on his hand.
     "Seven months later, we got married. She became Linda Roubisoni, and we lived together, here, in this house. We were married for about four weeks - the best four weeks of my life - when _it_ happened." He swung the chair back around.
    "You're probably familiar with the reports of gang warfare around these parts, um? Between us and the Henenlotter Family. Well, back when Linda and I were married, that war was only just beginning. See, the reason the Henenlotters are gaining so much ground these days is, we've got a stoolie in our camp. Now, I don't know who the bastard is - if I did, I can assure
you we would no longer have this particular problem - but he reports our every move to the Henenlotters before we even make it, and they're always there to one-up us. Six weeks before I married Linda, they massacred a whole bunch of my boys in an Italian restaurant. And after they found out I'd gotten married, well..." He trailed off, and spun the chair away again. It was another minute or so before he could speak again.
      "To cut a long story short...they killed her. She and I were having dinner one night, she started choking, and she was dead before the ambulance could even arrive. Traces of strycchnine were found in her bloodstream. The coroner wanted to do an autopsy on her, but I wouldn't let 'em touch her.  Wouldn't let them bury or cremate her, either."
      Dan had a vague twinge of realisation, but couldn't be sure as to what Roubisoni was getting at yet. He asked "So, uh...what exactly did you do...with the, ah, the body?"
    Roubisoni spun back around, a knife-slash smile on his gaunt face. "Let me show you."
    He pushed back the chair, and stood up, walking over to a tapestry on the wall. He turned back to Dan and Herbert, and beckoned them forward.  "Come on."
    Hesitantly, the two stood up and went over to Roubisoni, who drew aside the tapestry with a flourish, revealing -
    "An elevator?" Dan said, in a surprised tone of voice.
    Roubisoni smiled. "Get in."
    Not wanting to argue, Dan stepped in; but Herbert, whose argumentative nature made no concessions to circumstance, hesitated. "Why? Where are you taking us?" he asked suspiciously.
    "Just get in," Roubisoni said patiently. "I'll explain everything."
    Still looking doubtful, Herbert stepped into the elevator, allowing the doors to close behind him.
    They descended quickly, silently, into the earth, before finally, the elevator hit bottom. "Ah," said Roubisoni, stepping out as the doors opened.   "Here we are. Feast your eyes, gentlemen."
    Dan was the second to step out, and the sight that lay before him rendered him speechless.
     The entire room - could it even be called a room? It was so vast - was pure, shimmering white, every surface polished and gleaming. It was like some surreal sort of hospital, with no evidence that humans had ever touched it. It was lit overhead by bright panels embedded in the ceiling. There was no sound save the faint hum of machinery.
    And machinery there was plenty of. At the very far end of the room, a large computer terminal, stuffed full of blinking lights and viewscreens, stood a few feet in front of the room's centerpiece, the most bizarre and incredible thing in the room.
      It was a huge, towering cylinder, extending from the ceiling to the ground, made of clear glass and with tons of wires and cables hooked up from it to the computer, the walls, the ground, and the ceiling. And within it, floating upright in a clear, water-like liquid, was a human figure, mummified from head to toe in white bandages, which were wound so tightly around it that it was easy to make out the curves of a female figure. The thin wires extending from the ceiling and walls ran through the glass of the cylinder and were attached to the figure's arms, legs, head and torso.      This, Dan realised, was Linda.
    Herbert, also, had dropped his jaded attitude by now, and was staring, his mouth slightly ajar, at the awesome sight before him. "My God..." he eventually managed to whisper. "This...this is advanced cryogenics!"
     Roubisoni grinned. "The best money can buy, Dr. West." He walked up to the cylinder, and caressed the glass. "Only the best for my baby."
     After a few minutes, Herbert recovered enough to ask "So...what exactly do we have to do with all this?"
      "Isn't it obvious, Dr. West?" Roubisoni spun around to face Herbert, his eyes alight. "I want you to bring her back to me. I want you to re-animate my wife."
     Dan stared at him. "You can't be serious."
    "Do I look like the kind of man who'd kid you on a subject like this, Dr. Cain?"
     Dan shook his head. "No. But...Mr. Roubisoni, listen to me. You do _not_ want us to re-animate your wife. See, if she was recently dead, it might work. But if you try to bring back someone who's been dead for as long as she has, when tissue damage has already set in, she'll be uncontrollable.   She'll probably attack you. She - "
     "No, Dan," interrupted Herbert, who had wandered over to the computer and was intently scanning one of the screens. "You're wrong. According to this status readout, the cryogenic fluid has preserved her in such a way as to ensure no tissue damage whatsoever." He sounded awed just saying the words. "Every part of her - body and brain - is absolutely perfect."
     Not for the first time, nor would it be the last, Dan felt the urge to strike Herbert extremely hard. Roubisoni, who had looked doubtful while Dan was speaking, immediately began to smile again. "Excellent! Well, then, there's no problem, is there? You have the necessary tools - " He nodded to the medical bag full of re-agent " - And I'm going to give you three days.
Three days in which you _will_ produce results."
    "And if it fails?" enquired Dan, folding his arms.
    Roubisoni gave him a Mona Lisa smile. "If _you_ fail, Dr. Cain, then I will play my trump card. I know that you, Dr. West, murdered an FBI agent earlier this evening. Now, I have friends among the Federal Bureau, and they are willing to cover up that whole unpleasantness, if you produce the results.   However, if you do not, then both of you will be instantly shipped off to
the big house, where you will be fried in the electric chair. Do I make myself clear?"
     Herbert swallowed hard, and nodded.
    "Good. I'm glad we understand each other. Well, I'll leave you boys to it, then." Roubisoni winked, stepped back into the elevator, and disappeared from view.
     Dan exhaled in a rush of breath, as if he'd been holding the oxygen in his lungs ever since he'd arrived in this underground cryo-crypt, and glanced back at Herbert, a worried expression on his face.
    Herbert gazed back impassively. "Well...you heard the man. Let's get to it, then."
 

Two and a half days passed in that high-tech mausoleum, two and a half days in which Dan Cain and Herbert West tried everything they knew to make the dead come alive.
    Herbert had insisted that Linda not be removed from the cryo-chamber unless absolutely necessary; "Removing her from that fluid could result in instant tissue decomposition. We can't risk it".
     So they had tried everything else within their power; pumping the re-agent into the woman's veins via the complex system of wires that fed the cryo-fluid into her frozen veins; programming the computer that kept the system running to flood, first her brain, then her heart, with the re-agent every hour on the hour; even combining the re-agent's adrenalinal capabilities with electricity in order to give her a jump-start. But now, the allocated time was almost up, and still Linda Roubisoni remained dead.  It was, Herbert agreed, time for the last-ditch attempt - removing her from cryogenic freeze.
     Dan looked up at Herbert and growled "This isn't going to work, West.  You even said so yourself. It'll just damage her to take her out."
    "Oh, will you be quiet?' snapped Herbert from the top of the ladder, leaning one hand on the edge of the cryo-chamber, and holding a bottle of re-agent in the other. "Just hold the ladder steady. I have to be careful taking the body out, you know. This requires complete concentration. She's very delicate, you know."
    Slowly, carefully, Herbert eased the glass top of the cryo-chamber off, and almost sighed in relief. He'd expected some kind of alarm to go off.     Then it did. The computer suddenly emanated a shrill, klaxon-like
shriek, so loudly and so suddenly that it caused the unprepared Dan to jolt in surprise, which caused him to let go of his hold on the ladder, which caused Herbert to slip, which caused the bottle of re-agent to drop from his grasp and fall into the cryo-chamber.  There was the slight sound of shattering glass, before the entire cryo-chamber's clear fluid, once clear as water, fogged up into a bright green mist, obscuring the entire contents of the cylinder.
     Herbert leapt down from the ladder, frantic. "Christ! What have you _done_?" he thundered at Dan over the squeal of the alarm, as he rushed over to shut it off.
    "I'm sorry!" Dan yelled back, a faint tinge of red coloring his cheeks.  "I didn't mean to - "
     Herbert waved a hand at him in an irritated gesture, worked a couple of switches on the computer panel, and immediately the alarm stopped. Herbert looked back up at Dan, glaring. "How could you _be_ so clumsy?! You've ruined everything!"
     "You don't know that!" protested Dan.
    "Don't I, Daniel? Don't I? Well, all I can say is, I sincerely doubt that re-agent combined with cryogenic fluid will do her a lot of goo - "
    Suddenly, without any warning, a hand smashed out through the murky green glass of the cryo-chamber - a mummified hand, stretching out and curling its fingers in a grasping motion. Herbert and Dan could do little more than stare with widened, incredulous eyes.
     The bright green fluid flowed out of the cryo-chamber in a great tidal wave, gushing all over the shining white floor. A few seconds later, there was another almighty smash, as the still-mummified body of Linda Roubisoni crashed through the glass, then slumped to the floor, washed out on the tide of green fluid, eventually skidding to a stop on the floor. Lying still. Not
moving an inch.
     Herbert closed his mouth, then turned to glare at Dan again. "As I was saying. You've ruined everything." and walked away a few paces.
      Dan, indignant, followed. "What are you talking about?! Didn't you see that just then? She was alive! She moved! She busted out of the chamber -
she _broke_ the damn thing, for Christ's sakes! And you're telling me it didn't do _anything_?"
    "Apart from induce a spastic movement of the hand and arm, yes, I am saying it didn't do anything, Daniel."
    "Oh, come _on_! It worked! Well, it sort of worked...but at least we got some kind of results!"
     "Somehow, Dan, I don't think those were the kind of results Roubisoni was referring to when he first briefed us on this. So...are you going to tell him in -" Herbert checked his watch " - Ten and a half hours' time, that the venture was a failure and that his wife is still dead, only now she has so much tissue damage from being exposed to the open air that _any_ possibility of re-animation is now rendered void?"
     In the background, a small, whoozy voice piped up: "Uh, excuse me..."
"No, Herbert! You listen to me! This is one time that I am _not_ taking the rap for your failures!"
   "_My_ failures?! _My_? Oh, ho, ho, that is rich! If it hadn't been for your bungling, we might still have had a chance at bringing her back. But, nooo..."
    "Don't you put all the blame on me for this! This is as much your responsibility as it is mine! Hell, if anything it's _more_ your
responsibility. After all, _I'm_ not the one who got us into this mess in the first place!"
     In the background, the voice, slightly stronger, cleared its throat.
"Excuse me - "
"That is beside the point! Roubisoni appointed _both_ of us responsible for his wife's re-animation, if you recall, not just me, and since you were the one who jogged the ladder at a crucial moment - "
   "Oh, God! Listen to you! I do _not_ believe this! What's wrong with you?  Why can't you ever at least share the blame? Why am I always the whipping-boy, huh? You tell me that!"
    "Why can't _I_ share the blame?! Look who's talking - Mr. `It's not my fault, the mad scientist made me do it!' Yes, I _made_ you jog the ladder, didn't I? Just like I _made_ you re-animate your dead girlfriend back in Arkham - "
    "Don't you _ever_ talk about Meg! Not _ever_ - "
    "_EXCUSE ME!!!_" thundered the voice.
     Herbert and Dan spun around.
     There, standing amongst the shattered glass and pool of green fluid, was a stunningly beautiful woman. She stood almost six feet tall, with a slender, softly curved body and long, graceful, but slightly muscled arms and legs, all of which were wrapped in white, soggy bandages. Short dark hair, in a pageboy cut that was parted in the center, softly framed her face, and covered her bare shoulders. Her skin was extremely pale, almost as if it had no blood in it at all, the pallor of the dead. Her pallor was offset by her lips, full and blood-red, on a face that was almost painful in its beauty, with sharp high cheekbones, a tip-tilted nose, arched dark eyebrows, and the most incredible eyes, the eyes that Roubisoni had, truthfully, said could see into your soul, deep, dark and smouldering with inner fire, fringed with long, velvet eyelashes. In one delicate hand, she held the bandages that she had unwound from around her head.
      "Would you two..._gentlemen_..." began Linda Roubisoni "...Mind telling me exactly _what_ is going on around here?"
 

We wait now for firestarter to publish chapter 3.

Write to Haddonsfield firestarter

Back to opening page

The Author asserts & reserves copyright.