A Christmas Carol II--Contagion Read online

  It was a most impressive performance. Both halves of the back wall of the tiny hallway swung backwards to reveal a vast stone-paved chamber beyond. No dusty velvet-darkened sanctuary was this, but a huge vault of science, brightly lit, and filled with the most wondrous machinery any of them could have imagined, had they been granted the leisure to do so, for a hundred years or more.

  ‘It was a property bought by my grandfather in the last century,’ said Zaltzwick, suddenly shy at these strangers seeing his private lair, and quietly proud of it. ‘The contraptions are of my own devising, the exhibits all from my own collection as well. The science of the strange and bizarre has been my church.’

  He said no more but allowed them to look around and see for themselves what he had achieved, and how he had spent his life. Seeing the rapt wonder in their eyes, he felt suddenly moved to tears that, after pursuing these endeavours alone all these years, he might have had others alongside him all this time, who would have accepted him and would not after all have thought him a freak, as he had feared.

  ‘You are one f——–-up son of a b—–,’ said Tacker. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘A baby troll,’ said Zaltzwick fondly. ‘I captured him in Trondheim. He fell for the old sheep-laced-with-laudanum trick.’ The glass jar stood twenty-five feet tall, and in the vinegar the monster’s skin had turned brown. It was not only Zaltzwick who saw a kind of defenceless innocence in that creature which could have crushed a house with its fist, and which now stood with its boulder-like face packed as close to the glass as a pickled herring, its eyes shut.

  Across the walls of the laboratory were spread other examples of equal curiosity. Strange long metallic instruments that might have been used for catching lightning, or scraping samples from the roof of a cave; the top half of a huge-skulled dinosaur sporting giant, hooked sabre-teeth; limbs, eyes, brains and organs of every description in jars. Candles were on every surface and a flickering light on the walls; spilled chemicals and cracked glass on the floor, across which they could hear creatures scuttling that could be rats, and which on reflection they hoped really were rats and nothing more uncanny.

  At last Scrooge looked up and saw a monstrous spectacle above him: what looked like a whole blue whale, hanging by enormous hooks and chains from the bell tower far above. From this carcase huge swathes of flesh had been carved, as though it was no more than a leg of ham hanging in a butcher’s window. Then it was that Scrooge realized what the long-bladed implements leaning against the wall were for. The others followed his gaze until they were all staring upwards.

  ‘What’s it for?’ asked Scrooge.

  ‘Lunch,’ said Zaltzwick.

  ‘Lunch?’ they all replied in unison. ‘For whom?’ Scrooge added.

  ‘Henrietta,’ said the doctor, pointing downwards. The group now noticed that they were all standing on a giant iron grate through which they could see into a pit far below. Perceiving this, they became very still with nerves, and all at once became aware that the vibrations beneath their feet, of which they had been scarcely sensible, were in fact the snores of a very large creature. The doctor looked at his pocket watch. ‘She’s asleep now, but I’ll have to wake her up in a bit. It’s nearly her lunchtime,’ he added, tapping his watch.

  ‘Wh-what is she?’ asked Cratchit, walking backwards off the grate, taking great care to go as quietly as he could.

  ‘Oh, nothing really, it’s hard to explain. She was a present,’ beamed the scientist, his attention already on other things as he spaced out the diseased human organs he had collected on a dissection table, putting them roughly where they would be if they were inside a complete human form.

  They all watched as the doctor began to perform cursory examinations of the human organs one by one, coming at last to the brain, upon which he lavished his particular attention.

  ‘Thees,’ he said, holding it in his hand and bouncing it up and down, ‘is the key to the mystery. Let me explain …’

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said Dwight Tacker. ‘Who the h— are you, and how do you know that we’ll be safer here than anywhere else?’

  The doctor nodded twice as he inwardly translated the question into his native tongue, and then looked around the chamber as though seeing it for the first time. He looked up at the eleven-tonne chunk of desiccated whale blubber, and down at the grating through which droned the snores of an obscure monster. He nodded again, satisfied that in all fairness, for someone new to this place, one or two questions might demand to be answered.

  It is unfortunate, perhaps, that his history as a lecturer in the sciences (admixed with a native affection for his own voice) led him instinctively to deliver his answer as though addressing a crowd of adoring acolytes filled with wonder at his finest triumphs, rather than a group of blood-smeared adults who were tired, armed, and frightened for their lives.

  ‘I am Dr Konstantin Zaltzwick. A doctor of science, yes,’ he began, thumbing one of the buttons of his jacket and speaking at the top of his voice, which he directed slightly above their heads. ‘And for many years I have explored the frightening and the unexplained. Across Europe and Africa, Russia, the Far East. I have seen men raised from the dead by shamans with nothing but bunches of burning herbs waved under the nose, I have commerced with ghosts and demons, tussled with ogres, played the battle of the wits with vampyres … I have visited and spoken with alien tribes of Antarctica and have been in many, many other strange places that you would not believe.’

  Tacker, while he might have been enjoying the talk enormously, was making no sign of doing so, and was instead loading the repeat-action shotgun on his arm with a series of what might be termed deliberately and threateningly loud noises, while wearing an expression of grim determination. Zaltzwick took note, and sped up his exposition.

  ‘These creatures I have read about, but never before encountered. Certain tribes on the Pacific islands and the West Indies have encountered similar things, or induced a similar state upon living beings, and there they call them “zombies”. Meaning, those who are dead, but still living. But in those places they are stupid creatures, the servants of evil witch doctors. Existing in a trance, and doing as they are told. What is happening now here in London, is something else. More human in its inhumanity, or more animal. More – how do you have – more … animated.

  ‘I have captured living specimens, and tested them. And here is your bad news: they are not men. They know nothing. They do not recognize their loved ones. They want no food that is not human flesh which might (in theory, if they were not dead) sustain them. They have no urge but to kill and eat. Or rather: to eat, with killing as a by-product of which they are quite unaware. Nothing else. They crave only to gorge on skin, chew muscle and sinew, to drink blood and bile and serum (which he pronounced sair-room), and every juicing that pours from the human body. NERR-JERR!’ The doctor suddenly screamed this inexplicable pair of syllables into a mouthpiece he had unloosed from a hook on the wall. ‘I have guests! Bring refreshments to the laboratory at once!’

  This instrument was a remarkable arrangement comprising a horn or funnel to catch noise and a rubber tube that transported it into the wall. The entire group assumed that it either made him able to speak to someone in a distant room, or meant they were confronted with a madman, who conversed through make-believe toys with imaginary servants.

  ‘Hatstands,’ said the doctor, replacing the mouthpiece.

  ‘Pardon me, doctor, hatstands?’ enquired Felicity.

  ‘My dear lady?’

  ‘You appeared to say “hatstands”. Would you like me to fetch one, or … more than one?’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ said the doctor, quite delighted at the idea that he would do such a thing. He gave Scrooge a smiling frown, as though to warn him to keep careful eye on his companion’s flightiness. Before Scrooge could say anything in her defence, the scientist continued in his former strident tone.

  ‘Since I first noticed the attacks on the streets
, scarcely a week ago, I have been able to discover very little about them. Except, that is, when they try to kill me, which is regrettably often (in fact, all the time) and then I discovered how it is to kill them most effectively.

  ‘See here,’ he drew back a curtain with a flourish, showing a long cage filled with the corpses of these creatures that had been shot until they were almost unrecognizable. Blood and detritus were spattered everywhere over the floor and walls, and it looked like nothing so much as a slaughterhouse. Once again Felicity (who had been rallying admirably) threw herself on Scrooge’s shoulder. He was beginning to get used to the warm sensation this produced in all sorts of places in his body, and, realizing that he had been standing near her on the off-chance that this would happen, became confused at his own motives.

  While Zaltzwick’s various lectures (the latest being on how to kill these ‘zombies’ which they knew how to do already) went on, Scrooge was not listening, but making investigations of a scientific nature after his own fashion, within his mind. The apparition had shown him the evil that had begun this curse, and how in his former guise, he had had his own part in it. Now that it was set in motion and upon the streets like one of the plagues of Egypt, he knew there was nothing for them to do but escape. Yet there was more to it than that, and knowing that the apparitions had chosen him for a reason, and feeling a shudder of danger at what he might be required to do next, he momentarily experienced that cruel, certain coldness that had once been his permanent state: he felt strong and angry and pitiless, that joyous release of fury which would enable him to consign another to death without a thought. He had been used to looking back on this sensation with terror lest it return and yet now it did take hold of him it was warm and exciting, and strangely connected to his feelings for this innocent girl at his side. He had felt it earlier in the evening for a moment when they were upon the cart, and had seen by the fright in Cratchit’s eyes that the former clerk had seen it too. And he could not deny he had relished that fear. These were exactly the qualities he had had to overthrow to make himself Good and Worthy.

  He showed none of this on his face, but remained stock still, his pulse beating a little faster. He was his old self and his new self at once. Both men did battle within him, and he did not know which would win, nor which he wanted to. Returning to the conversation, he vaguely heard the doctor say that the animals could not be killed, and discovered he was staring into a cage at a grotesque display of blood and guts. The old Scrooge took over for the moment. He squeezed Felicity closer, careless of propriety, and felt her tighten her embrace too.

  ‘Killing them is simple,’ said Tacker. ‘You just shoot them, like anyone else.’

  ‘Not so,’ said the doctor quietly, as he looked down at the decaying mess in front of him. He fell into a muse, and muttered under his breath for a few moments. ‘Hatstands,’ he said at last.

  ‘What?’ said Cratchit.

  ‘What what?’ said the doctor sharply. ‘I did not speak. Here, you see, I shooted the man in the leg. He shows no pain, but continues towards me.’ He pointed to one particular spot in the middle of the general mess, which was not particularly distinguishable from any other part, but clearly formed the remains of a certain subject. ‘I shooted him in the gut, and then the heart. No difference.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Scrooge, ‘just like that man in our courtyard, Bob. Shooting his legs off made it harder for him to come closer, but didn’t stop him until—’

  ‘Until you shot him in the brain,’ said Konstantin Zaltzwick. ‘That is it. Even if you shoot out the neck, so much that you leave just a head on the floor, the head will still try to bite you. Although, thanks to the severed muscles of the neck and jaw, quite inefficacially – how do you have it …’

  ‘Inefficaciously,’ supplied Scrooge.

  ‘Inefficously,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Inefficaciously. Shously, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I thank you. Efficaciously.’

  ‘Well, yes, but you meant to say ineffica—’

  Scrooge’s pronunciation lesson was cut off by a deafening blast from behind them, where Dwight Tacker had discharged his shotgun over his head, with the result that everyone in the room jumped, including the servant, a short curly-haired man with a placid demeanour and a very bulbous nose, who had appeared quietly beside Zaltzwick several minutes ago carrying a tray heavy with drinks, and since then had been awaiting a suitable pause to discharge his duties, with an increasingly shaky arm (and rattling tray). Now, through no fault of his own, the dozen or so bottles dispensed themselves across the floor with a most energetic explosion of glass and liquid. The scientist peered down at this inconvenient distraction for a moment, pointed at his servant and introduced him as ‘Nodger’ in a dim tone that suggested this destructive behaviour came as no sort of surprise to him.

  ‘He is Welsh,’ the scientist concluded, as though this explained everything, before turning his attention upwards to the underside of the whale into which a pound of lead shot had just been fired. ‘Ach,’ he muttered, ‘zis will give Henrietta the indigestion.’

  The others paid him no regard but looked instead at Mr Tacker, who having gained their attention was standing with his shotgun held above his head, and swathed all around in gun smoke, his imposing stance somewhat undermined on account of being showered with scalded lumps of whale fat.

  ‘I don’t know what that word means,’ said Tacker.

  ‘Inefficaciously,’ muttered Cratchit from the side of his mouth, ‘means it’s not working.’

  Plucking a marble-sized lump of sizzling blubber from his buttonhole (and momentarily tempted to see what it tasted like), Tacker said, ‘This standing around talking is driving me insane. You, mad foreign scientist douchebag. You’re saying we need to shoot them in the f——– brain, right? And don’t give me some long answer because I swear I’ll shoot you in the b—s if you do.’

  The doctor nodded slowly, as though afraid any sharp movement might set off the American’s gun. ‘So long as the hypothalamus is significantly damaged or destroyed. That is the part of the brain in the very centre of the skull, and seems to be the centre of the disease – please don’t shoot!’

  ‘That’s it?’ said Tacker. ‘Even we found out more than that! Did you know that they’re attracted to happy people more than others?’

  The doctor seemed a little put out that his expensive laboratory hadn’t furnished results that impressed them more, and although he tried to appear aloof to this new piece of information, he could not. It intrigued him too much. ‘How is this?’ he asked. ‘As though the flesh of happy person tastes nicer, is that right?’

  ‘Exactly. We saw it ourselves.’

  ‘Then they really are possessed, and this is not a neurological condition, or some outbreak of disease. You are quite sure you saw it?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Scrooge.

  ‘How fantastical. They don’t just want to kill us, they hate us, and what we have. Somehow all that hate became conscious, and powerful, and built up until it was enough to propel these creatures up out of the ground, in an outpouring. And at Christmas, of course! When else are so many happy all at the same time? It is a curse, a plague upon us …’

  These cheerful remarks were having no very positive effect on Bob Cratchit, who hovered at Tacker’s elbow, looking as angry, twitchy and distracted as a man who was driven quite out of his wits with fright and shock, and who might explode into violence at the mildest provocation. He digested every last word with a sickly gulp, staring with wide eyes and hunched shoulders, before saying slowly, ‘But we’re not going back out into the street, are we?’

  ‘I would advise against it,’ said the doctor. ‘Most strongly. Believe me, I do not want to die this evening. If we had the sole keys to Westminster Abbey we would be less safe than we are here. These walls are almost as thick, and we have but one entrance. And no windows.’

  ‘So what’s the purpose of scaring us s––less with this display?’ a
sked Cratchit, almost beyond control, a great deal of spit precipitating down his chin, and taking less care of his aim than one holding a shotgun should (so that the rest of the group shuffled left and right with every twitch of his wrist). ‘Why don’t we just stay here and rest and wait for the night to pass?’ Luckily Dr Zaltzwick’s footman Mr Nodger chose that moment to reappear with another tray of drinks and, ready after last time, he bent double beneath Cratchit’s wildly gesturing arm without spilling a drop, and straightened with a contortionist’s grace to proffer a glass of port.

  The change that this beverage made upon Cratchit was remarkable for its suddenness and its deeply mollifying aspect. The instant he laid eyes on the glass he was greatly impressed by notion of the effect it would have upon his shocked nerves and, putting down his gun and taking up the drink, he seemed at once very grateful and not angry at all, and possibly even a tad embarrassed. The rest of the group were more than a little relieved to see some calm return to Cratchit, and each individually made note to keep an eye on him in case this erratic behaviour took greater hold of him later on (as each was sure it must).

  Cratchit’s words also made the doctor check himself from further explication of his investigations into the ‘zombie’ creatures and instead draw the curtain across the cage, happily shutting the blood and gore from sight for the time being. He led the group to one corner of the chamber, where glass vials and retorts bubbled with curiously coloured liquids inside them, and where there were scattered copious sheets of paper with diagrams and notes scrawled upon them. These Zaltzwick swept to one side to make room for the party to place their drinks.

  ‘You don’t have a … a drawing room?’ enquired Scrooge.

  ‘I do not deem it necessary,’ answered the man of science.

  ‘Nor a parlour, or lounge of any kind?’

  ‘You are the first visitors I have entertained these fifteen years. I sleep in the cot by the corner with my blanky, Nodger keeps rooms down below stairs where he keeps his feelthy habits to himself, and we haff a kitchen where he boils the food. That is all I need,’ said Zaltzwick rather loftily.