3

CABIN. HARZ MOUNTAINS, GERMANY.

MONDAY, APRIL 8, 1912. 2:15 A.M.

Weiss fed the notes detailing his return trip from Manchuria into the heating stove, careful to destroy each page. Not one shred of his work could survive. Flames devoured a black-and-white photo of the shaman, still in tribal costume and bound to a cot inside a railway car.

The shaman’s condition had deteriorated dramatically by the time they’d reached the Manzhouli railway. Despite her binds, the woman Weiss now referred to as “the Subject” was insatiably hostile. Weiss kept her shaman mask on, as protection against her aggression and to avoid becoming emotionally attached to the woman underneath.

The days went by with few words; the Interior Department officials had little to say to Weiss. The older one carried a deck of cards in his jacket and spent most of the journey taking money from his junior partner.

Traveling in a confined space with her agonized moaning was unbearable. It made a full night’s sleep impossible. Near the end of the two-week trip, the younger Interior Department man, desperate for rest, tried to muffle her with a gag. If Weiss had been awake, he would have stopped him. The official pulled back her mask, and she viciously latched onto a chunk of his palm. His compatriot intervened, wrenching him free but not before the Subject also managed to bite the older man on the forearm. Her shrieks and the men’s screams woke Weiss, but too late. The damage was done.

Weiss donned gloves, cleaned the Germans’ wounds, and informed them that, most unfortunately, restraints would be necessary for the rest of their journey. The men protested, but Weiss appealed to their sense of German pride and duty. They witnessed what the Subject had become. Weiss promised that if, by some miracle, they weren’t showing signs of disease within twenty-four hours, he would release them. The men relented and allowed themselves to be bound. Then Weiss did the only thing he could: closely observe their condition. His notes chronicled the men’s descent through what seemed to be three fairly distinct stages. One page summarized his findings:

STAGE ONE: Flu-like symptoms, headache, chills, intermittent nausea. Appears like early symptoms of the plague. The men describe a constant uncomfortable ache, and exhibit conscious self-awareness. Duration: approximately eight hours.

STAGE TWO: Murky, intermittent discharge begins to emanate from mouth, nose, and ears. Black, pox-type sores appear on skin. Headaches more severe. Periodic grabbing of the ears. Mental agitation increases. The men still speak, but not always intelligibly. Both pleaded with me to kill them. Duration: approximately three hours.

STAGE THREE: Discharge now flowing freely from eyes. Total loss of higher functions. Ability to communicate is gone. Vocalizations consist entirely of moaning. Demonstrate unbridled aggression toward sound or any human movement. They are no longer men. Duration: Unknown. None of the subjects have yet to die of the disease.

When the train finally reached Berlin, Weiss was met by Helmuth von Moltke and a contingent of the German Imperial Army. With great regret, Weiss informed them of the tragedy that had occurred en route.

“Transport to a laboratory awaits you and your Subject,” said Moltke. “We will take custody of the men and see they are put out of their misery.”

Weiss was shocked that Moltke wanted him to continue in light of what had happened but agreed to keep the original Subject for study. Hopefully, a treatment or cure could be developed. Weiss insisted, however, that he needed to work in total isolation to avoid further tragedies. Moltke consented, in exchange for appraisal on all progress.

With meticulous care, a special glass enclosure was built to house and restrain the Subject in a two-room cabin on Brocken Mountain, the highest peak in the Harz range. From the top of the enclosure, Weiss could safely access the Subject, who seemed to need nothing to survive. Every three days, as had been arranged, Weiss hiked down to Schierke for supplies and to update Moltke on all progress and developments by post. Yet when Weiss returned to his cabin laboratory, he sometimes had a nagging feeling that someone had visited in his absence. On a hunch, he sent a note to a trusted contact in the Interior Department, inquiring about the infected men who had been taken off the train and destroyed.

As the weeks went by, Weiss struggled without success to find a bacterium similar to that which caused the bubonic and pneumonic plagues. He knew one had to be present and suspected that by the time the pathogen was transmitted, it was hiding within other cells.

One thing seemed clear: instead of proceeding to the lymph nodes or lungs, this particular plague form made its way to the brain. There, it nibbled away, causing the kind of violent madness Weiss had seen firsthand.

That theory gained credence when X-ray analysis revealed a dark, fluid-filled sac directly in the middle of the Subject’s skull. Protected by the sac’s defensive membrane, this was where the bacterium likely multiplied before sneaking into the blood that flowed out the nose, mouth, ears, or eyes. Weiss needed the pure strain of bacteria within the sac, and he designed an apparatus to drain the mysterious fluid he named “the Toxic.”

Fitting the apparatus was the tricky part. He’d had to do it with all light extinguished to remove stimuli and calm the Subject. Even then, he’d nearly been bitten. In the dark, he removed her mask from above, then waited for the inevitable thrashing to subside. When it did, he affixed the umbilical halo of the drilling apparatus to her skull. Then, safely removed on the other side of the glass, he sparked his lighter and looked on her unmasked face for the first time. Even accounting for the awful ravages of the disease, she must have been old when she was infected, with lined skin and silver hair. Now the flesh on her face was so rotted that her cheekbones lay exposed. Her ragged, purple lips moved only because of her furiously masticating jaw. Despite age and advanced decay, the Subject remained frighteningly strong. Weiss wasn’t a religious man, but he asked for forgiveness just the same. Then he pulled a lever to initiate the procedure.

His specially-designed probe descended from the halo, drilling straight down into the Subject’s skull. She seemed to not feel a thing. Upon arrival at the sac, a titanium needle extended from the instrument and cleanly pierced the soft pouch. Drawing out the Toxic then commenced, very slowly, at the rate of a 1ml per day, so as to prevent collapse of the sac and possible leakage. He estimated it would take a month to get it all.

Lab work with early samples of the Toxic proved exciting beyond words. Within days, he’d had some limited success interrupting the pathogen’s ability to create enzymes that protected it from antibodies. Not a cure yet, but surely once he’d found the key, a treatment for other forms of the plague would follow in short order. It would be the culmination of a life’s work.

Shortly after this breakthrough, Weiss finally received a return post from his Interior Department contact. The men who had joined Weiss in Manchuria hadn’t been department officials after all. Following cremation, they had been given Imperial German Army military funerals.

After reading the letter, Weiss returned from Schierke to his cabin, only to find carefully concealed footprints in the snow outside. His suspicions seemed to be confirmed: the German Army was watching and manipulating him, as it had from the beginning. But why?

Only one reason seemed possible: They wanted his research and especially the Toxic, not for a cure, but to use as a weapon. When Weiss had told Moltke of the distillation being extracted, his return communiqué asked for a firm completion date, and now that appeared to reveal his true motivation. Weiss then wondered, How long before he tries to seize my work?

As the last page from the file ignited, Weiss shut the door to the stove. He picked up one of five gasoline containers and a lantern, then walked into the dark laboratory for the last time.

Arriving at the containment chamber, he set the gas down, lit the lantern, and braced himself for the Subject’s reaction. All stayed still. He placed the lantern on the floor and removed the nearly full vial. After sealing the Toxic securely, he placed the vial in a larger, airtight metal cylinder with a padded interior. He stowed the tube, 250mm in length, in an unassuming, black leather valise and drew out an imposter vial filled with India ink. Weiss carefully inserted it in the Toxic’s place. Then he thoroughly doused the apparatus in gasoline. The creature instantly raged.

Pausing for a moment in front of the chamber, Weiss’s angular face reflected in the glass, reminding him of his twin sister, Sabine, her features faintly superimposed over his own.

With sudden ferocity, the Subject’s exposed cheekbones and decayed nose slammed headlong into the glass barrier, driving Sabine’s image back into Weiss’s heart.

The Subject’s savageness startled him, as it always did, and he nearly dropped his valise. She pounded her head wildly against the chamber, as if relentlessly beating on the gates of Hell. Weiss returned with two additional cans of gas and emptied them throughout the lab. When finished, he stood next to the chamber and put a hand against the glass.

Weiss felt a terrible pang of grief. The Subject had once been human, a shaman, dedicated to healing others just as he was. Even when doomed to die, she’d sacrificed herself to become part of his work. He pushed aside sentimentality. He could not save the dead, but with the Toxic, there remained hope for the living.

“Thank you,” he said.

Smoke from Weiss’s cigarette wound into the gathering fog surrounding the top of snowy Brocken Mountain, eventually becoming part of its shrouding mist. Valise in hand, he leaned on a walking stick twenty yards from the chalet, which would soon be completely engulfed in flames.

He knew he should hurry, but he wanted to ensure that the entire structure, and everything in it, burned. How long did he have before the German Imperial Army personnel undoubtedly below in Schierke were alerted to the blaze raging just within the Brocken’s tree line? He hoped the early hour would buy him extra time.

His actions made him a marked man. If he were captured, the best he could hope for was life imprisonment. More likely, it would mean a firing squad. He checked the safety on his pistol and returned it to the vest pocket of his jacket.

Smoke poured and billowed from every crack and seam in the cabin. A window shattered, and flames leaped out, taking great gulps of air and greedily licking the eaves before spreading to the roof. Weiss took one last drag from his cigarette and was suddenly knocked to the ground as the building exploded.

He sat up, disoriented, brushing snow and embers from his overcoat. His ears were ringing. There was more formaldehyde left in those tanks than I thought, he cursed to himself, slipping as he scrambled to his feet. The valise had flown from his hand and lay a few yards away. He rushed to it and pulled out the cylinder. A close inspection of the vial inside revealed no damage.

Now Weiss moved with urgent purpose. He faced a nearly two-hour hike down the dark mountain. He’d only descended a hundred feet when the German skidded to a stop. Ahead in the mist, an impossibly tall, black, ghostlike figure stood at the forest’s edge, crowned by a glowing halo. To steady himself, Weiss dug his walking stick deep into the snow. The menace matched his movement, and as it did, Weiss recognized the vision for what it was.

The blaze raging behind him and the surrounding fog were conducive to producing a Brockengespenst. The specter ahead was actually his shadow landing on billowy air moisture, an optical illusion seen throughout the ages by climbers on the Brocken. He waved a hand and the Brockengespenst waved back. Weiss grinned momentarily, let out a deep breath, and resumed his descent.

The sound of a low moan compelled him to stop once more.

Weiss wheeled around. A flaming body lumbered erratically just up the incline. Released by the explosion, the Subject was now a blazing abomination. The smell of burning human hair and reindeer hide—the shaman’s cloak—filled the air.

He stabbed his walking stick into the snow and pulled the gun from his vest. Sighting carefully, he fired at the Subject’s chest.

Flames burst in all directions as the bullet plowed into the Subject’s body and escaped through the other side. The Subject seemed unfazed, except that now it spied Weiss and emitted a rising moan as it staggered toward him. Weiss fired recklessly at the advancing creature. Again and again bullets struck the body until the hammer found no more cartridges, clicking uselessly. Weiss tossed the gun aside and grabbed the only other weapon available: his walking stick. He could probably outrun the damaged wreck of a being, but it could not be left alive—if such a thing could be called living. Somehow, it had to be destroyed.

Weiss waited for the Subject to advance closer. He could feel the heat from its still-burning flesh as he leveled the stick and rammed it hard into the midsection. The Subject stumbled, then lost its balance and careened awkwardly down the mountain, bouncing off trees along the way until landing with a muffled thud just out of Weiss’s sight.

No sound filled the night save the crackle of the burning cabin. Weiss crept down the mountain, finding the Subject’s body at the foot of a snowy outcropping. He relaxed. The Subject had spun headfirst into a jagged granite boulder and cracked its skull in half.

The body still burned, but Weiss took no chances. He pawed the forest floor for dry pine boughs and piled them on top of the Subject, creating a funeral pyre. He kept tossing branches onto the rising conflagration until an undulating wail of sirens from the village of Schierke below told him his time was up.