And here we are then, at last, Joseph Castle thinks, smiling inwardly.
Lyman Rhoades is strapped to the table, screaming.
The sound is surprisingly loud for a gagged man with his throat cut, Castle notes. Looking down, interested, he sees that Rhoades is missing parts of his front teeth, having cracked them clean through from biting down too hard on the thick rubber tube in his mouth. Lyman’s back is arched as much as the leather straps will allow, his wrists bouncing in the restraints. Castle idly wonders if the man is strong enough to break his own arms. He hopes so. With each scream, blood and snot blows out of Lyman’s nostrils; his eyes have been tightly shut but, when they open, they fix on Castle with hatred.
“Sclera have burst,” Dr Hedwith says calmly, pointing with his pen. “Subconjunctival hemorrhage, in the parlance. Likely from straining too hard.” He looks at the level of fluid in the bottle hanging by the table, checking his pocketwatch and noting the time. “Does that line still look good, Mr Castle? He’s moving around quite a bit, even in the restraints. Let’s see if we can cinch them up.”
Castle leans down, checking that the needle hasn’t worked its way loose. “Seems all right, sir, but perhaps you should verify.” He pushes down, none too gently, on Rhoades’ heaving chest, managing one more notch in the belt that crosses it. The wrist restraints are as tight as they can get, but he double-checks their connection to the table, just in case. For a fat man, he knows that Lyman is incredibly strong.
Dr Hedwith inspects the intravenous line, satisfied that it hasn’t pulled loose or ruptured the vein. “How are you holding up, Lyman?” he asks, repeating it more loudly when he gets no more response than another scream around the gag. There is blood leaking out of the eyes now, which he gently wipes off with a clean pad. “Can you hear me, Lyman?”
“He seems to be in some distress, sir,” Castle says blandly, keeping the smile from his lips. It’s no more than Lyman deserves and, after all, the man had asked for it, hadn’t he? Begged, even, to try this new Salt variant, made from a sample of the girl’s blood, which the doctor had recently completed. They’d already tested it on a rat and a stray cat; both creatures had been healed from considerable physical mortification. More mundane, but no less amazing to Castle, was another experiment: the doctor had soaked a small quantity of iron in the substance, heated it, and then let it cool after adding the tiniest flake of gold leaf. When the preparation had solidified, later that day, the retort contained pure gold.
Ever cautious, the doctor is reserving judgment on the substance until more tests can be performed. Rotting, stinking Lyman, though, he had been insistent that it was the Stone, was certain, had pleaded to try it before he got even sicker, before his decomposing body finished falling to pieces. Please, doctor, I need it. Please. Castle had seen the fear in Lyman’s eyes: the fear of death, with life potentially so close. Life everlasting. So near, but he would die too soon to have it. Please, let me try. Help me, doctor.
Finally, the doctor had acquiesced and Castle had taken quiet pleasure in strapping Lyman down to the table. I’ll be coming for you, monkey, Lyman had whispered. When the Stone has restored me, I will come for you. Castle hadn’t responded, merely levered the straps down tighter, patting Lyman’s chest. We’ll see about that, fat man.
Rhoades had begun screaming soon after the first languid drips of the Salt entered his veins. He’s continued screaming in the hours since.
It’s an almost musical sound, Castle thinks now, with calm content. Relaxing, in its way. Here you are, then, Lyman. Enjoy this, as I am. It’s in the name of science, after all.
“Quite a bit of distress,” he says aloud.
“Indeed,” the doctor replies, sensing the sarcasm in Castle’s voice, slightly irked. A flippant attitude is unwelcome here. They are doing the great work, which demands sober respect. It is a pure and noble thing that they do here.
Lyman screams again, louder than before, blowing blood from between his cracked teeth. Morrison looks over at the level of fluid in the bottle again, tapping it with his fingernail. “About halfway,” he murmurs, not knowing if the man can hear him.
Later, Castle sees that Lyman’s forearm is bent at an unnatural angle. Apparently the fat man is strong enough to break his own bones. Castle can’t help but be impressed. He glances over at the bottle of dark fluid that’s still slowly dripping. It’s almost empty. Rhoades will finally die, soon enough, it looks like; he’s spent his last hours in constant agony, his body tearing itself apart from the inside out, by the sound of it. It is no more than he deserves, so good riddance. This world is a better place without you in it, Lyman.
Dr Hedwith checks his watch again, jotting down notes, holding back a sigh. It doesn’t look good for Lyman, or the formula. Something is still missing. A human being is not a rat or a cat but, based on his calculations, on observations of the animal subjects, the Salt should have started working by now. At least to slow further deterioration if not actually start the healing process. Even given corrections for size and the differences in mammalian metabolisms, Lyman should, at the very least, have been rendered unconscious by now. Instead, his screams have gotten louder and more tortured, though they’ve been at it for several hours. It doesn’t look good at all.
Something is missing.
He pats Lyman on the shoulder as the man shrieks around the bloodied rubber gag, and checks the time once again.
Much later, it is over. Castle, smiling, pulls the sheet over the bloody remains of what was once Lyman Rhoades, and he and Dr Hedwith leave the laboratory, abandoning Lyman to the dark. Good riddance, he thinks again, closing the door behind him.
Good riddance.