Wake By Tendo Rei Reanimator is not my property, Jeffrey Combs is a great actor, go Raiders!        It was a cold day in February when the funeral was held. What mourners there were had filed in hours before, to swap stories over cold, greasy chicken and dilapidated fruit salad. Eyes had gone from normal to bright and then normal again, noses discreetly blown into handkerchiefs, veils adjusted for maximum obscurity. And all through it, one man stood alone. One man, maybe in his mid-to-late forties, it was hard to tell, stood apart but not separate from the mourners. He was dressed conservatively in what you couldn’t really call formal attire. Drab button-up shirt, dark gray slacks. His appearance could be forgiven, though, for he wore the confused air of the recently grieved, rolled-up shirtsleeves possibly attesting to a hard day. He remained nearly immobile until the time came for the wake to begin, and then with all the autonomy of a robot, shuffled to a seat in the front pew.         Speculations flew as to who it really was, the crowd there was mostly well-wishers and friends, the deceased had no apparent relatives. All throughout the sermon, he was discreetly watched through veils and corners of eyes. The back of his head betrayed no movement, although he would reach up to wipe his face occasionally. After the sermon had finished, the minister, a gaunt but pleasant man with gray hair beckoned to the front pew. “And now,” he said in the ringing tones of the practiced public speaker, “The late man’s friend and fellow student from medical school will stand up and say a few words.” The man in front stood up.         There were a few intakes of breath, of course, but he seemed to take them all in stride. He shuffled up to the pulpit with a reluctant air, and looked out among the mourners, his face a mass of confusion, grief, loss, and some other unidentifiable emotions. He cleared his throat, and started off with what sounded like a whimper. He blushed slightly, and sympathy for him skyrocketed. He cleared his throat once more, and the priest patted his back. His entire body seemed to clench involuntarily for a moment, but this act was so subtle that no one in the room saw. He wiped his brow once more, and nervously began.        “Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can only speak of with extreme awe.” The mourners shifted approvingly. This was off to a good start. “This respect is not due altogether to the self-sacrificing nature of his recent work,” he continued, “But was engendered by the whole nature of his life-work, and first gained its acute form more than seventeen years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at Miskatonic University Medical school in Arkham.” He paused for breath. Quite a few eyebrows had raised. If Hebert had a friend like this, why had they never seen him? He had the fidgety look of a secretive man, perhaps he was conducting research in much the same way Herbert had.        “While he was with me the wonder and phenomena of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and  I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone, and the spell is broken, the actual amazement is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more astonishing than realities.” He took a drink of water from a glass by the pulpit, eying it suspiciously beforehand. The crowd stirred again. The speech was certainly literate, and a little esoteric. But you can’t really have genius without some strangeness, can you? The late man had been a genius. Over half the crowd were people whose relatives, spouses, and in one case themselves, had been brought back from the brink of death. The other half were doctors whom had made the acquaintance of Herbert during his tenure at the hospital, and the last small percentage were young pretty nurses who would probably miss him more than anybody.        “You would probably know West as a man who never gave up, no matter how hopeless it seemed.” Mutters and nods of assent from the gathered. “Even still in school, West would continue long after other doctors would give up on a patient. Many, many times, he tried to beat back death itself, with little to no success. He tried-” and here a slight tremor entered his voice and he had to stop for a few moments. “He tried to revolutionize the medical process, in such a way that it cost him many hours of his own life. His attachment to life, it seemed, did not extend to his own.” He stopped and gave a small, self-conscious chuckle, as if sharing some private joke. “West was, if nothing, a determined man, as I’m sure most of you are aware of.” The crowd gave a polite little laugh. The speaker smiled slightly, then seemed to go into a place inside himself, deep inside.        “West was a good man, above all things.” He repeated, as if in a trance. “Everything he tried was done with the best intentions, and without him, my college tenure would have been much more brief, and unsatisfying.” People shifted again, it felt like intruding on a private moment. The speaker sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “West was one of my only friends, and stayed long past anyone else would have,  I suppose the same principle,” he smiled tightly and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Would apply to me too. While I was only a facilitator in his early work, we lost contact over the years, and it saddens me today that this would be how we met after so much time.” An older, plump woman in the back gave a little sniffle, and buried her mascara-caked eyes in her handkerchief.         The speaker cleared his throat, and decided to finish. “Though he may have been…confused sometimes, West always had his heart in the right place. He worked hard, right up until the end, and was all the better for it. Thus he leaves life, and leaves this world a little sadder.” He folded and unfolded his hands as if he did not know what to do with them. The crowd gave some light applause, and he looked very uncertain for a moment. He looked lost, and groping or a life preserver. But it lasted just a moment, and he made his way numbly back to his seat, thudding down and putting his face in his hands. The priest once more took the helm. “That was a stirring eulogy, delivered by the man’s associate and friend, Dr. Daniel Cain. Cain took time off from his busy practice in Boston to come down here, and we are all very grateful for such a moving sermon.” The crowd applauded once more.         Afterwards, at the wake, one of West’s colleagues, a Dr. Thaddeus Gardner, approached Dan, who was cleaning his rather large horn-rimmed glasses on his shirt. “We’re all very grateful you could come out.” He said quietly, while Cain breathed on a lens. “Of course, it was something of a shock, to know that West had friends from college, and that they practiced as well.” “Well,” Dan murmured. “Not many.” “Surprising too, that you would just happen to be here, on today of all days.” The man gave a short little chuckle, and Daniel did too, without humor. “Just amazing, that you practice in one of the busiest cities, and we’ve never managed to meet.”        “Oh? Where do you practice?” “Arkham.” The man said with a touch of embarrassment, and at that moment a blonde woman with dangly earrings walked by. “Oh, would you excuse me?” the man said hastily. “I have a rather important question to ask her.” “Elizabeth!” he called, racing away without waiting for a reply, just missing the wry face Cain made at his back. He put his glasses back on and straightened his narrow black tie, muttering to himself. Over the next hour or so, he became the official receptacle for comments about the deceased, and after a long while it finally died down. There were only three left, then. The coroner, eating a ham sandwich wrapped in wax paper, the priest, whom Dan noted with slight disgust as having more than a passing resemblance to the late Carl Hill, and Daniel himself. As the other guests had left, he asked if they would very much mind if he had a few moments alone with the deceased. The priest smiled amicably, in a way that nowhere near resembled the late doctor Hill. The coroner merely shrugged.         As they filed out, he approached the coffin, finally getting to see the man after thirteen years. The lid creaked back, showing the late Daniel Cain with a peace that had escaped him while alive. Herbert West’s hand trembled for a fraction of a second, and the coffin lid creaked ominously. He nervously glanced at the other room, and finding no disturbance, pushed the lid back all the way. And there he was, still handsome, after all these years, even in death. There was the omnipresent lock of hair that fell over his forehead just so, and West had to withdraw his hand because he had unconsciously gone to straighten it. He sighed. It seemed stress had got him in the end, he had been working the late shift one night and an aneurysm had done what myriads of undead had tried and failed to do. Typical Dan. He smiled unconsciously again, and traced the scar on the side of his face with what might pass for tenderness.         It was purely coincidence that he was here today, another John Doe had turned up, and he wanted to test his newest batch of Reagent. He hadn’t even known that Cain was alive or–as he told himself bitterly in prison–cared. But if he had been a betting sort of man, this would be one of the top manners of death he would bet on. Poor Dan, after so many years of caring just a little too much about your patients, you worked yourself to death. They say one minute he had been asking for sutures, the next he had been on the floor, blood trickling out his nose. He sighed, and looked at the many flaws in his face. Too many gray hairs, not enough laugh-lines. Dan never took time out to enjoy himself, never paid attention to anything but his work. West’s face darkened. Stupid, brainless, sycophant!         A throat cleared at the edge of the room, and West immediately relaxed the death grip he didn’t remember having on Dan’s suit. He turned around to see the priest, and an unexpected wave of hatred washed over him, one he squashed down into darkness. “Yes?” he asked softly, one of his greater strengths was recovering quickly. The priest had an air of one who respected you, but sorry, there was business to do. “Are you done with your goodbyes, my son?” West winced. He even sounded like Hill. “Not just yet. Give me just one more minute, please.” He nodded understandingly and left for the next room. West turned back to the body and absentmindedly began straightening its clothes.         It was such a phenomenal coincidence that he had been here that when he saw the sign, Herbert West: Funeral and reception, he had been completely taken aback. That colleague of Dan’s, the doctor, the blond one, what was his name…Whately? Yes. He had seen West’s expression and asked if he knew the deceased. West had been in shock for a moment or two, then he had given him a hastily constructed formula, using Dan’s name. After all, West mused, fair game. Eh, Danny? The part about the practice was easy, the reason for being here hadn’t. So he had left them very vague, and no two people were entirely sure what he did. And now here he was, alone with Dan, and the only question was Reanimate? Or not? He smiled widely and tousled Dan’s hair. If he knew Dan’s wishes, it would probably has been to rest underground in peace, and not continue as a violent zombie. So, he would skip the petty revenge. He didn’t want another Hill on his hands. Pity, if only Dan had died a few months from now, when he would have refined the Reagent to…he looked at the phial in his hand.         He had intended it for a fresh corpse, not yet full of embalming fluid. But the stasis agent he had developed was so strong now that he was able to keep the hand of a traveling salesmen fresh, until one day when a dog had wandered in and ate it. He sighed. It was hard. Did he let Dan suffer the final indignity of death, or did he revive him in a few month’s time, when he could show him once and for all that he was right? He mulled over it for a few moments, then reached a decision, getting a syringe from inside his pocket and uncapping it. Oh well, he would rather be right than happy. He filled it, the liquid inside giving off a faint luminescence with just a tinge of green. He unbuttoned Dan’s shirt and, placing the needle directly over his heart, rammed it home. With a faint crunching sound, it slid in and delivered its payload of chemical goodness.         West waited a while, then removed the needle, buttoning the shirt back up. He stowed the waste in his black medical bag, then felt the neck of the patient. The skin was no longer cold, it had taken on  sort of nauseating luke-warmth, and felt clammy to the touch. He sighed in relief and picked up his bag. The fingernails and corners of the mouth developed a faint greenish tinge, an unfortunate side-effect. He walked away. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was genuinely happy. He whistled cheerily as he opened the glass door in the foyer, nearly walking into a young girl, whose head hunched against the rain. He leapt back, probably a little more than necessary, and the girl looked at him oddly. He did the same. She was wearing just a light jacket, completely inappropriate for the cold, damp weather. She had high-heels on, probably ill-fitting, judging from her slight limp. She wore little makeup, and seemed very small, much smaller than she was. All this he gained in the time it takes an eye to blink. “May I help you?” he asked softly, feeling generous. She looked lost. “I…um…I was looking for the West Funeral? Herbert West?” “And who ar-” he began, and then the pieces fell into place. She was young. Pretty. Short blond hair. “You knew him.” He stated flatly, neither accusing nor warm. She looked a little sadder at this. “…y-yes…I…we were…” He smiled, contempt building up behind it. So Dan, you never could resist a pretty face. “Of course, of course, how silly of me. it’s right through there, down the hall and between those two arches. You see it?”         She followed his finger with her eyes. “Yes, thank you.” She said with evident relief. She started across the floor, then seemed to come to a conclusion and turned around. “Did you know him?” She asked shyly. “you know, from the hospital?” West’s eyes were unreadable, his face a mask. “No.” he told her. “We were friends once.”         She seemed to accept it and scurried off at once, West glaring after her. It was as if there was a set number of choices for making women, like a Mister potato head. Let’s give her blond hair, a pout, long legs, and the ability to cripple any man with a look. Well, not just any man. West wasn’t just any man. He swung his black bag to and fro, making his way to the train station. He had an interesting couple of months ahead, and something to look forward to at the end. In the building the young lady asked about the body’s newfound florescence and the coroner replied, as only coroners can, that sometimes chemicals built up strange in a body, why, sometimes part of people would melt, etc., etc. And he went off on such a marvelously revolting spiel that the young woman quite forgot the odd man in the foyer, and his strange black medical case which read “República da força médica militar de Peru” END