Seems unlike the last two, I have trouble saying something before the chapter begins, wish I knew why. XD But let's just say that Herbert lets loose the punches while Heather tries saving her friend and instead gets into the infamous catfight.

Chapter Eight

Sick Experiments

This was her second time being in the Death House – and to think about Laura taken here by the Warden; once again, goddamn Herbert for his scientific curiosity! Why did he think about bringing back people trying to kill him?! All of it made her think maybe this was how Dan felt when he was still in her position.

She followed him through the maze of cages and small fires here and there; the inmates had to have started them when destroying parts of the electrical and gas systems, ready to burn the place down and escape back into the world, but these fires were small, though chances were they could spread. But this place is hardly made of wood, Heather thought.

Herbert pushed a door opened wider for them, saying nothing to her and her saying nothing to him right back, not even a peep about what they would do next. Though Heather meant to apologize for her cruel words earlier and wanted so badly to, she wasn't sure how. He hardly showed any sensitive side, but that shell of his might be cracked with the right amount of pressure. "Herbert," she started, deciding the hell with it. Get it out while she still could. He turned to her then, his eyebrows raised as though saying "Yes?" before they both heard a choking, throttling noise behind them. Herbert whipped his body around and raised his flashlight – and showed a pair of twitching legs in the air.

Heather blinked in shock. Twitching! She followed the flashlight beam to where a death-condemned prisoner in orange was strung up by his neck with a sheet. His eyes were red and to the brink of popping from his eyes, his mouth foaming slightly. She couldn't tell if he was dead and shot up with the re-agent or what; the Warden had knocked Herbert out and taken his work. "Can you tell if he's...?" she started to say, trailing off.

He shook his head. "No, I can't tell if he's recently dying, or if he's already dead and with the serum in his body." They left him and continued further in; they were getting closer to the execution room where Warden Brando had to have Laura. She shuddered; who knew what he was doing to her friend now.

She and Herbert found three more men hanging by their necks, twitching uncontrollably, gurgling wildly and messily. But one of them was wearing blue, belonging upstairs. How did he get down here on Death Row? Heather slipped past them to avoid getting in contact with them. Herbert was still observing them with his scientist's precision. "Safe to say," he finally spoke, "this is no less than they deserve."

Heather was mortified for a second before she crushed it down. Her morals were to care for a person even when they were the wrong ones, but these ones were criminals. Rapists, murderers...torturers. Savage beasts. The Death House had been built for punishment; it served to take the lives of the more severe cases, but now the Warden decided execution was too fast and easy, because once the electrical chair shocked you, it was for a moment of agony before you felt no more, heard no more...knew no more. "This is a fate worse than death," she whispered. He nodded with her. "The Warden knew that."

"He certainly did," Herbert answered.

And then, out of the blue, there was a crazed scream heard somewhere. They were getting closer, yes! "It's Laura!" Heather said. She didn't know what was going on, but she needed her. She turned and began to run through the unlocked door to their left not before a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her next to a larger but warmer body...and she found herself staring up at Herbert's face, deep into his eyes which analyzed her nothing like the way he did with his subjects. "Herbert, please, she needs me –" she began, trying to break free, but he held her to him. Shockingly enough, she didn't want to let him go; his body was so warm despite his cold personality, making her feel something stronger than a simple infatuation.

His face was near hers, but his lips made no contact with hers. "I don't know what's gotten into me," he spoke softly, "but if something happens to you in there, I don't know how I will continue my work without you. Cain abandoned me, betrayed me, but you're all I have left in this. If I lost you, I don't know how I'll ever find another assistant to trust again."

~o~

Thirteen years in prison might have hardened him more than he was then, but that didn't erase how more tenderhearted he was than anyone thought. Not even Dan might have seen that in him because he had made it clear once that he thought him barely human. Being called bad names had been his whole youth when he was raised by Gruber; the other students in Zurich ousted him because he was American, but his ethnicity was beside the point.

He had been the regular bookworm who had no parents, used words bigger than his own body, and all the girls were intimidated by him because they wanted "real men": all muscle and no brain. His experiences hardened him then, even more when he lost his first real friend in grade school when he was run over by a drunk driver that came out of nowhere. That was when his quest began, even more when his father figure, Hans Gruber, died and he swore to finish what they both started.

Dan Cain had been his first ever true friend in adult years, until that night failure took place, and he turned everything in all to join the ranks of the intolerants, therefore violating that bond of trust between them. Herbert had no one after that while he was in jail – solitary confinement meant nobody to share with him, not that he cared then, but the last several nights since Heather Phillips first walked into his life – or rather came back into it – had been filled with unwanted dreams of desire he realized he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. She didn't distract him as he originally feared; no, she kept him going. Her sister's death far from drove her against him.

So, in other words, as he told her, not caring how clichéd his words were or how so unlike him they were, if he lost her now or anytime after tonight, he would have no one. Spend the rest of his lonely days with his work.

She was looking at him like she was unsure of what to say, then opened her lips slowly and unleashed a soft breath which reached his nostrils; he smelled spearmint on her breath, just something he long remembered because it was one of the few hygiene cares he kept in mind for himself in the past. And then another scream from Laura was heard again, and Heather was gone through the door, stopping only to pick up a bloodied knife that had been lying about. She turned to yell over to him, "Come on!" Herbert was about to follow her when he felt something land on his right shoulder; looking over, it was a narrow rope. His flashlight found far worse than just an overhead pipe connection.

Cabrera was there, lower half of his body missing and a bloody, meaty mess at the end of the abdomen, metal support held on as he bore his murderous face on Herbert. "Your ass is mine!" he roared as he let go and fell right on top of Herbert. Oh, no, another freak show attack!

This was going to be a problem because a man missing the lower half of his body was grabbing onto Herbert from behind as he struggled to get away from him. Herbert gasped for air and tried prying the other man's hands from his neck to no avail, so that meant another option, more difficult, but his own life wasn't on his side this way. He managed to roll over onto his back, shift his hips and raise both his legs up, straining his muscles until he finally managed to get his feet on Cabrera's underarm and shoved him off with all his might; his match went flying backwards, hitting the long desk there. Now that felt good! And now was the time for payback.

Herbert grabbed the rope and forced the man to look at him as he delivered a kick to his face before a punch when he tried to get up again. His physical strength had been improving even though he didn't exercise much. Cabrera was groaning in pain in his re-animated state and limited movement to get away from his assailant, but he wouldn't escape now that Herbert had more in store for him. He got on top of the desk, still holding the rope and began to lift up his still-heavy fellow inmate who followed his steps about his stupid rat long enough.

He thought he would lose the last of his strength, but he was pleased that he remained steady on his feet as he swung Cabrera around in the air the way a cowboy would a rope, three times in perfect timing with each word of "Let me go!" from the man, finally letting him go flying elsewhere and crashing someplace where Herbert hoped he wouldn't see him again anytime soon. Sighing heavily and catching his breath, Herbert then jumped off the desk and went off to continue his mission.

~o~

Laura was just sitting there with her head lowered, but Heather could still see the blood stains on her mouth, and over her white blouse. She was on her knees in front of the electric chair, the Warden far away and crouching low as he observed the two women. He looked more...animal than human now, with the scrunching of his nose like a rat smelling food from afar, but he had a rat's energy source in him.

Heather shakily reached out with one hand. "Laura..." She brushed some soft curls out of her face, but instead of the fear she was expecting, there was a crazed smile baring the teeth, no words spoken. She was eyeing Heather like she was ready to take a bite out of her, and the latter was more than ready to back off and run, not long before both of Laura's hands reached and snatched her face.

"It's in me," she choked out, the Laura Heather knew returning briefly to warn her. "It's taking over. You have to get it out!"

Hopelessness surged through her like it did when she couldn't save Emily. She wanted so badly to help her, but – "I can't."

Her hands on Heather's face tightened with desperation. "PLEASE! Please, don't let it go on; you have to...kill it." Her eyes squeezed tight, and she released Heather's face to grasp at hers in a desperate need to get the Warden out of her. Heather knew that if she got him out of her, that wouldn't mean the easy way in getting her friend back. Laura might have used her to get the "inside story" on her and Herbert, but she was still her friend. She could still have redeemed herself, if Herbert ever understood that if he were here right now. By killing the Warden...that means killing LAURA.

She watched Laura cry in pain, swallowing hard. She was a doctor; as a doctor, she swore an oath never to do harm. A crackling sound was then heard, and she saw Laura looking down again, but the maniacal gleam was back, and that meant the Warden was back in control. Even her voice had a mechanical ring to it. "Kill me...?" she drawled, standing in time with Heather, who backed away, ready to draw the knife from her coat pocket, still conflicted because this was still her friend's life no matter how many times she would say it.

"Laura" shocked her by ripping open her blouse to show a black leather corset, strapless, attached to her black pencil skirt, rolling her shoulders back and forth in an almost sensual gesture, exhaling in a regal way. How the hell could a man in a woman's body do this? Unless he enjoys being inside her, he wants to BE her. It made her sick to think that. The Warden's cane was standing beside her, abandoned by the previous owner when Laura did her way with him, whatever it was. Said previous owner was crawling up to her but didn't stand a chance against his own cane when Laura picked it up and whacked him in the face, sending him backwards, farther away from the dueling women.

Heather sucked in a breath and held her ground, though she knew a blow from that thing was coming soon. She'd never taken bruises in her life except few times when she had no idea HOW she got them. "Laura's" head cocked to the side as she observed Heather, that horrible smile still in place. "Fascinating...I was just a replacement for your poor sister."

How could she think that? Heather never saw anyone as a replacement for anybody, but the Warden inside her was trying to set her off. "No, never –" she started, only to get a blow to her face. The pain was immense because she thought she was getting a busted lip, black eye or something, and found herself on the cold ground. The knife slid across the floor and further away from her. Damn it, now I got a sadist-possessed girl kicking my ass. Well, it's catfight time now, she thought, picking herself up and ready to turn the tables on Laura.

~o~

Herbert was just nearing the execution part of the Death House when he stopped by and spotted something familiar and didn't belong: the junkie Speedball about to inject himself with one of the re-agent needles. Oh, no, he wouldn't! Not until Herbert had anything to say about it. His serum was NOT made for recreational purposes; his uses on himself had been small doses just to keep himself awake and aware throughout the night, ensuring his brain cells didn't die on him.

Herbert snuck up behind him and grabbed his hand, keeping him from sticking the needle into his ankle. Speedball's attention jerked up and to his right, meeting Herbert's venomous eyes. "This is mine," Herbert said, keeping his hand on the other man's, ready to reclaim what was his, but the junkie wasn't giving up without a fight.

"You bastard," he spat. "You've been holding out on me." He wrenched himself out of Herbert's hold and stood far enough so the scientist couldn't reach him. "You can't keep this. This is awesome. This green shit rocks, man!" He gave a little dance without spinning and turning.

"My re-agent is NOT recreational, so give it to me!" Herbert ordered, in no mood for any of these games.

Speedball gaped for a second, but it was only for a funny show. "Sorry, I can't do it. Prison rules: we can't share needles; it's not safe. And now..." He waved his hand off. "...if you back off, I'm gonna use this."

Herbert smirked slightly; the fool had no idea he was in for a nasty surprise, and since this was either his second or third dose, he wouldn't be the way he was again. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Speedball."

The other man burst into a guffaw. "Fortunately, right now, cabron..." Herbert seethed; his limited Spanish he'd learned in Peru taught him that the term was for "male goat", and it greatly offended him. "...you are not...ME!" With that last word, Speedball jammed the needle into the crook of his left arm, plunging the green fluids into his veins, shooting through his system right away. Herbert watched, already knowing what would happen but still had to watch for analysis' sake. Dan had hated it when he injected his own experiment into his body, and he didn't care at the time, but taking the time to reflect back on it, he had long since decided this was not something to go into a living person. He raised his flashlight to watch as Speedball collapsed onto the cot, his body shaking violently, the flesh of his left eye tearing, the eyeball itself popping out and rolling off elsewhere...and finally he tore his whole shirt opened in time for his body to explode, internal organs flying about and flesh sacks everywhere.

Herbert tore his eyes away from the now-zombified Speedball and ventured out into another corridor of empty cells. A clanking was heard overhead, but upon flashing his beams, nobody was overhead, not even Cabrera. He looked down and saw Speedball's eye on the floor, but he decided he had no use of it. He was about to continue and find Heather when a noise rustled to his left, and there was the bloodied skeleton that was once Speedball, shaking a hand out to him. "Hey! Hey, man...got anymore? Just...another hit."

"I'd say you've had enough," Herbert answered, walking off down the hall.

There was no more to encounter along his way, save for the rope which he remembered vividly being attached to Cabrera's neck, and he panicked for a second because the little gangster was more than ready to retaliate – but a tug of the rope told him the man had gotten himself loose, which meant he was still around here somewhere. Herbert brushed this off and hurried in the direction to his destination.

And proudly enough, he found himself at the site of the electric chair, and crawling with his lower body twisted around in the opposite direction was none other than the Warden. Herbert burst into a fit of giggles. "Warden Brando, is that you?" he asked, shining his flashlight onto his face. The man snarled and was about to raise his cane to strike, but Herbert saw it coming and grabbed it before it could strike, throwing it away and baring his teeth. "Where is it?" he demanded.

Brando pretended he didn't know. "What?"

"You know very well what," Herbert spat, lashing out his ankle, not to strike but to simply drive him back. "Where is my work?" The Warden's eyes rotating to his right told him the answer, for there was the opened black bag resting innocently on its side. Herbert was more than ready to grab it and go when the sound of screaming was heard behind him...and Cabrera, foaming at the mouth like the dog he was, was flying straight at him; thankfully, Brando's cane was in his hands, and Herbert raised it like a baseball bat and swung out, striking Cabrera in the face and onto the ground. His engine revved up when he raised it as high as he could and brought it down on the man, his face bloodied more than it was, and then two, three...seven times. Seven the lucky number. "That's quite enough of you, ese," Herbert hissed angrily, turning his favored nickname on him.

But there was still one more man to deal with. The Warden still wouldn't give up, for he reached for his cane, and Herbert drew back only to raise it on him again, forcing him to stand and backwards, up the steps to the doomed chair itself, swinging his weapon until he was stunned once again by another punch to his own face. That was the final time anyone would slap him in the face. Herbert growled and raised his stinging face, knowing his eyes were burning as much as his cheek was.

"This experiment is over."

He twisted his torso back around and then returned to bring the cane up from underneath, hitting Warden Brando in the stomach. He groaned and fell back onto the chair right where Herbert needed him for the final round. While he still had the chance, Herbert raced around and grabbed the straps to tie him down so he couldn't get free; once he was finished, he slid the cane under the armrests since a bar was stronger than rope and gauzy bonds. And Brando was still snarling useless threats: "You will be punished for this."

Herbert leaned in. "I'd say you're the one being punished," he said before reaching up and putting the "hat" on his head and hurrying over to the generator which housed two thousand volts of raw power. First time worked; this time, he stays dead.

"I'm the Warden!"

He put his hand on the lever. "Guilty as charged," he answered before throwing it and setting a chain reaction of blinding electricity, leaving behind nothing but charred remains of the man who oversaw his incarceration and torture, but also gave him the opportunity to find the missing piece of the puzzle. The smell did things to his senses he refused to acknowledge as he leaned in, checking and seeing that Warden Brando was officially dead and would remain so.

Herbert tore the hat off the smoldering head and left the corpse as it was, running over to his bag to grab his beloved creation when he heard something to his left. Looking up, he saw Heather sitting there, her legs brought up to her chest and her body shaking uncontrollably. Concern and panic finally rose in him, and he hurried over to her. "Heather?" She looked up at the sound of her name; her eyes were wide and glassy, her mouth dripping blood at the side, and a bruise above her left eye. Her friend must have done a number on her, he thought as he knelt down to help her up, and when he did, he saw a decapitated female body lying there, in a revealing black garb, the head less than a foot away with the tangled blonde curls bearing more blood than before. She killed her. Heather killed Laura. It seems her will to live wasn't strong enough after all against the Warden.

"I had to kill her," Heather choked, leaning into him and gripping his shirt in both her hands again. "To get it out, to save her. But I want her back." She lifted her eyes to him, pleading. "Can you bring her back?"

He shook his head. "Her head is removed, and my formula isn't made for whole parts. I made that mistake long ago and do not wish to repeat it." Or perhaps he should have worded that more carefully – but how else could he have said it? – because Heather started sobbing more uncontrollably and leaned her head against him for what she'd done to her friend. Voices were heard behind them, and Herbert knew the police were getting closer. There wasn't much time left. "My dear, as much as I sympathize for you, we have to go." He pulled back and held her by the forearms, shaking her briefly to help her pull together, then took her face in both his hands. "Heather, look at me. I want you to hold together while we get out of here. Can you do that?"

She nodded numbly, taking a few breaths and following him out of this area, the charnel smell of burning flesh and salty, rancid gore still lingering after them. But they stopped along the way to see an emergency van outside, and paramedics were loading stretchers out for anyone who was injured, and apparently one had been abandoned for others to be attended. This one was an inmate in blue whom Herbert remembered being overtly polite to him, but of course, he'd shunned him because he trusted none of the prisoners in this place. Now that he thought of it, this was the least he could owe him by getting him aboard that van to be taken to Miskatonic General.

He paused to slip off his glasses so nobody recognized him, and his vision was blurred right away, but he helped her push the gurney along the way. "There are going to be officers surrounding us," Heather whispered to him as she took charge of pushing the stretcher. Of course there would be, but he didn't need to answer that, and once they were outside and about to get past the gates, an officer in black held his hand up for them to halt. Heather stepped forward, but Herbert put his hand on her and stepped forth, stating the man's critical condition and their need to get him to the hospital.

The man looked down at his clipboard. "And you two are?"

He had no ID on him, but before he could answer, Heather piped up and flashed her tag. "Dr. Phillips. Dr. Heather Phillips. I run the prison infirmary."

"And you?" Herbert had no time to plan with her his side of the story, but then she was there once more, saving his life but also mildly humiliating him.

"Frances Dexter, my assistant." He glared at her but said nothing, and he doubted the officer noticed. "Please, officer, no more time for questions because you'll be responsible if this man dies."

"Okay, go then. Go!"

Finally, they got the man aboard the vehicle ready to be taken to the hospital. "So, what now?" Heather asked.

Herbert looked around. Thankfully, everyone was busy that nobody was paying much attention to them enough to notice that they would slip away. The night was young, but it was the perfect time to get away now before they were seen.

"We leave now," he answered, reaching into his shirt pocket to pull out his glasses and place them back on, his vision swirling back into focus. "I must hide somewhere for now and lay low." He began walking away into the small collection of trees, not long before looking over his shoulder and taking one last look at the place where he'd spent thirteen years of hell on earth, but also where he overcame all obstacles and found the missing link. With the help of this woman, covered in blood like he was. Who was a doctor just like he, though she sought to preserve life as opposed to his studies of death. But their shared goal was to conquer death in spite of their differences. Something Daniel and I shared before he deceived me.

~o~

He spent so much of the day thinking about the boy, the rest of it uneventful except for a heart attack that hadn't taken the life; the man was in his early forties and got it pretty mild. But none of it erased the loss of the little boy. Dr. Moreland consoled him in his office after cleaning up for the day, though Eric had a much longer shift than he did, since he used to be married but on cool terms with his ex even though he tried to make amends, had no family to support, and he was Adrian's godfather.

"Dan." Eric Moreland was nowhere near aging immensely, devoid of any lines, though his platinum-colored hair was thinning and slicked despite the narrowing locks, his eyes green and knowing, but sometimes he wasn't able to see through a person's protective outer shell. They'd known each other since college days, and after Herbert was locked up for good, Eric was there for him and Francesca, as well as young Heather. "I'm sorry we failed. But we did everything we could, and I do wish the outcome was different."

What could he say? Dan exhaled deeply and leaned back into his chair, staring at the family photograph of him, Francesca and Adrian. "If that was my son –" he started.

"You'd risk all your energy, and if you lost him, the pain is greater," Eric answered with a little smile. He walked around the table and placed his hand, comforting on Dan's shoulder. It did very little to ease it. "Daniel, I know what you're thinking, and I don't blame you for turning our old friend in."

Startled, Dan looked up at him. "Eric, what are you...?"

"If Herbert was here, he would have saved that poor child." Eric was smiling in a way that unnerved Dan sometimes, but it was nowhere near the way Herbert used to, and as much as he wanted to agree, Dan kept his silence. Keeping quiet was a habit of his since therapy; talking hadn't changed anything, like he told his wife. Nothing would. If there was another person he wanted to tell about his regret, it was Heather. And Eric said so himself.

"Isn't that why Heather went to work at the prison instead of coming here to Boston? She's driven like you used to be. You know Herbert, for all we know, has far from overcome his...obsession." The way he said the word was of pure disgust; Eric Moreland hadn't been able to join their ranks in time before his transfer to Boston, mostly because Herbert hadn't trusted him wholly the same way he'd trusted Dan. Herbert and his trust issues. I wonder if Heather has managed to get his.

And then his office phone was ringing. "Dr. Cain," he answered.

Francesca's voice was frantic. "Dan, did you s-see the news yet?"

He frowned, looking up at Eric, whose face mirrored his own. "No, why?"

"At the prison. The state penitentiary; there was a riot, so many dead, including the Warden." She was taking in slow, heavy breaths to try and calm herself down. "God, Danny, I'm worried about Heather. What if something happened to her?"

Heather! "Okay, baby, I'm coming home now, so call her house now." He hung up then and grabbed his jacket. "Eric, she said the prison was in trouble. I need to see if Heather is all right." And Herbert, if he is. If he's alive, maybe he's escaped.

He was just out the door of his office and striding down the hallways, smiling and nodding to several people as he passed, but his last thoughts were otherwise. But if he's out there now, he's going to ruin everything again.

Yeah, Eric Moreland in the original story DID study the theory of re-animation with Herbert for some time. Plus, Heather's name for him when they escaped came from "The Islands of the Gulf" the second book - which is in two volumes that I know of - in a Herbert West novel series by Audrey Driscoll. I haven't read them yet even though I WANT to terribly, but as far as I know, in said second part, he went into hiding and changed his name to Frances Dexter. Heather's use of the name is expanded in the next chapter coming up.