Read Online Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein) by Donald F. Glut, Mark D. Maddox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donald F. Glut, Mark D. Maddox
Tags: Fiction
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that went with it. But somehow, surrounded by the morbid atmosphere of this place, she suddenly felt within herself an urge, albeit an ephemeral one, to go domestic. Besides, for lack of anything better to do to occupy the long hours and days until Winslow’s return, what better way was there to pass the time other than to transform this grim Frankenstein castle into a more hospitable temporary home.
* * *
The large truck with the Morris Lamont Transport Co. logo painted on its canvas covering, rumbled out of its garage like a World War II surplus army tank. The truck thundered, black smoke coughing out of the smokestack near the driver’s cab, along the snow-packed road. Dark exhaust fumes billowed out to pollute the cold Arctic air.
Three men sat in the truck’s cab. The driver, Morris Lamont, occasionally took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the beard stubble on his face. Next to Lamont sat Dr. Burt Winslow, who was doing his feeble best to remain calm during this greatest journey in his life, while still recalling the incident with his intended assassin back at the hotel. By the other window in the cab sat the Frenchman, Pierre Dupré, who was once again chewing on an empty pipe.
Behind the threesome, under the canvas covering of the vehicle, a number of huskies barked continuously.
“... And that man who attacked me was identified absolutely as an orderly at the medical center,” said Winslow, trying to make himself heard above the dogs.
“At least, now he’s in jail where he belongs,” said the Frenchman. “Fanatics! Sacre bleu ! as we French are supposed to say at times like this, but fanatics such as he can be a terribly dangerous lot you know. He might have killed you, Burt.”
“Probably would have, if not for all my anticipation — along with Lamont’s six months of daylight — keeping me awake all night.”
Morris Lamont turned away from the windshield, which led hardly more than the bleak whiteness of snow and ice. He snickered at his two passengers. “ My six months sun? My friends, you can take it back with you when you leave here.”
“That man who tried to kill me must have overheard us talking to Fairfax in the hospital,” continued Winslow. “Obviously superstition is strong enough to affect even the educated natives. And obviously the natives aren’t too happy about outsiders finding their Ice God. That orderly must have followed us back to the hotel and found out my room number.”
“It’s a good thing you told the police to watch over Fairfax,” said Dupré. “Now that the news is out that he told us about what he saw, his life will be in constant danger.”
Winslow only nodded in reply.
Lamont continued driving on the course outlined by the hospital patient. He was glad that he had, at last, decided to go along on this trip and not remain back at the shipping company office. Business was slow these days anyway and he liked nothing better than finding an excuse to get back behind the wheel of his truck.
As he listened to Winslow and Dupré discuss their mission, with frequent references to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Lamont kept watch over the vast expanses of whiteness, carefully looking for any dark objects that contrasted against the snow.
Waiting for a break in his passengers’ conversation, the driver finally remarked, “Those superstitious Eskimos are a funny group. We’d better watch out for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started something, even if we do have the Protection of this truck. Just keep in mind that we’re the trespassers...trodding on their sacred grounds. Guess it will be the same as if, back in your civilized countries, someone came in and desecrated a Christian altar.”
“I know,” Winslow agreed sternly. “In their eyes we are the Persecutors of their faith. That’s why I had you bring along those guns.”
“Hmmmm . . . You had me pack along enough rifles and hand guns to hold off a regiment.”
“Or a
* * *
The large truck with the Morris Lamont Transport Co. logo painted on its canvas covering, rumbled out of its garage like a World War II surplus army tank. The truck thundered, black smoke coughing out of the smokestack near the driver’s cab, along the snow-packed road. Dark exhaust fumes billowed out to pollute the cold Arctic air.
Three men sat in the truck’s cab. The driver, Morris Lamont, occasionally took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the beard stubble on his face. Next to Lamont sat Dr. Burt Winslow, who was doing his feeble best to remain calm during this greatest journey in his life, while still recalling the incident with his intended assassin back at the hotel. By the other window in the cab sat the Frenchman, Pierre Dupré, who was once again chewing on an empty pipe.
Behind the threesome, under the canvas covering of the vehicle, a number of huskies barked continuously.
“... And that man who attacked me was identified absolutely as an orderly at the medical center,” said Winslow, trying to make himself heard above the dogs.
“At least, now he’s in jail where he belongs,” said the Frenchman. “Fanatics! Sacre bleu ! as we French are supposed to say at times like this, but fanatics such as he can be a terribly dangerous lot you know. He might have killed you, Burt.”
“Probably would have, if not for all my anticipation — along with Lamont’s six months of daylight — keeping me awake all night.”
Morris Lamont turned away from the windshield, which led hardly more than the bleak whiteness of snow and ice. He snickered at his two passengers. “ My six months sun? My friends, you can take it back with you when you leave here.”
“That man who tried to kill me must have overheard us talking to Fairfax in the hospital,” continued Winslow. “Obviously superstition is strong enough to affect even the educated natives. And obviously the natives aren’t too happy about outsiders finding their Ice God. That orderly must have followed us back to the hotel and found out my room number.”
“It’s a good thing you told the police to watch over Fairfax,” said Dupré. “Now that the news is out that he told us about what he saw, his life will be in constant danger.”
Winslow only nodded in reply.
Lamont continued driving on the course outlined by the hospital patient. He was glad that he had, at last, decided to go along on this trip and not remain back at the shipping company office. Business was slow these days anyway and he liked nothing better than finding an excuse to get back behind the wheel of his truck.
As he listened to Winslow and Dupré discuss their mission, with frequent references to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Lamont kept watch over the vast expanses of whiteness, carefully looking for any dark objects that contrasted against the snow.
Waiting for a break in his passengers’ conversation, the driver finally remarked, “Those superstitious Eskimos are a funny group. We’d better watch out for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started something, even if we do have the Protection of this truck. Just keep in mind that we’re the trespassers...trodding on their sacred grounds. Guess it will be the same as if, back in your civilized countries, someone came in and desecrated a Christian altar.”
“I know,” Winslow agreed sternly. “In their eyes we are the Persecutors of their faith. That’s why I had you bring along those guns.”
“Hmmmm . . . You had me pack along enough rifles and hand guns to hold off a regiment.”
“Or a
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