The Elixir was really Dippel’s greatest work. Franks’ existence was at best second place. The Elixir could heal any wound. It could seamlessly meld transplanted organs, even limbs, to a new host. It was really too bad that the mixture instantly killed most mortals who tried to use it. Even if they were anesthetized or in a coma, it still caused an agony so excruciating that it would snuff their lives out. The spirit’s hold on the flesh was tenuous at best. Something about Franks’ physical makeup enabled him to use the Elixir and live. Government scientists had never been able to figure it out. Perhaps he was too stubborn to let go, because he really knew what it was like to not have a body, and he would not go back to Hell willingly.

MCB R&D had recreated Dippel’s Elixir of Life in order to keep Franks supplied and combat effective. He’d given the recipe to them only after warning them of its effects, but of course they hadn’t listened. Many test subjects had died before they’d finally given up. To the R&D geeks, it was a chemical curiosity, a mystery. To Franks, it was the key to his continued existence. The best chemists in the world could not figure out why it worked the way it did, as its odd ingredients should not have such a miraculous effect, but none of them were as brilliant as Father had been.

The Elixir didn’t just heal the flesh and bone. When a welder put two pieces of metal together, they weren’t just stuck or glued, they were melted through extreme heat with a third molten binding metal introduced between them, and when that heat was gone, the three pieces became one. That’s what the Elixir did to his body. Some thought of Franks’ physical form as a collection of parts, but thanks to the Elixir, he was an aggregate whole. His features and his genetic makeup changed over time based upon an ever-adjusting rolling average as new parts were introduced and assimilated. The Elixir was an alchemical miracle. It made him stronger, faster, and better than any mortal man. The more he took, the more physically powerful he became, but as the fire intensified, so did the pain, and Franks was not sure exactly how far he could push before it finally consumed him.

So he’d continue using it as he always had, small amounts to repair his body, and a bit more for when he needed to do something particularly difficult.

But he was running low, so he’d better not do anything stupid.

After the physical repairs were done, Franks concentrated on plotting his dispassionate revenge. His stash had a radio. Of course the MCB had already flipped all their encrypted channels, but coasting through the local police bands and the unencrypted Fed channels gave him some clues as to the current situation. He also had a tablet that let him access the internet, though he’d had to steal an extension cord from the historical society and run it down into his secret chamber so he could charge it. He was all over the news. Franks was a suspect in multiple homicides—they had no idea—was armed and extremely dangerous—yes—and should not be approached. . . . That last bit was actually very good advice.