Steal these Steampunk horror bad guys: The Grafters

I will happily admit that this idea is inspired by the trailer for the rather lovely looking schlock horror flick Frankenstein’s Army, but I do think it could easily be used in other settings too. Here’s my take on some steampunky goodness.

Although the Victorians are often seen as revering death, in their form of dress and how ceremonial their displays of grieving are at funerals, but the truth of the matter is that to your average member of Victorian high society, death is something to be feared. Society and religion tells them of the myriad sins that they will burn in hell eternal for, but behind the closed doors of private clubs, and down poorly lit alleyways, these vices are practiced daily. The ladies themselves are also far from innocent, covetously watching their neighbors from behind net curtains, spreading lies and deceit about their social rivals, as well as busying themselves with illicit rendezvous while their husbands take their own licentious pleasures elsewhere.

And if the fear of hell’s pits were not enough, just fading away and not being allowed to revel in the fortunes that they worked hard so hard to accrue stings them deeply. Never mind the poor souls crushed in the gears of industry, or worked to death in foreign fields, the blue blooded gentry have an overwhelming feeling of entitlement, and the thought of passing that money to their progeny – who had so little hand in making it – is a sour pill to swallow indeed.

So, they do everything they can to delay shuffling off this mortal coil, taking anti aging concoctions, and making deals with all manner of unsavoury characters in the hope that their lives will will extend far longer than they should. One such endeavour was the introduction of clockwork limbs and organs, to replace those that age had rotted. Early experiments were moderately successful when applied to lower class volunteers, and the aristocracy rushed to to take their share of immortality. As the years passed by though the metal within them and framing their limbs began to corrode, their bodies rejected the alien implants, and constant medication was the only way to stave off the alarming sickness brought about by the mechanical prosthetics. Still, many members of the upper class managed to live longer than they should, with more and more passing the century mark, much to the chagrin of their offspring. Nobody thought to to keep checking on the original volunteers for this experiment, and if they had, who knows how much quicker the problem could have been solved

It was when the aristocracy finally passed away that the chilling horror of the clockwork parts became apparent. Doctors were forced to perform surgery on cadavers to remove the implants, but the cadavers were fighting back. Although the deceased showed none of the traditional signs of life, the bits of them that had been replaced seemed determined to hold on to existence. Limbs would thrash and try to drag the body away, hearts would still beat, pushing blackening sludge around blood vessels that were beginning to collapse. Mortuaries became battle grounds, and the government was forced to act.

They quickly made the use of such grafts illegal, and called upon those who had them implanted to report to a state sponsored surgeon to have them removed. The aristocracy knew that for them it would mean death, and they hadn’t paid a small fortune to delay that inevitability, only to hurry their journey to the next life. many refused, or paid off the doctors to say the surgery had been a success. Still, reports came in of dead bodies still holding on to some spark of life long after they should. And the Surgeons were not going to give up so easily what was a most lucrative practice.

They knew that without further tests the government would never allow them to return to practicing their craft, so they went underground, practicing on whatever they could find or coerce. It has been five years since the last aristocrat passed away with unnatural parts fighting against the darkness, but a new strain of still living cadavers has started to seep up from the London below. Vagrants taken from their hovels, ladies of the night tricked into the wrong carriage, and those so destitute that they volunteered for the procedures, expecting payment of gin, rather than implantation.

The doctors go by another name now, the Grafters. They ply their trade not to prolong the lives of their betters, but to push back the boundaries of death, and strike against those whom they believe to be willfully ignorant of the masterful works they toil away on. They are now such a threat, with a veritable army of corpses walking around powered by steam and clockwork, that the police fear to tread below the city’s streets to combat them, preferring to deal only with the symptoms as they lurch up onto London’s streets to cause havoc.

Taking down the Grafters is soon to become a national concern, and hopefully the right people for the job will step forward.