I don’t want to spin my wheels too fast, burning myself out before I’ve fully realized the correct solution. It is a fine line between contemplation and constipation of the mind. I’ve got to let those synapse fire at their own pace; if I force them, the ideas will just get caught on each other and ball up into a big mess somewhere in my neocortex.
“Patience is a virtue and a tool of this trade.” My old mentor would say. “Deep breaths and a steady heart beat will be your road to salvation.”
Too many of my colleagues catch themselves on the hooks of hasty decisions, but not me. For me, everything is planned and timed out with precision.
“Time is of the essence, doctor.” He says, the lab assistant that I never really wanted. I shift my body to hide my process, making it harder for him to spy. My employer insisted I have help this time, I’m not sure why.
“Don’t rush me son.” I say, condescending and small. He is only a few years younger, but lacks the decade of experience I’ve acquired working outside of the limitations of the legal system.
I was hired because I am a pioneer. I am an explorer of the unknown, darker parts of science. I am an expert in the unusual, the unnatural. I am a magician to some, a god to others and a mad scientist to most.
Outside, my employers pace in the hall, their hurried staccato steps clacking on the linoleum, a metronome of worry. One of them bangs on the door.
“You do it yet?” he yells.
“Keep it down, will ya? He’s doing complicated work.” says another, trying to calm his colleague.
The first one mumbles and resumes his pacing. I take this moment to have a seat on the newly upholstered couch of this hotel room. It is comfortable and relaxing and for a moment my mind wanders.
“Doctor?” coughs the assistant.
I hold up my hand, politely asking for silence. I close my eyes and think.
It is important to note that death does not happen in an instant. Death is a process, a wave of nothingness that crawls through the body. Even in death, parts of you are alive and thriving, but all it takes is the signal to shut down, and it moves cell to cell until you are no more. So I asked, if all it takes is a signal to turn them off, there must be a signal to turn them back on. From the sea to the womb, our bodies waited for that signal to live. Some call it the God Switch, the ultimate power button; I call it a chemical reaction.
“Doctor, we are now one minute past the point of no return.” He says, annoying and distracting.
“One minutes past your point of no return. She isn’t lost until I say she is.”
“But your notes.” He says, his voice cracking.
I hold my hand up for silence. He grants it.
Mary Shelly was right about the need for a spark and Lovecraft was correct about the chemical solution and the time frame. But until now, nobody had combined the two as I have.
Each death is situational. Some require surgery before the injection, some require it while the process is taking effect. This woman though, her damage is internal and chemical. There is no quick fix and I am not entirely sure where to start my process. I consider eating the multigrain nutrition bar in my coat pocket.
Suddenly, like a bolt of lightening in an otherwise calm storm, the proper point of injection comes to me; the multigrain bar will have to wait.
The brain always goes first, and death spreads from there, but unlike the rest of the body, the brain dies slow. It is the first and last organ to experience death, it is slow and painful and a thing of beauty. I inject the solution into two points, the brainstem and the heart. I have the assistant attach the electrodes to the points I have mapped out with a felt tipped pen. When I throw the switch, the spark will ignite the tiny mitochondrial powerhouses packed into the cells. The brain will be revived and thus give the signal to the heart to pump, which in turn will carry my solution through the rest of the body. And much like death, life will flow like a wave through this corpse, and this young woman will live again.
I give my assistant the signal to step away from the young woman’s body, and I throw the switch. The lights dimmed and hummed with the sudden leaching of the buildings power. The points of contact between skin and diode crackled, the tiny hairs were burned and singed.
The heart monitor I had my clients provide finally beeped, signaling the start of the process. Now we wait.
At this point, all the hard work is done. I examine my surroundings, the hotel room, the black market medical equipment, and the beautiful girl on the table in front of me. He skin is still pale, and her makeup is smeared, but I recognize her. I don’t know her name, but I think I know her face, though I just can’t place from where.
My employers were now banging frantically at the door, demanding entry. It has been almost a half an hour since the first signs of life. I gave them my window of time needed to complete my work, but like all who are affected by grief, they forget and do not respect my wishes. One of them demands that I unlatch door immediately or else he will make sure that I will be the next one on the table. It is at this time I enjoy my multigrain nutrition bar. Their call came early in the morning and I missed breakfast in order to meet their time frame. As per my instructions, the assistant moved the room’s desk in front of the door, blocking it. I check my watch, ten more minutes.
Nine minutes later, there is the tiniest hint of a toe twitch. Usually it is the eyes that move first, sometimes the fingers, but this time it was the toe, curiously the point furthest from the points of injection.
Thirteen minutes later she has begun to breath, a little behind on my timetable, I am a little worried. My employers have managed to unlock the door, but are having trouble with the desk.
Fifteen minutes in and she is now starting to moan, her nerves are awakening and her neurons are re-pathing, something that should have happened about five minutes ago.
It has been twenty minutes and she is trying to speak. In the dozens of times I have preformed this procedure, the first words were almost unanimously profound and exact, “Is this Heaven?” they would ask. This woman’s words however are “Marty, I have the worst hangover…” To which Marty replied through the crack in the door, “Coming Miss Avlino!”
The anonymity of my client slips away and I remember her face. She is an actress, or a pop star, definitely a gossip rag cover girl, but that is not how I know her. I have worked on her before, one of my first clients I believe, though she has had some plastic surgery since then.
I motion for my assistant to move the desk from the doorway, but Marty had already shoved it aside, crawling over the desk to get to Miss Avlino. She sat up woozy, as she swayed; the sheet fell from her breasts. She did nothing to cover herself. I gather my things quickly; my job is done.
“How you feeling?” he asks her.
“Uh, I don’t know. Pretty shitty Marty?” she responds.
As I move towards the door, Marty’s gorilla like hand stops me.
“I have received the payment already, thank you.” I say, eyes forward.
“This ain't about the money doc. She gonna be ok?” he asks, his voice is loud, he isn’t trying to hide it from her.
“Well, she is no longer dead. So there is that.” I say, turning to catch his reaction. There is none.
“She ain’t been right since the first two time.” He says. She hears him, but doesn’t seem to care.
“Two times?” I ask? This isn’t good. My research has shown that anything past the second time would result in extensive brain damage. I lie to him.
“Well, like I told you last time, there can be damage depending on the COD.”
“The what?”
“The cause of death. Any damage done to her body, has been done by her. That, I cannot fix.” I tell him, looking to her as she stares blankly out the window, oblivious to our conversation.
“The what do we pay you for?” he asks as a threat.
“You pay me to fix mistakes. Not perform a miracle.” I say.
I adjust the strap on my satchel and push past his hairy arm. I look back at my assistant, who is still staring at Miss Avlino’s breasts. I, however, already saw them last month in Playboy. There was a wonderful article about the possibly of terraforming mars.