GENTLY, MY ASS!
The first jolt makes the body jump an inch off the table. Fletcher adjusts the settings on his little hand controller. It’s connected to the coil under the table by a couple of wires. The body settles back down again. Fletcher flinches. This doesn’t look good.
“Well, if he wasn’t dead before,” I say, “he’s probably dead now.”
“Quiet!” said Fletcher. He thumbs through his notebooks again.
I can tell he’s trying to come up with another idea. And he does.
“All right,” he says. “I’m going to try a saline flush.” He points to a metal chest on the other side of the room. “There! Get two bags for me!”
I open the chest. It’s an aluminum cooler filled with sacks of clear fluid. I hand a couple to Fletcher. They feel like thick water balloons. He hooks them to a rack at the side of the table and attaches tubes so that the fluid runs into the IV line, which runs directly into a vein above the guy’s ankle. Then he attaches a syringe to a rubber connector.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“The concentration of the preservative solution might be too high. I’m trying to dilute it. Plus, the saline is conductive.”
“So they covered all this stuff in med school?” I ask. When I’m nervous, I just try to make conversation. Fletcher’s nose is buried in the binders again, turning pages back and forth.
“I’m not a medical doctor,” he says. “I’m a PhD in organic chemistry.” He looks up. “Big disappointment to my family.”
“Great. So what if this guy wakes up and has a heart attack?”
“I’m really hoping that doesn’t happen,” says Fletcher.
The IV line is wide open. I can actually see the solution flowing through the tube as Fletcher presses the plunger on the syringe.
“Okay,” says Fletcher. “I’m ready to reapply voltage. Stay clear.” He picks up his little box again, like a kid with an old-time game controller. He turns the dial slowly. The coil begins to whine again. I see the body start to pulse and vibrate, shaking the whole table. Fletcher is sweating. “C’mon! C’mon,” he mumbles. Suddenly, the IV line bursts from under the bandage and whips out, spraying solution all over the place. The body goes into a spasm, then settles back down. Fletcher turns pale and shuts the power off.
“Dammit!” he yells.
At this point, I’m past being grossed out by anything. I grab the end of the IV tube and hold it up. Sticky liquid drips all over my fingers, but I don’t care.
“Fix it!” I say. “Reattach it! Let’s go!”
“It’s not working,” says Fletcher. “I have to modify the protocol.” He shoves the pile of notebooks aside.
At this point, I have no idea if the guy on the table has any life left in him, but it still hurts to see him like this. I put the IV tube down on the side of the table. The back of my hand accidentally brushes the bare skin of the ankle where his sock is rolled down. The skin feels cool, but not ice cold, like I expected. Then, something else—a little shudder. A flicker of movement, right under the skin.
“Wait! Look!” I shout.
Fletcher leans over the table next to me. The ankle twitches again.
“Just a fasciculation—an involuntary muscle movement,” says Fletcher. “A little aftershock.”
But now the spasm gets bigger. It runs up his side until his whole leg is trembling. I move to the head of the table. I see a slight movement in his chin. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Or maybe there’s still a chance.
“There has to be something else we can still do!” I say.
I hate to fail at anything. Always have. Now my face is just a few inches from his. There! Another twitch of the chin. And now a little jerk in his neck.
What happens next is a blur. Don’t ask me to describe my thinking, because I can’t. I’m operating on pure adrenaline. Why else would I lean over and plant my mouth over the mouth of a guy who’s been in a musty vault for more than a century? But that’s what I’m doing. My lips are locked over his. I’m blowing air into him. Yuck. Maybe this is my punishment for cutting class.
I push in a couple of quick breaths. Nothing. Fletcher is frozen like a statue.
He can’t believe this. I can’t either. I adjust my angle. I press my fingers over his nose so air won’t escape. This is nothing like kissing. It’s the opposite of kissing. I feel like a human air pump. I give him two more breaths—harder this time. I feel Fletcher’s hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. “Stop it!” he says. “Are you crazy?”
Suddenly, the guy arches on the table. I hear a deep scratchy rattle in his throat. Then his eyes pop wide open. His head flexes up for a second and then drops back onto the table. His head turns. His eyes look straight at me. His lips move. He gasps. Then he starts talking—slow and hesitant.
“What time is it?” he asks.
I check the clock on the wall.
“Twelve o’clock,” I tell him. “On the dot.”
“And what day is this?”
“July first, 2087,” I say. “Twelve o’clock.”