December 1987-
The Simmons household was up early for a Sunday morning but they had a good reason, Great Aunt Gemma’s funeral. Richie was the last to wake. He had heard the sounds of his mother and father, even his little brother, but it wasn’t enough to really get him started, no he managed to close his eyes for a few more minutes of darkness and rest until something clicked in his brain and he knew he had to get started. He pushed off his covers and staggered to the hallway where he found his father shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror shaving. He nodded to him then made his way to the stairs, took them one at a time until he was at the bottom and he saw his little brother still in his pajamas and playing with his toys. It was going to be one of those days, he thought, when everything was out of synch with how it usually went.
They usually slept in on Sundays. He could sleep until ten or eleven, then go find his friends in the afternoon but this was different. He started to walk towards the kitchen and barely heard the hushed voices of his mother and her sisters when he stepped into the doorway. They all looked to him and he looked back. His mother stood with a cup of coffee in her hand. Aunt Ruth stood by the open door with a cup of coffee and a cigarette in hand. Aunt Frances sat at the table with Aunt Pauline working on a crossword puzzle with, no, his cousins Jennifer and Susan. He was utterly and completely embarrassed as he stood there in his tighty whities and old t-shirt. His face turned red and he moved to cover himself with his hands before giving into the panic, a scream forced itself up his throat as he turned on his heels and ran. The women, the girls, all broke into laughter. Richie bolted up the steps and saw his father stepping out of the bathroom.
“You could have told me,” he demanded, “they all saw me in my underwear.”
His father laughed it off and motioned for him to continue to his room so he did. He slammed the door and for a moment he worried his father would follow after him, open the door, and yell at him for slamming it but after a few seconds of not hearing footsteps he figured his father would let it pass. He set about his routine to change clothes and once he had calmed down he decided to try again. He waited for his father to go down stairs before using the bathroom. He waited until he heard his aunts and cousins leaving before going downstairs. He stepped into the kitchen in his suit and tie for the funeral. His father sat with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, a folded newspaper in one hand. His mother muttered something about him eating cereal for breakfast before saying that she had to get his brother dressed as she hurried past him. He made himself a bowl of cereal easily, poured from the milk that was on the table and sat down not far from his father. He looked to him, wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words so he looked to his cereal.
“No misbehaving today,” his father said continuing to stare at the paper, “this is your Great Aunt Gemma’s funeral and we need to show respect. I’m tired of being the outcast at these family things. Don’t you dare embarrass me today or your mother. If you do it’ll be your ass. Do you understand me?”
Richie felt a lump in his throat. He had planned, intended, to be on his best behavior, followed along with his mother and did everything he was supposed to do. His only worry had been if he could cry for the woman. He had never liked her. She pinched his cheeks too hard on Christmas, had a knack for teasing him and humiliating him. His cousins, his girl cousins could get away with murder, well not murder, but just about anything, like the time they dressed him up as a girl when was six or the time they had stripped off his clothes at the family reunion. They usually found some new way to torture him, but today, a funeral. He figured he’d barely see them much less talk with them. He nodded his head and continued to look at the milk in his bowl.
“I didn’t hear you young man,” his father said.
“Yes sir,” Richie forced out.
“Good, now make sure you eat everything. I don’t want any waste. I’m going out to the car so you better be there before your mother. We have to be the responsible ones today. Your mother has been holding it together so far but I know she’s going to be a mess at the funeral.”
His father got up from the table, slid in his chair, and took care of everything he had been using. He put his cup in the sink, dumped the ashtray then stuck in on the shelf, then put the paper in box near him to be burned. Richie looked into the box, something about the newspaper had caught his attention. It was the headline, “Woodbridge Hospital Damaged in Fire” so he got up and took the paper out. He started to read about the casualties, an entire floor of the intensive care unit, nine people: seven patients, two nurses, and one doctor, something about a gas leak and an explosion caused by someone smoking near an oxygen tank. He gulped at the article but barely had time to consider it when he heard his mother and brother coming down the stairs. He put his bowl in the sink and ran to the front door where he took his brother’s hand and stepped outside with him as his mother took care of the final steps to secure the house and make sure she had everything she needed. His father barely acknowledged him when he helped the boy into the backseat and buckled his seatbelt so he went around to the other side and got inside, buckled his seatbelt, and looked to his father in the rear view mirror.
“What, I had to help mom,” he said.
“Did I say anything,” his father replied.
Richie sat back and closed his eyes. He wished for any other kind of life. He wished he didn’t have to do this. He wished his cousins wouldn’t be there, that he didn’t have to go, and he wished even that the woman, his Great Aunt, hadn’t died, but of course none of it would change, none of it could be changed, and reality was there once again when he heard his mother open the car door. She got into the passenger seat and told the boys to make sure they had buckled up before his father pulled out of the driveway. He just stopped thinking in that moment when he felt the car hit the road and he decided no matter what he was going to be Mr. Cheer, no matter what happened, no matter who did something to him.
And it became a blur to him until they were sitting there in the church listening to the priest talking about his Great Aunt as she lay there a few feet away from him in front of everyone. It was all a blur until she sat up in her casket. Everyone let out a gasp of confusion then there were cries of hope and celebration until the old woman, his Great Aunt Gemma, shifted in her casket, pulled and pushed herself causing it to rock back and forth until she went too far in one direction and it tipped over.
There was an audible gasp from the family. She got to her feet and people began to yell. The priest only a few feet away stood in a panicked state as she staggered to him, her lips torn open as her jaw opened. He started to step back but it was too late. She grabbed onto him and they began to struggle. She knocked him onto his back and tried to bite him.
Most of the people began to run for the door but a few of the men, a few of Richie’s uncles ran to help. Richie’s father got to his feet, assessed the situation, then made his way where the woman was attacking the priest. They pulled her off, and he could see her snap and bite at them but it was mostly useless as she wasn’t wearing any teeth. She didn’t have her dentures. The priest got to his feet, dusted himself off, then held his cross in front of the woman as he began to speak words in Latin. Richie’s mother grabbed his hand and pulled him from the church.
*****
Dr. Peppers looked through the glass down upon the subject, Gemma Waters, a 74 year old woman who had died three days ago, but it wasn’t apparent just by looking at her. She moved about the exam room with a feeble gate, snapped her jaws intermittently but she had no teeth, no dentures, so there was only a sick, wet smacking of gums. She had nearly all of the signs of life except for the higher functions like speaking and logical reasoning. He watched her move around the empty room in a kind of primitive, animalistic fashion. She smelled at the air, looked around for movement, and stopped to listen for sounds of something, life maybe. He looked to Dr. Hoover who stood with a clipboard and pen making notes.
“Test subject shows no signs of improvement,” Dr. Hoover said.
“I told you it wasn’t ready for human testing,” Dr. Peppers replied.
“We’re still going through with phase two as planned. Do whatever you think needs to be done but something like this, something that can reanimate the brain and defeat death. We can replace nearly every other part of the body. We know the mechanics of how they work. We can transplant organs but the brain that is the great mystery. Your drug has so much potential. We can’t just stop.”
“The woman sat up at her own funeral. People are going to find out what we’re doing. How are you handling it?”
“I’ll worry about the public. You worry about how the drug works. Why did it take so long for her to show signs? The others were just hours but this one took three days.”
“We still don’t know, possibly some kind of delayed reaction. She was on a heavy dose of tranquilizers and pain medication before her death.”
“It worked once.”
“We don’t know for sure. We don’t know if he was actually clinically dead. The others sustained much more serious injuries and they ended up like this.”
“Well here is another subject to study. Take it apart and figure out what went wrong. I want answers.”
Dr. Peppers sighed with regret. But it didn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done. He set about the process of study and examination. He gave the orders and within minutes the lab aides had her subdued and had removed her head. He stepped into the lab and held his breath at the sight of it. He had done many autopsies in his life but never with a subject, with a head that still moved. Her jaw continued to snap so he sat on a stool, lit a cigarette, and watched.
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