Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

It had to be this one.

  She slipped off her backpack. She had tried to prepare for all contingencies. The vault itself was some nine feet high and like most of the others, constructed of marble with a recessed, very weathered wooden door, rusted iron hinges and lock.

  She pulled the heavy iron key from her pack and stood there, weighing the moment, then with her stomach swirling, slowly pushed the big old key in the lock. It slid in easily. But would it turn after what might be more than one hundred years?

  No. It wouldn’t budge. She fought the temptation to twist as hard as she could, the last thing she wanted was to snap it. Withdrawing the key, she pulled from her bag an aerosol can, fitted its slim plastic flexible nozzle into the lock, and depressed the spray button. She waited three minutes, counting the seconds, and tried the key again. It began to turn but not quite far enough. Again she sprayed it, then tried turning it, with no better result. This was literally the point of no return. Did she dare force it?

  From her pack she pulled a pair of pliers, used their nose to grip the back of the key and levered, hard as she could. The key turned, the lock clicked open. She heard the moped putter away in the distance.

  She was totally alone. The big, heavy door resisted her push. Over the years it had probably dropped. She threw her shoulder into the door and felt it give a fraction, shouldered it again and this time it swung inwards with a creak. Still she waited on the threshold, the smell of air trapped a century rushing out to meet her. She pulled out a flashlight, switched it on, and stepped inside.

  The vault was empty. Confronting her was a semi-circular stone wall, bare except for a small ledge where candles or lamps may have rested with a vase. From the doorway to midpoint of the curved wall ahead of her, she estimated as being about five steps. Across, the tomb was wider, say seven to eight steps. No casket, no raised area. Now she focused on the floor, big smooth flagstones. A rectangular slab sitting perfectly flush with the floor in which it was embedded had engraved upon it:

  Frohlocke nicht wider mich oh Du mein Feind: wenn ich falle, so werde ich mich erheben. Wenn ich in der Dunkelheit sitze, wird der Herr ein Licht sein.

  She had excelled at German at school and could translate this in her head.

  Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.

  The same quote John Watson had used to conclude his diary. Now she knew what they meant by saying people were giddy with success – that’s exactly how she felt, light-headed. She pushed the door snug, plunging herself into darkness except for the beam of her flashlight. It went through her head that there must be limited air supply in here and she had to quell a rising fear of entombing herself. She knelt, felt around the rectangular border of the slab with her fingertips but could get no purchase, so perfectly did it fit. She pressed upon the letters as hard as she could but it wouldn’t budge. Now the prickly sensation of panic rose behind her neck. There must be a way, a trick. She stood on the slab, jumped with all her weight. Nothing. She directed the beam up. Embedded in the ceiling was a brass crucifix about ten inches long. She reached up and felt it. It was not quite flush into the ceiling, like it was suspended by a nail or screw. Curious. She twisted it anti-clockwise and it gave. She continued to turn it until it unscrewed completely, revealing a narrow cavity. She reached up into this and touched metal and, using her fingers like a scoop, brought out a chain about six inches long affixed to something up in the cavity. She yanked.

  There was a metallic clunk somewhere in the walls and then a deeper whirring, followed by a loud clang. The slab beneath her feet began to slide back. Quickly she jumped from it and watched it retract. It stopped with another loud clunk. Taking deep breaths, she moved to the edge of the space that had been revealed and shone her flashlight down, illuminating steep, narrow stone steps. They looked ancient. There were no cobwebs, she supposed the area too well sealed for spiders, but there was a smell of damp air, surprisingly not mouldy, rather fresh, and this reassured her. Still, she had to force herself to lock the door from the inside. She checked her backpack to make sure she had apples, water, and spare batteries for her flashlight and, with her heart in her mouth, descended into the abyss.

  Step by step, Georgette found herself deeper in the vast empty belly of some natural cave. By the light of her flashlight she noted the roof and walls surrounding her were surprisingly smooth. And she could hear something, just faintly but there, a low hum. And another noise, a hiss.

  There was no railing by which she might steady herself, so her movements were very deliberate. As she descended, the hum became louder. It was very cool now and her beam picked up moisture on the walls, and then something else below, a small wooden platform off to the side of the steps. In the wall above this platform, as she drew close, she made out a large iron lever, beside which, chalked clear as day, was the word LIGHT. She felt a rush: this was in all likelihood the writing of her own great-great-grandfather. A big cable was fixed along the wall heading down somewhere. Surely the contraption could not work after all this time?

  She pulled the lever down. There was a buzz, then a flickering, and electric lamps sputtered on, revealing a cavity below so dark the lights could not penetrate. This was much deeper, she realized, than the base of the cliff could have been. The laboratory must be below the level of the lake? Carefully she continued down.

  Soon came the sound of lapping water but at this depth the lamplight was weak. Presently it was swallowed altogether by black so that she was once more reliant on her flashlight. Finally, its beam found the end of the stairs upon a concrete apron. The hissing sound was nearby, regular and loud. The lapping she could confirm was water against the concrete ‘pier’ on which she now stood. She shone her flashlight first over the pier. This was the lab, had to be. She swung the flashlight the other way now, and its beam stretched out over the water and revealed something like anchor chains descending. It was bitterly cold. With trepidation she advanced towards the laboratory area and saw in the wall a lever like the previous one. Another light?

  She pulled it down.

  There was a sparking sound and then a crown of dim lights, previously invisible, slowly began to illuminate. They were fixed in the wall of the cavern but none of them threw more light than an old gas lantern. There was a creaking as of iron girders and grinding mechanical teeth. As the lights grew stronger, they revealed a mechanism built into the wall, iron wheels turning and some kind of crane being set in motion. It reminded her of an old fairground. The rattle of chains dragged her gaze to the water. The chains were moving, being wrapped around a capstan up high hauling something up.

  And then it broke the surface, some kind of crate with a rubber hose, perished but intact, extending from each side. These, she realized now, were fastened somewhere below the surface. The crate ascended about four feet above the water and then was slowly swung towards her by the crane. And now, as the crate swung fully side-on, she saw it was actually a large glass container, like a display case, but she couldn’t see inside yet because of condensation on the sides. The case began to lower as it swung towards the concrete apron. The top was glass too, but clear. She peered down into it.

  She did not breathe, blink, move an eyelash.

  Completely enclosed on all sides by ice, like a fossil in amber, looking up at her, his hands folded neatly across his Victorian waistcoat, was the frosted but completely intact body of a man.

  ‘He’s handsome.’ Simone popped some nuts into her mouth as she peered into the special environment-controlled perspex case.

  Trust her to reduce this amazing scientific breakthrough to The Bachelorette, thought Georgette and then felt immediately guilty. After all, Simone barely had two dimes to rub together yet had brought her a potted plant to brighten up the lab.

  ‘What is this plant?’

  ‘I’m not sure, ginkgo biloba grafted with deadly nightshade or something. This Haitian girl I do pilates with says it stimulates blood f
low to the brain.’

  ‘Deadly nightshade is an hallucinogen that can kill you!’

  ‘Uh-uh. Not this stuff.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do, I smoked some. It cleared up my pimples.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ The trouble was, she actually did.

  Georgette finally found a place for the miniature plant. Simone was right about the subject Georgette had denoted as X. As Georgette could apply a mix of sub-freezing gases there was no need to pack him in ice, and if you actually did look at him as a person and not an exhibit, she supposed he was quite attractive, about forty, with his own hair.

  Simone waved to X and put on a cockney accent.

  ‘Cor blimey! Wot ’ave we ’ere?’

  Whenever Simone was in the lab it gave Georgette the heebie-jeebies but she had been busting to confide in somebody and didn’t dare enlighten any colleagues. Not yet. Harry would have been first choice but he was off on his annual Catskill vacation with a bunch of old pals.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. A diplomat of some sort I think, going by the diary.’

  ‘Must be at least six foot, distinguished. I think we should call him Percy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It fits. He looks like a Percy. So, Percy was like, frozen?’

  It annoyed Georgette that her sister had already appropriated X by giving him a name. She’d done the same with every pet they’d ever had.

  ‘Yes, more or less. One hundred and twenty-nine years ago he fell into the freezing lake. His heart would have stopped instantly. Our GGF got him into the secret chamber via an underground stream and then into a glass case where the cold temperature kept him pristine. A turbine driven by the waterfall delivered all the energy they needed for their lab. Working with what they knew at the time, it was ingenious, absolutely no skin damage.’

  ‘How did you get him here?’

  ‘Transportable pod.’

  ‘No, I mean, legally, how did you bring him in?’

  Georgette gave her best blank look. It did her no good.

  ‘Shut up! You smuggled him in?’

  ‘I said he was our American great-great-grandfather who had been working in the Italian ambulance corps during the First World War.’

  ‘That’s straight out of For Whom the Bell Tolls!’

  ‘A Farewell to Arms.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Simone winked. They fell for it?’

  ‘I had convincing paperwork.’

  Simone wiggled her finger at Georgette the way an aunt might pretend to scold a favorite nephew who had tried to slip a little white lie past her.

  ‘That guy from the embassy party you were flirting with – am I right?’

  ‘Patrick. He was the one doing the flirting. He cut some red tape.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did. Why don’t you date him? He’s a bit of a dweeb but you’d be suited. Much more than Vance.’

  Georgette had managed to temporarily blank Vance from her mind. Simone answered her own question.

  ‘I suppose opposites attract.’ And now she was peering in very closely at X as if imagining herself riding with him on a pair of matched thoroughbreds. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now I have to revive him.’

  ‘Shut up. How long has he been here?’

  ‘Nearly three weeks. Everything is prepped. I thought you might want to watch the big moment with me.’

  ‘You filming?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You should have told me. I would have worn something sexy.’

  ‘We won’t be on camera.’

  ‘You’re kidding. You’re missing the human angle.’

  ‘Time for that later. You ready?’

  ‘Hit it, sis.’

  Georgette switched on the cameras and spoke into a small microphone.

  ‘This is Doctor Georgette Watson, Wednesday November eleven, two thousand and twenty. I am attempting to revive an unknown male believed to have been frozen since eighteen-ninety-one. It is three-eleven p.m., New York time. Present are myself and my sister, Miss Simone Watson.’ Simone stuck her face in front of the long-shot camera. ‘I will now administer the revival gases.’

  Georgette depressed the button. Indicators told her the delicate concoction of gases was now being pumped into the chamber.

  Please.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘I don’t know. My best calculations suggest that if it’s going to work, given the body mass, about two minutes, fifty-three seconds.’

  Simone got in close. ‘I haven’t been this tense since Silence of the Lambs.’

  Georgette checked the clock: thirty-eight seconds.

  ‘I think I need to pee, Georgi.’

  ‘You can’t leave yet. We’re in a controlled situation.’

  ‘What about this beaker?’

  ‘No!’

  There was a clang and clatter. Presumably Simone fumbling the beaker back.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Definitely a mistake, should have done it by herself. One minute, twenty-six. Halfway. Georgette couldn’t prevent her gaze straying to the monitors that would show the faintest trace of life: body temperature, heartbeat.

  Simone said, quietly for once, ‘You’re amazing, you know that.’

  Georgette looked up and saw her sister smiling at her, felt guilty for all the bad thoughts.

  ‘I’m really touched you’re letting me watch this with you. Especially after … I’m sorry about, you know … you falling through the ice and all.’

  It was the first time Simone had ever said that, and Georgette didn’t know how to respond, hadn’t had a chance to think it through.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ she said.

  Simone laughed. ‘One day you’ll thank me.’

  That day might be now. Two-minutes, fifty-two.

  Fifty-three.

  Georgette studied the bank of monitors.

  Silent.

  Fifty-four, five, six …

  Three minutes.

  She watched the clock tick around to sixteen minutes. Not a blip.

  Simone said, ‘He’s been on ice a long time, I guess.’

  For the next hour and a bit that was the only time either of them spoke. Or maybe Simone did speak and Georgette didn’t hear her. It was like everything whited out while she was trapped in a blizzard of self-doubt. Couldn’t feel her heart, sense herself breathing, smelling. Her thoughts were a tumult of endless calculations of what she might have done wrong.

  Simone had said something.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I’ve got a rehearsal.’ Simone leaned in and kissed her. ‘I’m sure it’s just going to take him a while to heat up.’

  Georgette appreciated the thought but it was like putting a drip of water on third-degree burns.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me. If Percy …’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  Only she had a terrible sinking feeling that nothing would be happening now.

  Nearly twelve hours later what had been a sinking feeling was well and truly on the ocean floor. Percy – she bristled at the fact she was calling him that now – was like a big wax doll. Inert. Motionless.

  If it was going to work, it would have done so by now. Georgette felt utterly dispirited. She had tried not to get her hopes up, pushed them down at every opportunity like you do with a puppy you’re trying to train, told herself that just because it worked with a hamster didn’t mean it would with a human, and certainly not one inert for that length of time, no matter how well preserved. She felt this big gaping hollow. It had been stupid to be optimistic. It was one hundred and twenty-nine years for heaven’s sake. And who knew what contamination had happened, especially in those very early hours? The material of the clothes he’d been wearing was flawless and that had maybe made her more confident than she should have been. Maybe there had been contamination early on during the transference from wa
ter to the glass case. The war had probably been lost in the first assault, so to speak. Percy was still of great scientific interest but destined to be no more than a specimen, a relic for the historians and archeologists.

  She yawned. It was 2.40 in the morning. In the lab she maintained a small room like a sea-captain’s quarters with a simple bed, dresser and a small en-suite bathroom, where she slept when she was working experiments that needed her constant attention. Normally she would have crawled into bed there but it had been three straight days since she’d been outside, her freshest clothes were two days old and the bedsheets needed replacing. She figured she might as well head to her apartment, change and grab fresh sheets, then return to sleep. Nothing was happening here.

  He couldn’t stem the relief that rushed though him when the cab dropped her outside her apartment building. The very next day after his previous visit, he had called her lab on some pretext and asked for her. They had told him she was on a short overseas trip. Not wanting to arouse suspicion by asking how short ‘short’ was, he had given it a week and then started checking out both the apartment building and the lab. This was his second visit since. Yesterday he had called the lab and had been told that she had only just returned. Last night he had loitered for a couple of hours but had not caught sight of her. Tonight he had contemplated abandoning the vigil but decided to hang in until three. Ten minutes before his self-imposed deadline, a car stopped and she climbed out. They were hard workers, scientists, you had to give them that. It had crossed his mind that their encounter should take place in the lab. The apartment building was small and relied on cameras for security. Any halfwit could avoid them. The lab, on the other hand, had a security guard and teemed with cameras but sometimes such measures could provide a false sense of security. A lazy security guard was less dangerous than a nosy neighbor. He had already found a copy of the lab’s plans and there was access through an alley to a security door. But then, if one thought laterally, there was an easy way to bypass all that. He looked up at the building in front of him. She’d possibly be showering this very second, ready to slip into the sheets. It was tempting. The sister – he had quickly established she was the young woman in the apartment whom he had previously spied on – had moved back to her own place, so now it was just her and him. It had grown chilly but that was good, the generic muffler a simple disguise. Winter was coming and it would bring snow, ice and death. He checked his watch, wondered how long before she would be asleep. Soon. Sleep is coming for you, Georgette, long and deep and, at least for him … satisfying.