Body by Blood

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

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  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  Resources

  Contact Information

  Body by Blood

  © 2018 by Dr. Patrick Johnston

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-62020-602-7

  eISBN: 978-1-62020-672-0

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher using the information below.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations taken from The King James Bible, The Authorized Version, public domain.

  Jesus Loves Me, public domain.

  Cover Design & Typesetting by Hannah Nichols

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  1

  SEPTEMBER 1, 2029

  “ETERNAL LIFE, AT MY FINGERTIPS. I almost . . . ”

  “I know, my dear.” Morgan, my wife of six years, brings her manicured finger to my chapped lips. “Shh.”

  It hurts to speak, and my deterioration obviously troubles her.

  “You’ve done so much, Raymond.” She teases her blonde hair over her ears. “You’re a good man.”

  Morgan is two and a half decades younger than I. Her voice is as smooth and angelic as her perfected facial features, but her words provide no comfort. They irritate.

  If only she wouldn’t wear so much perfume; the closer she gets to me, the more my lungs burn with every labored breath. My eyes do not focus well. I fight the inebriation of this looming moment by gazing directly into Morgan’s Bahama-blue eyes. She flashes a half grin, and I respond by trying to relax the stress lines on my strained countenance. I look so much older than her. Beholding her physical perfection always provokes me to tilt my head higher, so as to stretch out the wrinkles under my chin, and suck in the extra weight that continues to overlap my belt in spite of the twenty pounds I have lost these last three months.

  “Almost, Morgan,” I wheeze.

  “You’re a good man, Raymond Verity. A good man.”

  She keeps saying that. Is she trying to convince herself, or convince me?

  Scented candles cast gloomy shadows on the walls of the private hospital room and on the faces of those around me. Probably quite the opposite effect from what my micro-managing wife intended.

  My colleague, Ivan Wilkes, stands beside my bed, an arm’s length away. He squeezes my left hand. My arthritic knuckles crunch with his pressure. I groan and my head snaps toward him, but he appears oblivious to my displeasure. He means well, treading far outside his comfort zone to touch anyone. This is a man that tries to use the tip of his million-amero pen to tap an elevator button. It never works because they are heat-activated, not touch-activated, but he tries anyway. “We may yet conquer death in your name. Be at peace, Raymond. Everyone’s here.”

  He waves his hand across the room, motioning to those whom I have fancied caring about me during my 68 years.

  There’s my cut-throat attorney, Vlad Riddell, clasping the clipboard with the document I just signed to donate my body to our research facility.

  There’s my senior financial advisor, Quaid Sandman, a former CEO of the largest bank in the world, and a Federal Reserve board member. His pointy spectacles blur his downcast eyes. Is he displaying grief? I squint and try to focus my eyes. No, he’s just checking his stocks on his smartphone. That’s what I love about him though; he’s almost pathologically obsessed with profit, even at the risk of a third divorce. When he profits, I profit. But what is the benefit of profit when all I own will be ripped from my grasp at any moment?

  My stubby brother, Thomas, stands at the foot of my bed, dutifully counting the pale beads on his rosary. The lines on the narrow forehead of his round face are furrowed, and his features contort as if he is suffering along with me. Why? I have seen him only twice in the 20 years since our parents’ tragic death, and those conversations were contentious, refereed by our attorneys. Maybe he thinks his self-imposed misery will lessen the pain of my passing. From the growth of the bulge that totally obscures his cowboy belt buckle, he wound up with Mom’s genes, not Dad’s. Mom died of diabetes and sleep apnea, related to her affinity for bedtime cupcakes and cookies. Dad, on the other hand, withered away from cancer, like I’m doing now. My brother breathes a slight gasp, and his scrunched-up lips release a tormented, inaudible prayer as his fingers pass the last bead and settle on the crucifix. Annoying, as usual. I could rarely make out a complete sentence from Thomas, as he always seemed to speak with a mouthful of spit. I bite my lip to suppress my usual over-bearing reproof. I must try to think the best of him; his prayers are a kind, albeit futile, gesture.

  Or, maybe it is not a kind gesture at all, but being face-to-face with his elder brother’s dying moment reminds him of his own frailty, and his inevitable date with the Grim. A pitiful reminder my shriveled body and weakened intellect must be.

  My religious fanatic of a sister, Tamara, stands by the door, having agreed to the boundaries I have set to limit her ceaseless agitation. I can’t see her thin, short frame—Ivan is in the way. But her ceaseless prayers, her very presence create some eerie, paranormal discomfort for me. She has honored my request to stop pestering me about my eternity, more or less, but her attendance still seems like a pebble in my shoe that I don’t have the time or energy to remove. My sister believes that I’m headed to eternal torment in hell, yet her personal testimony has somehow implanted a hook deep inside me. Whenever she’s near, troubling thoughts long buried revive.

  Ivan pats one of the plaques that surround me in my deathbed, distracting me from the distressing memories of Tamara’s repeated atte
mpts to humble me before her tyrannical deity.

  The awards and trophies, framed degrees and letters from industry leaders and heads of state, are prized possessions that envelop my withering frame like flowers around a rectangular black hole in the ground. These accolades have always defined my life, and I thought they would provide a suitable frame for my unwelcomed conclusion. How wrong I was. I would trade every doctorate degree and Nobel Prize for the presence of just one of my two chillingly-absent children.

  I cough and blood dribbles onto my chin. Ivan jerks his hand away from me lest I contaminate his aura of sterility.

  “His vitals are growing unstable,” a firm, raspy voice behind me bellows. “We must do it now.”

  The words of my personal physician at the head of my bed quicken my weakened pulse. To maximize the benefit of the donation of my body to the research lab Ivan and I founded, I had agreed to hasten my inevitable death in order to better preserve my body for potential revitalization under Ivan’s authority. Our hopes were so high. We were hailed in the scientific community for our experiments jump-starting dead cells to life. We were confident that one day our scientific breakthroughs would make aging and death as conceptually obsolete as fossil-fuel-powered automobiles. Yet, here at the end, is it really wisdom to end my life prematurely for the sake of our hopeful research?

  “Wouldn’t it be amazing if Raymond Verity, the pioneer of New Body technology, were the first to ever be resurrected from the deep freeze?” Heads nod to affirm Ivan’s high hopes.

  Ivan’s eyes dart to my wife. “Are you ready?”

  I wince; he’s not asking me.

  I look for sadness in Ivan’s, and then Morgan’s eyes. Instead, they trade winks, which seems quite out of place. Morgan nods at my physician behind me, Redd Cranton. Then she turns to Quaid Sandman and gives him a smile and an assuring nod.

  Why did she do that?

  She looks like she’s about to do something she’s proud of, like she’s about to walk across a stage and receive a diploma. A click of a button behind me, and the machine rumbles.

  Death with dignity, always my mantra. Keep your laws off my body. My body, my choice. Now that I’m in the driver’s seat of my own demise, steering my antique, tumor-tortured frame off the cliff of life, it feels more cowardly than dignified. Death by lymphoma, my death certificate would deceptively read. No, death by lymphoma is death by a natural cause, but this death isn’t natural. It is self-imposed death. Fear of suffering was the motive and poison the direct cause, not the invasion of lymphoma cells. The thought is piercing at first, and then throbs like a migraine, evoking a turn of my stomach.

  “I don’t want to die like this.”

  Did I utter those words out loud? From the collective gasp of disappointment from those around me, I did.

  Death.

  I sense the black-robed monster sitting cross-legged on my heaving chest, the sickle in his bony right hand and the long white bones of his left clenched around my throat. In the black-hole of his hooded face I hear a gravely laugh.

  Death.

  The thought is like an icy knife in the center of my chest, the simultaneous sting of a thousand bees tormenting my ears with a high-pitched squeal and standing my hair up on the back of my neck.

  All I have saved and stored will be stolen from me in a single moment. All my love, all my work, all my awards, degrees, and prized tributes will instantly dissolve, consumed as if in a billowing hot flame. Gone.

  I blink hard and turn my gaze from the Grim’s sadistic chortle, my body chilling with every labored breath. My hands feel for the frames and trophies around me in my bed. My cold, sweaty hand grips a Nobel Prize trophy, and I cling to it. Peace is just out of reach; comfort grows increasingly elusive.

  Dr. Cranton’s eczematous palm rests on my forehead. He pats me gently. Condescendingly. As if he pities me but doesn’t respect me.

  “No,” I mumble, opening my eyes and shaking my head with as much vigor as I can muster. “No, Ivan, Morgan. Listen. I want to . . . ”

  “Shh.” Morgan reaches out to stroke my sunken cheek or quiet me with her index finger as is her custom, but I thrash my head and neck away from her.

  “I don’t want to die. Get him off me!”

  Ivan squeezes my hand firmly. “Keep the course, Raymond. Be brave.”

  I push it away. “No, Ivan, no. I want to live . . . ”

  Feet scuffle on the tile floor, not walking about, but the shifting weight of those uneasy at my outburst. Their disappointed mumbling reverberates, as though I’d run most of a mile race and fallen on the final stretch. Ivan turns to look at someone behind him and heaves an exhausted sigh. Morgan shrinks away from me, and cups her full lips with her right hand. She looks over at Vlad Riddell, my attorney, who turns square to face me, troubled.

  “But he already signed the papers.” Morgan spins on her heels to face Vlad. He nods and waves her quiet, his eyes fixed on me. I am letting them all down, but it is my life. My life! As miserable as it is. This end is anti-climactic, but I want to live as long as I can.

  “Give it a moment.” Ivan raises an index finger toward Morgan.

  My proclamation has no effect on the humming of the death machine behind me. My right forearm begins to grow icy cold where the IV is impaled into my vein.

  “Stop it!” A shrill cry near the door turns every head. My sister Tamara steps into the room. “He said to stop the machine. He wants to live. I heard him . . . ”

  Vlad and Quaid grab her by the arm and push her back toward the door, scolding her for daring to intrude into the peaceful sanctity of my euthanization. Dr. Cranton speaks into some kind of radio device, either on his person or on the wall. “Send security into 607.”

  “Dr. Cranton!” Tamara squeals. “Shut it off! He wants to live . . . ”

  Several voices swallow up her protest. “Get out!”

  “How dare you!”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  Even Thomas casts an angry glance at her. I would have guessed that Thomas would be the one to speak up, as spiritually aware as he pretends to be, but he holds his peace.

  “Thomas!” Tamara cries out. “You heard it! No bead-counting’s going to cleanse you of bloodguilt . . . ”

  Thomas’ eyes close tightly as if he is trying to shut out her words. Moisture beads on his furrowed brow, his fingers more quickly maneuver the rosary beads, and his lips begin to chant a memorized prayer. He always thought his good works made up for his pathetic apathy and fathomless selfishness, and this evening is no exception. I look into his tormented countenance, wishing he’d defend me, but his eyes and ears are shut tight to my struggle as his mind focuses on his God.

  There. There is religion.

  My right arm grows increasingly heavy, as if it has turned to stone. I jerk against its unwelcomed frigidity. Following Dr. Redd Cranton’s counsel, Morgan begins to strap down my right wrist. I try to bring my left fist over as if to strike her, but Ivan restrains it. I pull against his tight grip, but I am too weak.

  The tightness in my chest is replaced by a cold stillness, but not stillness like a calm sea, more like a lake frozen instantly solid, followed by the frantic tapping of air-breathing creatures beneath, struggling to reach the surface.

  The sedation begins to make my body thirsty for oxygen, but instead of the natural panic that one would experience when they cannot breathe, I am overwhelmed with a numbing euphoria, vainly offering me hope against whatever unknown awaits me after my last breath.

  I muster all my strength to try to speak up in protest of this cruel insult, but my tongue is thick and dry, my words unintelligible. I force the air in and out, fighting against the intravenous poison. With every moment that passes, my breaths grow more shallow and slow. My eyes dim. I fix my gaze on the white tiles of the ceiling, fighting the temptation to blink. My gaze focuses on the “X” that borders four tiles.

  My sister’s cries of protest echo in the hallway as she is forced out of the room. “Jes
us, help him! Jesus . . . ”

  Her words are eclipsed by Thomas’ increasingly strained “Hail Mary, full of grace . . . ”

  In an instant, my ears shut out the world. All I hear is the faint, slow clapping of my calcified heart valves, one last mocking accolade for my life. I listen carefully. The applause begins to fade. Another sound backdrops their pitter patter. Is that a wintry storm blowing through an open window? I am suddenly so cold. So cold. No, I think it’s the breath of Morgan’s words in my ears, contorted and slurred by the inebriating poison spreading throughout my body. Wait, I recognize the tone. Is that Louie, my son? Or Savannah, my daughter? I think I feel the weight of two children on my lap. I remember reading to them when they were little, when they were innocent, when they still liked me. Oh, what I would give to . . .

  I jolt with a door slam. That is the last time I saw Savannah. I feel a paper brush against my arm as it drifts to the floor. That must be Louie’s last words to me, scribbled with his mother’s lipstick onto the back of an envelope of junk mail: “I hate you.”

  The rushing sound of the icy wind grows more abrasive as my heartbeat drops to a faint whisper. Is this the raspy cackle of the icy black beast sitting on my chest?

  Morgan nears. I can tell from the burning of her perfume in my nose. Her lips press against my cheek. I cannot feel their softness. I wonder what words she whispers into my ear to try to console me.

  Ivan squeezes his fist around my fingers. One last pitiless crunch. My eyes widen.

  The last thing I see is the glimmering edge of a sharpened, blood-streaked sickle speeding toward my face.

  2

  “DR. VERITY. DR. VERITY.”

  Someone snaps their fingers. I force my eyes open, expecting to see a second swing of the bloody sickle and a piercing pain, but instead I see four heads hover over me, silhouetted by bright round lights. I hear a monotone voice, high-pitched, like a malfunctioning computer. My heart pounds as if I’m waking up in the middle of a surgery, expecting to feel inhuman pain. I try to speak, to cry out, but there’s something bound to my face and mouth, restraining me. My mind flutters about, confused. I need to recall something vitally important that has escaped me.