LAZARUS MAN: RESURRECTION
The Life, Times, and Adventures
of the First Cryonic Survivor
Neil Jonathan Johnson stirred, slowly drifted up from the depths of unconsciousness, and began to awaken.
The first sensation he noticed was sound. He heard a soft, electronic hum, which was punctuated by a beep every few seconds, and followed by a raspy, forced-breathing sound that made him think of Darth Vader.
Everything was dark. He thought about trying to open his eyes, but didn’t think he could. They felt sealed shut.
Neil could feel something covering his eyes. Probably bandages, he thought. He felt something else, a different texture—harder—over his nose and mouth. He could tell he was breathing, but very slowly. He could smell a trace of a clean, antiseptic scent that was reminiscent of rubbing alcohol.
He was lying on his back, but couldn’t feel a bed beneath him. That probably didn’t mean anything; he couldn’t feel much. He wondered if he was floating in water, but his body didn’t seem to be moving at all.
His head felt groggy, and numbness engulfed most of his body. In the few places he could feel something—mostly his head, hands, and feet—the sensations alternated between dull aches and muffled pain.
Then he heard a voice. It came from his right, was definitely female, and sounded young.
“Good morning, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “My name is Penelope. I am a Human Health Master Caregiver. You are being cared for in a health facility in the Kansas City Metropolitan Population Center which, in your day, was called a hospital. Our medical monitoring devices indicate that you have regained consciousness. It is very important that you not attempt to open your eyes, speak, or move your body at this time. I will notify your Human Health Director that you have awakened. For now, you will benefit most from additional rest. I will increase the level of your brain stimulator’s pain suppressors. Try to go back to sleep. Pleasant dreams.”
Within a few seconds, his discomfort was replaced by a warm, tingling feeling that began in his hands and feet, and soon spread over his entire body. As he began to relax, he fell back to sleep.
And for the first time in more than a century, Neil Jonathan Johnson did dream.
“Dad?”
“Hey, Devin. Come on in. I’m in the living room.”
“How you feeling today? Your vision any better?”
“Things aren’t quite as blurry as they were yesterday, but now I’m having trouble visually judging distances. I scared myself a little a couple of times this morning while I was driving. You doin’ OK?”
“Yeah. Great.”
“That’s good. You want a cup of coffee or a Coke?”
“No, I grabbed a bite to eat when I got out of class. I’m good.”
“How’s your week going?”
“I got some good news from the Financial Aids Office. Found out that I’m getting some money back from the university this semester, and more next semester.”
“For what?”
“The total amount of the scholarships I got this year is more than the actual cost of my tuition and fees.”
“You’re getting cash back from the university?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re telling me that Neil J. Johnson’s baby boy is not only getting a free ride, he’s also getting paid to go to college?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Cool. Never heard of that before.”
“They said it doesn’t happen very often.”
“That’s because they don’t get students as smart as you very often. How much are you getting back?”
“Around three grand, total, this year, they think. Fifteen hundred dollars this semester, and another fourteen or fifteen hundred next semester.”
“Wow. I’m proud of you, Buddy. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Did you vote yet?”
“Yeah, just before I came here. Voted for Obama.”
“Thought you probably would. So did I. You know, it’s a funny thing. For the past twenty years, I always thought John McCain was probably the only Republican I would ever vote for if he ran for President. And then this year, when he did, I didn’t like anything about him. I think we stand a better chance of getting this country turned around with Obama. Anything new with your mom and Rick? They doin’ OK?”
“They’re doing fine. I think things are a little tight for Rick right now, with the cost of building the new house and making payments on the house we’re still living in.”
“Yeah, that’s gotta be tough.”
“Why’d you ask me to come over today, Dad?”
“I wanted to let you know what’s going on, as soon as I found out, Devin. I’ve had what is undoubtedly the strangest day of my life today, and it’s not even noon yet.”
“What happened?”
“I went to see Dr. Knorr this morning. They got the results back from all the tests I took over the last few weeks.”
“Did they find out what the problem is?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
“Bad news?”
“Real bad. I’m really sick, Devin. I—I’m dying.”
“What? Oh, Dad, no! What is it? A brain tumor?”
“No. That’s what I was expecting him to tell me. What I have is worse.”
“What? What’s worse than a brain tumor?”
“Mad cow disease.”
“Mad cow disease? You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. Although since I’ve gotten home, I haven’t shed a tear, but I have caught myself laughing a couple of times.”
“How can a person get mad cow disease?”
“Well, technically, it’s the human version of mad cow disease. Just a second, I wrote down the name . . . Here it is: variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me neither. It’s very rare. Fewer than 300 confirmed cases of the disease in the history of the world, and less than a dozen, counting me, in the U.S. The odds of winning the Powerball lottery or the Publisher’s Clearinghouse contest are much higher.”
“So how’d you get it? I thought cows with mad cow disease were only in England.”
“Good question. Several years ago, some cows with the disease were exported to other countries, including the U.S., but they were all tracked down here and destroyed before they contaminated other cattle.”
“Do you get it by eating meat from a cow that has it?”
“Well, yes and no. As far as they know, the only way a human can contract the disease is by eating nerve tissue from a cow that has the disease. If I’d have had a burger or a steak from a mad cow, chances are I’d be fine.”
“Nerve tissue?”
“The brain or spinal cord of an infected animal.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Buddy, no one knows for sure just how I got infected. You remember our vacation to Europe in ’99, when you were, what? Ten?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember we stopped off in London for two days before we came back? Everybody’s best guess, at this point, is that I contracted this disease by eating a hot dog I bought from a street vendor in Trafalgar Square. The fact that you don’t like hot dogs just may have saved your life that day.”
“They think you got mad cow disease from eating a hot dog?”
“Probably. You ever heard that when you have a hot dog, you don’t know what parts you’re eating? That you may be eating eyeballs and assholes? Well, apparently, at least in my case, someone must have thrown in a dash of cow brains, too.”
“They’re sure about this? Could someone have made a mistake?”
“Buddy, they triple-checked the lab test results before they called me in. They’re sure.”
“What does the disease do?”
“It’s not pretty. It eats up the brain and spinal column. Destroys the
whole nervous system.”
“Oh, God. What can be done for it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s a fatal disease. No cure, no treatment.”
“That’s horrible. What does it do to you?”
“Vision problems, which I’m already having. Coordination problems . . . I’ll probably have trouble walking, for instance. Physical tremors. Mental confusion. Hallucinations. Gradual insanity. Seizures. Paralysis. Coma. And finally—mercifully—death.”
“Oh, Dad! What are you going to do?”
“I’m seriously considering putting a bullet in my brain, just to end it before the really bad stuff happens . . . But I’m not sure I’ve got the guts to do it.”
“Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, Buddy. So am I . . . So am I.”
“How are you taking this? Emotionally, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Devin . . . My thoughts haven’t stopped racing since Doc Knorr told me I was dying. I’m scared, no doubt about that. This disease is gonna be a real nasty way to die. I Googled it when I got home and found a few more things that Doc either didn’t know, or didn’t want to tell me. Some of the hallucinations I might have are of my skin being burned, cut, or itching badly, when nothing’s really happening to cause those sensations.”
“Man, you’re right—you sure had a hell of a morning, didn’t you?”
“Oh, there’s more I haven’t even told you yet.”
“What else happened?”
“Today just keeps getting stranger and stranger. A half hour before you came over, I got a phone call.”
“From who?”
“A lawyer named Derek Jones. He’s flying in tonight from California. He wants to meet with me first thing in the morning.”
“You know him?”
“Never heard of him. Said he was the top attorney for Andrew Fitzgerald Stanton.”
“The billionaire?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up with that?”
“No idea. But I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. He sure got my attention.”
“How?”
“When I told him I wasn’t sure I could make it in the morning, he said if I could meet with him for one hour, he’d give me a check for ten grand for my trouble.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah. And with the medical bills I’ve racked up lately, I could sure use the money.”
Neil woke from the dream and immediately noticed painful, itching sensations on his chest and stomach. His head throbbed, and the inside of his throat felt raw. He tried to clear his throat, but only succeeded in making a guttural, grunting sound.
Penelope’s voice came from beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. I see on our monitors that you are experiencing pain from your incisions, which woke you. That is a good development. It is not good that you are in pain, of course, but some discomfort, and especially itching, are signs that healing is well underway. And that is a very positive thing. I will adjust your pain suppressors a little more, and you will feel better in a flash.”
Within seconds, the pain and itching subsided, and he quickly fell back to sleep.
“Mr. Johnson? I’m Derek W. Jones. Please come in, sit, and make yourself comfort-able.”
“Thanks. Pleased to meet you.”
“And you, as well. May I get you a cup of coffee? Water? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks. Is this your first time in Saint Joseph?”
“Yes. Never had a reason to come here ’til now. Seems like a nice town.”
“It is. No crime or smog to speak of, and the traffic’s not bad. And for the cultural advantages of a big city, Kansas City’s only an hour away.”
“I see. I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice, Mr. Johnson. As promised, here’s a check, payable to you, in the amount of $10,000.”
“But I haven’t met with you for an hour yet.”
“You will, when you hear what I have to say. As I told you yesterday, I am lead counsel for and represent the interests of Mr. Andrew Fitzgerald Stanton. Mr. Stanton is unable to join us today, as he is hospitalized due to his failing health. He’s not at all well.”
“Yeah, well, I can relate. I have my own health problems.”
“Yes, I should say you do. May I summarize them, to start us off?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Your current situation is—how should we describe it—bleak? Over the past several weeks, you’ve been unable to work due to illness, you’ve run up some substantial medical bills, and then yesterday, you learned that you have variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a quite nasty terminal illness for which there is no known cure.”
“I thought a person’s private medical history was confidential. How
the hell did you—”
“Mr. Johnson, with enough money, there’s little you can’t find out, and few things you can’t do, if you’re sufficiently motivated. Would you say my assessment of your situation is accurate?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And given this situation, what do you have to look forward to with the time you have left?”
“Well, let’s see. If we hit the highlights of the symptoms I can realistically expect, there’s deteriorating vision, mental confusion, hallucinations, insanity, paralysis, coma, and death.”
“And besides letting the disease run its course, what options do you have?”
“There’s always the obvious way out.”
“Suicide?”
“Of course. Only if I was smart, I’d make it look like an accident, or hire someone else to kill me.”
“So that your life insurance would pay off.”
“Yes.”
“That’s important to you, to leave something to those you leave behind when you die?”
“Of course that’s important to me. I figure I’ve racked up somewhere between fifty and a hundred grand in medical bills over the past couple of months. After paying those off, and paying for my cremation and funeral expenses, my life insurance should have enough left to leave my son, my sister, and my dad a little something of an inheritance.”
“Your medical expenses will be closer to one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. If we take your half-million-dollar life insurance policy, and deduct your medical bills, funeral expenses, probate fees, estate taxes, and inheritance taxes, there should be enough money left to leave each of your three designated beneficiaries approximately $89,000.”
“O.K.”
“Can you think of any other options available to you?”
“No, Mr. Jones. Believe me, I’ve thought about this a lot since yesterday, and this is the only practical alternative I can come up with.”
“What if I were to offer you a proposition in which you would be able to leave each of your beneficiaries a financial legacy, not of $89,000, but of ten million dollars?”
“That’s my trick ear, Mr. Jones. Could you say that again?”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson, you heard me correctly: ten million dollars each to be left to your son, your sister, and your father. And I can offer you something even more important.”
“What’s that?”
“Hope.”
“Hope?”
“Yes, hope. Hope for the future.”
“Hope for the future? What the hell are you talking about? In case you haven’t been paying attention, Mr. Jones, I have no future to look forward to.”
“Ah, but there’s a chance you could have.”
“How?”
“Have you ever heard of cryonics, Mr. Johnson?”
She stood in his room beside his supine body. She quickly scanned his medical monitors, then spoke, softly but clearly: “Mr. Johnson? I know you’ve just woken from a dream. My mechanical menagerie told me so. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to stop by while you were awake to introduce myself.
“I am Monica Charbonneau, your personal Human Health Director. In your day, I would have been called a medical doctor or a physician. I have been responsible for all aspects of your health care since you began your precarious journey back three weeks ago. I was also quite heavily involved in the preparations preceding your resuscitation for several years before that.
“Please don’t try to move, speak, or open your eyes just yet. I’ll probably remove the bandages from your eyes tomorrow, and let you feast your eyes on this brave new world. A few days after that, you should be able to speak. You’re healing nicely from your surgeries, and you’re in remarkable physical condition, considering all you’ve been through.
“There are two things I want to make you aware of today. First, you should know that you’re a worldwide celebrity, a showpiece of living history. Should you survive the remainder of your convalescence—and so far, there is every indication to expect that you will—you’ll be the world’s first successful cryonic resurrection. The current year is 2119 A.D. You have been cryonically frozen for the past 111 years. Since you were born in 1966, chronologically you are 153 years old, but for all practical purposes, you are still 42.
“Second, I want you to know that you are even more special than that to me. Your son, Devin, was my father. You and I, good Sir, are grandfather and granddaughter.”
She placed her right hand on his and gently squeezed it. “Welcome to the 22nd Century, Grandpa. I’ll see you in the morning.”
To continue reading, buy the book or ebook.
Copyright © 2009 by DENNIS SPALDING