Cryonic (2 page)

I threw Colt a quick grin that failed to penetrate his contemplation. His pursuit was so earnest that I felt bad for leading him along.

“Hey, knucklehead. Let me ask you something,” I said.

“K.”

“Did they teach you that Nacho is short for Ignacio in that diversity class of yours?”

Colt looked confused and uncomfortable. I reached over and tussled his hair.

“Aww, come on, pal. I was just having some fun with you. I know you're only trying to keep me honest, and I appreciate that. I really do.”

Colt grinned sheepishly.

“Now, let's go get some surf, ya?” I asked, pushing harder on the gas.

After six miles of winding through the chaparral kicking up dust and chattering over washboard roads, we emerged at a sandy point sticking a half-mile out into the ocean. The waves peeled perfectly along the promontory, one after another in orderly sets of eight. Not a drop of water was out of place.

Colt and I were quick to succumb to the itchy paranoia that plagues surfers hoping to protect quality waves. We climbed the running boards on opposite sides of the truck and craned our necks north and south looking for any sign of other surfers. The point was usually occupied by groups of campers, but today it was empty. Not a board floating in the water and not a soul standing on the beach. We could scarcely contain ourselves.

Minutes of bliss melted into hours of ecstasy as my son and I traded waves. We stood on our surfboards in succession, each racing a wave down the point, drifting up and down on backlit teal walls of water. Each wave was flawless, depositing its rider nearly a minute after it started a good half-mile down the point. The fastest way to another ride was to run on the beach back up the point. A long afternoon of successive journeys on this conveyor belt of bliss left our legs shaking and our arms hanging dead at our sides. We dragged our hanging flesh up to the truck and struggled out of our wetsuits.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon as we left the beach and made our way toward Nacho's ranch. We found Nacho breaking bales of alfalfa in the back of a beat-up '72 Chevrolet pickup. He chuckled at the sight of our bloodshot eyes and the two-toned wetsuit tan on our necks.

“You have fun out in the sewage?”

“Best day ever.”

“By far.”

Nacho pulled himself up into the truck, and Colt slid over to make room for him. The truck bounced and chattered toward the airstrip.

“You see any brown soobmarines in the water today?”

We were too exhausted to respond to Nacho's joke. I could see him eying our sunken eyes and limp sagging frames with great concern.

“Is getting muy late, eh? Stay tonight at the ranchita. Blanca is making your favorite . . . carnitas.”

The mere mention of Blanca's cooking conjured images of braised, pulled pork so vivid I could smell the savory meat, even feel it melting in my mouth.

“That sounds really—”

“No can do,” I said, interrupting Colt. “Date night tonight.”

“Aw, Dad. There's no way we're gonna make it home on time.”

“She'll forgive me for being late, but she'll kill me for blowing her off.”

Colt loaded the airplane while I topped it off with fuel. The sun dipped into the ocean, and the sudden change in temperature sprung howling winds to life. I released the lever on the pump handle and returned it to the cradle. I shoved the numb hand into my pocket, which provided little protection from the biting gusts.

I climbed into the cockpit and started working the instrument panel in preparation for takeoff. Nacho approached the plane and opened my door.

“You sure you don't want to stay here, amigo?” Nacho urged. “Es muy windy to be flying this plane.”

“No, no . . . we'll be fine. I've done this before.” I started the engine. “We should be getting some more swell soon,” I yelled over the engine noise. “How 'bout a rain check on those carnitas?”

“Ok, Don Royce. You be careful, eh?”

I smiled and winked and pulled the door shut.

“You got this?” Colt asked, looking at me nervously.

“Yeah, no worries. We'll be home before you know it.”

We had a smooth takeoff despite the push and pull of the devil wind. Our flight through Mexico was uneventful, much as it had been in the opposing direction that morning. However, not long after we crossed the border, the wind took a turn for the worse. By the time I could see the runway lights in the distance, the onslaught of wind was punctuated by violent gusts that stopped as suddenly as they started. I looked over at Colt, who was listening to music on his oversized headphones. The expression on his face was sublime. Colt believed me when I said there was nothing to worry about.

A gust of wind sent the plane shimmying to the left. The abrupt movement snapped my attention back to the approaching runway. The wind was blowing in from the east, but the runway ran northbound. I thought back to what I'd practiced in flight school, and pointed the nose of the plane into the wind. Every time I lined the runway up in the center of the
windshield, a gust of wind would send the plane veering off to the left. My throat grew tight with the impending touchdown. I felt a squeezing sensation deep in my chest. The cockpit seemed smaller and hotter the closer we came to the runway. As I braced the yoke for landing, a massive burst of wind took hold of the plane. I pushed the Cessna hard into the gust to keep us over the center of the runway, but the wind released the plane a moment before the wheels touched ground, and I had no time to compensate. The plane's windward momentum sent us careening off the runway. I tried furiously to complete the landing even though we went bouncing off into the darkness, but the wheels wouldn't stay on the ground and the plane refused to level. The tip of the wing on Colt's side caught asphalt first, vaulting the entire plane into a lumbering cartwheel. When the nose met the ground, it crushed the propeller into the crumpled cowl. The impact absorbed the bulk of the plane's momentum, and when the tail came around it gripped the pavement enough to flop the plane back onto its belly where it skidded to a halt.

I couldn't see Colt through the dust and smoke. I struggled to free myself from my seatbelt but was overcome by a crushing pain in my chest. It felt as if my upper body were locked in a vice. My mind slowed and my vision blurred. All I could do was think of Colt. Colt was young and vibrant; he had his whole life ahead of him. I felt reckless and ashamed. All I'd ever wanted to do was provide for my son, and I'd thrown it all away. I'd succumbed to my own impulsivity and insisted on flying home. Now that decision had robbed Colt of everything.

“Dad, Dad, are you all right?”

Someone grabbed me and dragged me from the plane onto the ground.

“Talk to me, Dad, please!”

The blurry apparition above me pulled back far enough that I could make out Colt's face. Tears streamed down Colt's bloodstained cheeks as he struggled to perform chest compressions on me. A thin smile washed across my lips as I slipped away.

The blood surged through my body, filling the narrow reaches of craggy capillaries that had long lain dormant. I awoke to an intense burning and itching as nerve endings sprang to life violently beneath my leather dry skin. A group of wooden Asian men in pressed ivory lab coats stood around the bed. They shared observations with one another in short powerful bursts of Chinese. I was in too much pain to react to their repressed enthusiasm.

“Can you hear me? Do you hear me, Mister Brooyear?” one of the men asked, flicking a flashlight on and off into each of my eyes.

I struggled to move. My body twitched like a seizure, sending a burning sensation deep into my muscles. This spasm further excited the men who leaned over me and watched my eyes dance about. The pain grew excruciating. I felt as if I was burning alive. A hoarse guttural yell erupted from deep inside. The men leapt back nervously. The man with the flashlight barked an order. Another man pulled a syringe from his pocket and injected the contents into one of the many tubes protruding from my body. Four agonizing seconds later, I lost consciousness.

I awoke comfortably a few days later in a stark room that was blindingly white from floor to ceiling. Roughly the size of a three-car garage, the room was far too large for its contents—several pieces of unfamiliar medical equipment and the bed I lay in. A sizeable pane of observation glass separated the room from the outside hallway. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My skin felt moist and supple. I was surprised I could move my arms back and forth with scarcely a hint of soreness. I was dressed in a shiny, metallic gown that was loose and soft.

The door opened with a loud beep, and a short Caucasian guy in blue scrubs walked in. He looked to be in his early thirties. His large brown cow eyes matched his frumpy chestnut hair, and his puffy cheeks overpowered his small, flat chin.

“How does it feel to be alive?” the man asked.

“Never known anything different.”

“Sense of humor intact.” The man smiled at me and leaned awkwardly against the bed.

“What's so funny about that?”

“You know,
you have never known anything different . . .
”

“What are you trying to say? Did I have to be resuscitated after the plane crash or something?”

“Oh, OK, now I understand.” The man's cheerful expression turned serious, but I wasn't sure why. He sat down at the foot of the bed.

“Your name is Royce, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. Now are you going to tell me what in the hell happened to me?”

“I can tell you what I know about your case. If you need more information than that, I suppose you can try speaking with the doctors.”

“So you're not a doctor?”

“No. I'm a technician.”

“What kind of technician?”

“Cryogenics.”

I didn't like hearing that word. I lost focus and found myself staring right through Alex.

“Do you realize you signed up for cryopreservation?”

I nodded slightly.

“You died after a plane crash. You suffered a heart attack.”

“But I'm not dead.”

“Not anymore. We brought you back to life.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. You were frozen for . . .” Alex stared at the ceiling while he performed the math in his head, “a good thirty-five years.”

“Holy . . .” My thoughts evaporated, and the room started spinning. Then it hit me. I looked at Alex and burst into hysterical laughter.

“You son of a bitch!” I gave Alex a playful shove on the shoulder. “You're fucking with me, aren't you? Who put you up to this? Was it Gary? That guy never misses an opportunity to bust my balls over wanting to get frozen.”

I looked around the room. “That bastard really went all out.” I pinched the front of my gown and lifted the fabric toward Alex. “I mean, look at this thing!”

The men in the white coats now stood outside in the hallway. As soon as Alex saw them, his expression turned dire and his voice stern. “This is not a practical joke.”

“Come on, man. I've been through a lot. Just let me see my wife and son.”

“Listen to me. When they come in here, do not tell them what I told you. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. Just do everything they say, and you'll be fine.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Just do what they say, all right? I'll come back later. I promise.”

Alex jumped up and started to fiddle with the machine next to my bed. He shuffled out with his head down as soon as the men in the white coats entered the room. At first, they stood near the doorway and marveled like I was some kind of exotic animal. One man pointed at me and shared an observation that sent the group into a flurry of debate. They repeated this dumbfounding cycle multiple times before approaching me.

“Feeling better, Mister Brooyear?” the man with the flashlight asked. The others deferred to him.

“Better than when?”

“The last time we saw you, of course.”

“Yes, you could say that. Seeing as how I'm no longer on fire.”

My irritation vexed the man in charge. “Yes, an unfortunate complication of reanimation. A small price to pay for being alive, wouldn't you agree?”

“Not so sure about that. I mean, I didn't go to medical school or anything, but I never heard of anyone burning alive just because they had a heart attack.”

“Mister Brooyear—”

“Royce. You can call me Royce.”

The man in charge gave me a caustic smile. “Yes . . . Royce.” His tone was acerbic. “Your demeanor is precisely what I would expect in an American from your era. Indeed, you did not study medicine. You were a capitalist, were you not?”

“Still am. Aren't we all?” My comment spawned sideways glances and laughter from the men in the ivory coats.