Resurrection Men

Is there a flaw more fatal than my loathing of normalcy? My self-inflicted imposter syndrome amongst anything less than beguiling, it brings me a detestful perspective of my past; a childhood of quiet rooms, disposable friends, and afternoons amongst limited company. I say this, not to scold my parents for being so characteristically pedestrian, but to help you understand what led me here. 

College was not particularly thrilling, save for the Ethics professor who lacked basic morality (the irony gave me a kick). I was not interested in medicine; I’d never been one to wonder how my body functioned, or why others’ didn’t. But it was the logical choice.

I was not outlandishly handsome, or really all that intelligent, but I’d have gone mad in that dreary town. Plus, my father’s father was a Harvard graduate, making me something like a legacy. 

I joined the class of 1906 willingly, but without fervor.

I spent my days in Massachusetts studying subjects which held no picturesque and following my roommate around so as not to become too much of a hermit. I disliked his opinions, and most of his friends, but he was my only source of amusement.

That is, until the invitation came.

A cream-colored envelope, no recipient or return address, and a thick wax seal pressed in the shape of a hand, reaching towards the sky. The words Αναστάσιοι άνδρες engraved at its fingertips. Resurrection men. 

The envelope’s contents was limited; a room number and a formal plea to keep things a secret. It didn’t tell me what to keep a secret, and it didn’t really matter. The name itself gave me a thrill. And by then, I was so desperate for anything stimulating, I might’ve slapped my own cheek if the paper told me to. 

I’d spent the entire rest of that week creating scenarios in my head; a secret society, perhaps of historians dedicated to unraveling the truth of an ancient legend. Though I was no historical scholar myself, so that theory was abandoned quickly. A book club, maybe, where books are uncovered from former tyrants of censorship. But I didn’t read all that often. 

By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was so deep in my speculations that I believed anything less than an underground boxing ring might’ve disappointed me. I was wrong. 

“Theodore Wilson,” I’d told the young man stationed outside room 117. 

He’d looked me up and down, his eyes landing on my shoes. “You’re new.”

I’d looked down at my plain, black slacks, then back at him. “Yes.” 

“I can tell,” he’d said before flipping through the clipboard in his hands and nodding his head towards the door, done with the conversation. 

I’d released a gruff sound before heading inside, discreetly adjusting my pant legs to cover the shoes. Naturally, I looked at everyone’s feet first, frustrated to find that no one else had worn anything so proper. Old shoes, rather, the dirt-caked soles contrasting oddly with the casual suits. There’d been no dress code on the invitation. 

A young man I’d come to know as August Atwood, one of the many connoisseurs of the Resurrection Men’s goals, stepped to the front of the room and cleared his throat. With a few grumbles, the others circled around him. 

“Good evening,” August greeted. He was handsome in the way girls liked; broad shoulders, a boyish face. “We’re happy to welcome new members to this esteemed club.” 

A few claps went around, a whistle, and someone patted me hard on the back. 

“Congratulations,” August continued, raising the glass in his hand. “You are taking a step towards the future of medicine. One where we learn directly, in the way the original scientists demanded.” 

Another round of cheers, then the back door swung open, three more well-suited, poor-shoed men carried in a large barrel, trailing mud behind them. Liquor, I assumed, but the way the men crowded the keg, you’d think it held liquid gold. 

“Newcomers, step forward,” August directed. 

We did. 

"Do not be fooled by our title. We do not seek to resurrect a life. We're all so erudite to know that Shelley's Frankenstein is a thing of fiction." A few chuckles disperesed. "No, we seek to resurrect the old methods of the postmortem.

“Before we begin, you must each take a vow of secrecy. Raise your right hands.” 

We did, this time with a few contemplative looks amongst ourselves. 

“Barbarism and vulgarity, you may think,” August said. “But ostentation is a part of medicine. Repeat after me, ‘I, state your name, vow to never share the events of this room in the name of science.” 

We broke into unrhythmic repeats. “I, Theodore Wilson, vow to never share the events of this room in the name of science.” 

“Good,” August praised, then nodded at the men holding the barrel.

They took the keg to the long table in the center of the room, cutting through the lid and pulling a rope from the top. It took three men, pulling at that rope as if the contents was playing tug-of-war, before there was a loud thud and my previous theories fizzled into mere fantasy. 

The body was drenched in liquid; whiskey, by the smell of it. It was all bent limbs, gnarled elbows and knees, pale skin. 

You see, if it wasn’t my longing for the riveting, the enthrall, I might’ve run away. It’s what anyone else would have done; anyone dull, but I did not want to be dull. I wouldn’t be. 

The man next to me, a scrawny brunette from my year, didn’t seem to hold my reverence for the atypical, as his first comments were to question. “Where did you get it?” 

“Pine St.,” August answered simply, watching the men stretch the corpse so it lay on its back, arms out like a plane. 

“The cemetery?” The brunette asked. 

“Yes.”

“You dug it up?”

“Not me. But yes.” 

The brunette seemed entirely appalled. I imagined he’d lived contently in his mundane for many years.

August seemed unaffected by the man’s responses. “Medicine is meant to be taught from the very bodies it stems from. They're already dead. This is much more humane than if we were to use a body like yours, yes?” 

The brunette snapped his mouth shut, taking the threat for what it was. 

I felt a heavy high, being surrounded by this noble violence. And when we encircled that body, I knew I’d have a story to feed myself for years to come, when that maddening ordinary crept up on me. I’d forever have this rousing, to eat like breakfast and breathe like oxygen. 

August dug into his bag and pulled out a shiny scalpel, standing at the head of the table. “Welcome, my friends, to the Resurrection Men.”