On June 29, 2011, teenager Alfred F. Jones was pronounced dead from a terminal disease. His body was donated by his father Dr. Samuel R. Jones to the Seattle Washington Institute of Human Studies Science Division.
On July 4, 2011, Alfred F. Jones woke up.
All that he saw was a bright white light shining into his eyes. He tried to move his hand to block the light, but couldn't. He felt himself lying on a cold surface, like a metal table or something of the sort. He strained his ears for the sounds of human life but heard nothing except the hum of machinery.
Where was he? The last thing that he remembered was his mother sitting next to his bed at the hospital, clasping his hand and crying for his son. Was that where he was; the hospital? Had he fallen asleep only to wake up in surgery? But no one had told him that any surgery's had been scheduled. No one had told him anything for the past week; the nurses only gave him sad looks as they passed by. And the idea in itself was ridiculous in itself because if he was in surgery, there would be doctors and surgeons and whatnot around, actually doing the surgery.
He heard his stomach growl and felt how dry his mouth was. He wondered if a nurse would walk in sometime soon to walk him back to his hospital room and bring him some lunch-preferably a hamburger-and a nice tall glass of water, or coke, whatever was easier.
"Is anyone there?" he called out, his voice sounded raspy, forced out through a dry throat. "Hello?" he tried again.
It was then that he heard footsteps. They were muffled, like they were on the other side of a door, but there were several of them, like multiple pairs of feet. He heard a click, like a lock being opened, and a doorknob being turned. Someone opened the door and he heard a woman's voice, one with a distinct accent that he couldn't place at that moment, talking to the others assembled.
"We will now begin the autopsy on number 43920, he has been injected with various-" the woman stopped talking when she reached the place where Alfred lay. She was watching him, a cold looking woman with blonde hair swept into a neat bun and her light blue eyes wide with surprise. Her shocked expression grew when he smiled at her, not knowing what else to do in such a situation.
She stumbled backwards a few steps, both hands pressed to her heart as she lets the clipboard she had been holding clatter to the ground, the papers scattering on the floor in a wave.
"Professor Patriachova, what's the matter?" a man in a lab coat asked, walking up to her.
"The boy, he's alive!" she gasped out. The man looked at him and their eyes met. Alfred's shone with confusion.
"What's going on?" he asked. He heard gasps and even a scream throughout the room.
"I will call Dr. Huntlman and Dr. Jones!" another man said, hurrying out of the room.
Soon after, the man came back with two more men behind him. By this time, Alfred was sitting upright on the table he had been laying on and had a blanket wrapped around him, since he had been completely nude before. One of the men Alfred recognized right away.
"Dad!" he said, waving his arm somewhat sluggishly. He hadn't eaten in quite a few days so it was hard for him to move his limbs. His father looked at him and Alfred smiled. He was surprised when he met his father's eyes for all he saw was repulsion, disgust, and fear.
The smile slipped off of Alfred's face at the look in his father's eyes, all that remained was confusion as his father looked at the other doctor that had walked in with him, Dr. Huntlman, and said "Call the emergency number printed at the bottom of the Patriot Experiment plan sheet and tell them that there is another one."
Then, he walked out of the room.