Much time had passed since that day. Not years of course, but enough time for Veronica to forget almost completely about the boy with the lizard eyes. During said tenure, the girl had divided her schedule between having tea parties with her stuffed animals, playing with friends and dolls—sometimes both—till she was so sick of it, she felt she might puke if nothing new should not pop up on her agenda.

But Veronica did not find anything new, just the same old thing. Her life went on normally until Grandpa came to stay at her house. The funny thing was, he had brought a small truck with some of his belongings with him.

When asked by Veronica why he had packed along his things, Grandpa had said, “I’m going to come live with you, Ronnie! Won’t that be grand? I’m sure we’ll have plenty of adventures while I’m here!”

Somewhere, deep in her heart, Veronica knew that there something more behind the reason Grandpa was coming to live with her. And she was right. For on making a late-night pilgrimage downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of milk, she had heard her parents in the kitchen talking about it:


“Your father’s stating for a while, huh? How long, dear?”

“I don’t know, Jimmy. I know that ever since Mom died, he can’t take living all by himself—he has to have people living around him for sanity.”

“Well, I suppose I’m okay with it. I just hope that the old man will cheer up soon, as he’s getting more depressing by the second.”

“That’s only because he misses Mom, Jimmy. I think if we give my father enough time, he’ll lighten up.”

“I sure hope so—it would sure make putting up with him easier.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll pray about it.”
***

After Grandpa had settled in for a few weeks, he did in fact, lighten up. Rebecca had been right: He needed people around him to keep in the right mind. Days went on as usual, except this time when Ronnie got home from school, she played with Grandpa. It was a nice experience for the both of them, making their bond as grandfather and granddaughter even stronger.

Grandpa was a cheery fellow most of the time; he didn’t complain or fuss. Though on occasion, there were instances where Veronica would try and play with the man and he wouldn’t play. Instead, he would sulk in his rocking chair and do much of nothing. What worried Ronnie was that every time he sulked, he did so with a framed picture of Grandma in his hand.

Thankfully, the times he delved into deep melancholy were very rare in their appearance.
***

It was late May now. The trees were green with blossom and the animals of the earth were scattering about on a regular basis. Veronica was out of school and that meant that she could play with Grandpa more often.

There was one day where Veronica visited the kitchen to find Grandpa dressed, his hair combed, and a lavish bouquet sprawled on the table.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he said, eyes brightening. “How are we doing this fine day?”

“Fine,” Ronnie said, adjusting into her chair to find a set of syrup-smothered pancakes before her; she cut up the food, popped a bite of it inside her mouth. “What are the flowers for?”

A smile of genuine delight from Grandpa: “Those are for Grandma.”

“They are?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Would you like to go see her?”

Veronica nodded eagerly.

Grandpa smiled even wider. “Then scarf down that breakfast of yours and get dressed! We’ll be leaving soon!”

Veronica did as she was told. In a matter of minutes she had crammed the pancakes down her throat, slipped into a dress, and was ready to see Grandma. And after Ronnie’s mother fussed over and fixed her hair, grandfather and granddaughter loaded into a 1966 Volkswagen Beetle coated in a wonderful shade of turquoise; they were soon puttering off to their destination.

The drive wasn’t too terribly long or boring. Grandpa tuned the radio to the oldies station; thereafter he and Ronnie sand to such smashing hits as “Drive My Car” and “Satisfaction.” The coughing Beetle chugged them along quaint and curving country roads at a pleasing pace. Veronica saw many amusing a spectacle: squirrels battling over an acorn, a dog sniffing the behind of a cow, and the targeted bovine eventually kicking the curious fellow in his behind. So far, it had been a good day and she enjoyed spending it with Grandpa.

Eventually the Beetle slowed to a familiar sight: the field encased within the iron fence. They got out of the car and made their way in in. As they did, Veronica saw that there was a sign suspended over the gate that read, “St. Mary’s Cemetery.”

That puzzled her. “Grandpa, what’s a ‘St. Mary’s Cemetery?’”

Grandpa smiled gingerly. “It’s just a place for people to rest, my dear. Your grandmother is sleeping here.”

This intrigued Ronnie to think that the cemetery was, in all actuality, a big bed. So she said, “Grandpa, how many people sleep here?”

A chuckle: “Lots and lots, hon.”

Veronica was slightly appalled. She wouldn’t want tons of people sleeping in her bed! She supposed that it was strange thing that adults did.

The two walked deeper into the cemetery until they reached a monument carved out of marble, which seemed to resemble the likeness of an angel. Below its delicate feet read this inscription: “HAZEL M. TRAVIS—MOTHER, WIFE, AND FRIEND. REST IN PEACE, DAUGHTER OF ZION.”

Grandpa laid the gorgeous bouquet at the base of the monument—standing back to admire the sight.

Veronica grabbed hold of Grandpa’s large, bearlike hand and said, “Grandpa? Where’s Grandma at?”


Grandpa kneeled down to Ronnie’s height and enveloped her in a tight hug, pointing towards the statue. “She’s right there, sweetie.”

Veronica gasped and then whispered, “Is Grandma an angel? Is she? Is she? Is Grandma an angel?”

Sighing on Grandpa’s part; looking to the heavens, he sighed again, and then gave Ronnie a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Grandma just might be, baby,” he assured. “I’ll bet she’s right up in heaven, now—leading the grand choir in a chorus of praise.”

A smile slowly slipped on Ronnie’s face. “I thought you said Grandma was sleeping!”

“She is on earth, but her soul is in heaven, babe.”

“Oh! Just like in the cartoons?”

“I guess you might say that.”

Grandpa stood up again. “Why don’t you go off and plat a bit. I want to be alone with Grandma so I can say a few private things.”

“Okay!”

And then Veronica skipped along through the green cemetery in a gay manner, regardless of the eerie scenery surrounding her. She spent countless minutes doing this, and when her legs finally grew weary, Veronica sought shade under a fatherly oak tree.

The girl sat on the cooled earth and rested her head against the bristly back of the oak. She closed her eyes and dreamed pleasant dreams—because she rarely had nightmares—and when she woke up, she felt refreshed enough to assume her playful status.

Rising up from her seat, Ronnie once more strolled through the green. In doing so, the girl eventually explored every nook and cranny the outdoor haven had to offer. Needless to say, once explored, the cemetery proved to be quite boring—dull, really. Veronica tried to make the best of things, but being a little girl, her efforts were feeble in their attempt and only increased boredom resulted.

So it was a marvelous thing when Ronnie stumbled upon a healthy patch of daffodils. With sheer and immediate ecstasy, she two of the plant; then three or four more to ease her excitement, weaving them into her hair, save for one she twirled around in her fingers to smell.

Suddenly, without warning: “Hallo! What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

Ronnie let out a shrill, disturbed cry and turned hastily in astonishment. Her eyes were then presently cast upon an odd, but mutual sight.

The cause of her disturbance was due to a boy. Not just a boy, but the boy; the very one Veronica had seen when she had first left the cemetery—he with the lizard eyes. Now that she was up close and personal with him, Ronnie thought the boy all the more terrifying and mystifying.

The boy was short and plain looking as Veronica had remembered; and save for the fact that he had reptilian eyes, he could pass to be any ordinary lad. He had no disfigurements, no signs of mental retardation, and no foam lathering at his mouth. He was, as previously stated, very drab and dismissible.

Both of the children gazed at the other and performed a solid look over. Their eye met: Veronica’s dreamy blues with his feral, jungle-born green. There was no talking, but they seemed to introduce themselves in a strange, supernatural way. But the silence became uncomfortable tension—growing harder and more unbearable with each ticking second. At last, the tension was tossed to the wayside as the boy spoke again.

“Hallo! What are you doing picking my daffodils?”

Veronica raised her brow; the boy talked in an accent. “What do you mean about them being your daffodils?”

The gemstone eyes flared. “Well, I planted them! And since I did, I think they would rightly be mine.”

“How could they be yours? Do you live in ‘St. Mary’s Cemetery’?”

“Yes.”

“You do? Why?”

The boy giggled. “I don’t live in it, I suppose, but I stay here in the cemetery most of the time. My father is the caretaker of these grounds—I help him. Duties include things as mowing the lawn, cutting down trees and hauling their limbs.”

“That’s a lot of stuff to do.”

“It is, but I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy working?”

“It doesn’t bother me. It’s better than sitting around like a knot on a log like most of you humans—er, Americans—do.”

“Hmm…that’s strange.”

“Is it?”

“Kinda. Do you have a name?”

“Sure. Don’t we all? Mine’s Brutoneous.”

Veronica tried to hold in her laughter, but failed; it came out in awkward snorts. In the end, she let loose a long, boisterous chain of rude tittering.

“What’s so funny?” the boy demanded.

Veronica looked up at him sheepishly. “Nothing, I reckon. It’s just that Brutoneous sounds like a silly name!”

Brutoneous crossed his arms. “Well, it’s my name. Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry, Brutoneous,” said she, extending an inviting hand, “can we be friends? My name is Veronica, but everyone else calls me Ronnie.”

Brutoneous howled at the mention of her name. Then: “See? And you thought my name was strange!”

“Is not! Take it back!”

“Why? You didn’t apologize for laughing at my name!”

“I’m sorry, then. Take it back now!”

Grinning, Brutoneous revealed some sharpened teeth. “Thank you. I’m sorry for laughing at your name.”

“Good. I’m sorry about picking your flowers.”

“You’re fine, I guess. It’s not me that would really care about their being picked—it’s my father.”

“What would your mother think?”

Brutoneous’ face saddened. “I wouldn’t know; I never met her.”

“You haven’t?” Ronnie’s eye increased steadily in size with wonder.

“No,” he repeated, “my father said she died while giving birth to me.”

“That’s sad. What do you mean by died?”

“She left and went away for good; she won’t come back. She’s dead.”

Brutoneous shot a curious glance over in Veronica’s direction. “Do you not know what dying is?”

“Of course I do! Or at least, I think I do…I think Grandma died not too long ago, actually.”

“You think? You should know.”

“Well, she went away and hasn’t come back. Grandpa is sad most of the time and misses her. Is she dead? Grandpa keeps saying she’s asleep.”

Stroking his chin, Brutoneous said, “I’d say that’s a pretty good sign.”

It was then that Ronnie sat plump down on the bed of daffodils.

“Hallo!” Brutoneous objected. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Those are my flowers and you’re killing them!”

“Too bad! I don’t want Grandma to be dead! Bring her back!”

The boy’s eyes of jungle vine became as saucers. “I can’t bring back your grandmother back from the dead! Are you crazy?”

Scratching her head, pondering aloud, Veronica said, “But you help run the cemetery! Can’t you do something?”

“I’m afraid not. But perhaps my dad can help you. Do you want to go see if he can?”

Excitement kindled in Ronnie’s spirit. “Could he really?”

“He might. Besides being the caretaker of the cemetery, my father is brilliant—he makes new inventions and thingamajigs almost constantly!”

“Sure, I’ll go with you!”

Brutoneous gave a hand to hoist Ronnie. He then lifted her from the newly crumpled bed of daffodils. Then together, arm in arm, they went off in search of a man that might help Veronica resurrect her grandmother.
***

After much skipping and hopping throughout the cemetery, Veronica and Brutoneous had reached at last a small, depressing house. To help make up for the tiny size of the place, a rather humongous car garage had been planted nearby. It was to the garage where Veronica was lead.

Brutoneous knocked on a side door to the garage. There was a crash of metal and the arousing aroma of burning sulfur rushed to Ronnie’s nostrils. After another round of crashing and bashing: “Oi! Who is it?”

“It’s me, father! Can I come in? I brought a friend.”

“A friend you say, Brutoneous? Come on in!”

The door opened and the two entered in a smoky room that reeked of gasoline, previously mentioned sulfur, and of mint.

In the middle of the garage was a short man clad in a lab coat. His hair was a flowing red, and frayed in every which direction imaginable; he was tall enough to suggest adulthood, but looked very infant-like in the face; most startling of all was the fact that his eyes were lizard-like as well, shining a deep violet; magnifying those exotic eyes, a pair of thick coke-bottle glasses. The man was indeed, something to behold. He smiled to reveal a similar set of sharpened teeth similar to his son. Brushing off his sooty hands on his soiled coat, he poked one of them in her direction. Ronnie promptly took and shook it. Afterwards, the man said, “Hello there, missy. My name’s Krutonion, what’s yours?”

“Veronica,” she peeped.

“Veronica, eh? Why that’s a fine name for an earthling—excuse me, for a person—to have!”

Ronnie blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

Krutonion turned his attention to his son. “What do you want, exactly? Why are you here with her? You know not let them see us…at least, not regularly!”

“She seemed nice, father! Also: we have a question.”

“You do? Ask it, then!”

“We were…wondering…if there was a way to …bring Veronica’s grandmother back from the dead. Is it possible? Could you do something along those lines?”

For a moment, Krutonion’s face stayed expressionless—set in stone. Thirty seconds or so after Brutoneous had finished, the purple-eyed man began to chortle.

“What did you say?”

“Resurrection,” Brutoneous clarified. “Is it possible? Can one perform it? If so, we want to see if we can do it for Veronica’s grandmother.”

A shrieking, high-pitched cackle as Krutonion wiped tears from his eyes. “As far as I know,” said he between gasps of laughter, “it’s not possible.”

“It’s not?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Or could it?”

“What?”

Smiling with a twinkle in his wine-colored eyes, Krutonion said, “I’ve been think of your mother, see. And I have been wondering—like I suppose everyone has—what it would be like to bring her back. There seems to be a formula developing—I think it’s been in my head all along, I’ve just never paid it any attention till now.”

“What formula?”

A mad, revolutionary look of genius came into the man’s face. “A formula that would reverse the effects of death, dear boy!”

Brutoneous turned to Ronnie. “You hear that? There may be hope!”

Krutonion gave his head a shake. “It will take a while to develop, though. I estimate at least two weeks are needed so I can have a test trial set up.”

“Two weeks!”

“Yes. Do you think it will be easy raising someone from the dead?”

“No, but—”

“But what?”

“I don’t think Veronica will be here in two weeks.”

Krutonion scratched his stubble. “I see. Are one of her parents present?”

Brutoneous was going to answer, but Veronica did so for herself. “No, I came up here with Grandpa.”

“No worries, then,” assured Krutonion. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You will?” said Brutoneous, surprised.

“Yes,” affirmed his father, throwing off his lab coat onto a spare chair to unveil a set of neat coveralls. “I sense it’s time for her to leave anyway. Would you like a lift?” He pointed out a golf kart; Veronica nodded.

The garage door lifted and everyone loaded into the cart. As the thing pulled out, Veronica shifted to see a bulky vehicle parked in the building that was black, sleek, and levitating above ground—no wheels whatsoever. It really seemed unorthodox for something of the like to be made on Earth.
***

It had been quite easy to find Grandpa, as he was still by Grandma’s grave. When the gold cart approached, the old man waved heartily, yet sadness rested in his eyes, a permanent weight. The cart came to a stop and was unloaded.

Veronica hugged her grandfather and said, “Look, Grandpa! I made some friends!”

Grandpa drew his attention to the newcomers and shook Krutonion’s hand when it was offered.

“Please to meet you,” Krutonion said. “Do you plan on coming back soon?”

“No,” Grandpa started to say, but then a purple glaze painted his eyes.

“I think two weeks sounds about right,” Krutonion suggested. “How does that sound? Come back here in two weeks?”

“Yes,” Grandpa murmured, “that sounds just about right.”

“Excellent. It has been a pleasure meeting you both, but I’m afraid that I must get back to work.” Krutonion winked at Veronica. “It seems that I’ll be especially busty during the upcoming two weeks.”

Then, after saying their goodbyes one last time, Krutonion and Brutoneous departed from them. Grandpa and Ronnie did dwell in the cemetery much longer, and with a pat on Grandma’s tombstone from the surviving mate, they sought out the Volkswagen.

The drive home was practically speechless. There was no radio or conversation to spice the journey, just silence. The only time Veronica dared break the quiet was to ask, “Grandpa, did you notice how their eyes were green and purple? Wasn’t that strange?”

To which Grandpa replied, “What? Don’t speak such nonsense, child! The gentlemen had perfectly normal eyes!”

The next two weeks were some of the most hectic days of Ronnie’s life. Grandpa had grown even more depressed than he had been previously before visiting St. Mary’s in May. Revolving around a grey reality of grief, sorrowful memories were a constant visitor to the Davis household.

Grandpa stayed in his room mostly, and only came down to join the living for meals. There were many occasions where Veronica got lonely and decided to visit him; when she entered the place, the man was usually curled up in a tight ball, that old photo of Grandma sitting on the bed nearby, tears his present companion. Vain were the attempts in which Veronica tried to get her grandfather to play with her, for he proved idle—a useless lump of flesh.

Following these episodes with Grandpa, Veronica would run and cry about her failure to her mother. Rebecca Davis did her best to console her daughter, and explain that her father was simply missing his deceased spouse. Needless to say, such complex things couldn’t be understood well—if at all—by the distressed seven-year-old.

Abandoning her mother’s lack of mediation, Veronica would leave and lock herself in her room, basking wearily in her rage in and confusion. Eventually the girl would come to her senses and realize that she had the rumblings in her stomach for food. She then hurried down to the kitchen, looking desperately for what her appetite-driven intuition told her she wanted; once said need was recognized, she located her mother—or in rare cases, her father—so the food be cooked properly.

The process of Grandpa’s sorrowful degradation soon grew too tiresome for Veronica to witness. As the two week period drew to a close, Ronnie had steadily become dependent of Grandpa and had put an end to all attempts to try and instigate any playfulness.

On that concluding day, the elderly chap had risen from his bed and successfully combed his phantom hair follicles, arriving at breakfast in a prompt manner. This, in turn, surprised the rest of the family. It should be mentioned that even though Grandpa’s physical self was present at the table, fired up and ready, his mental health showed declining constitution; in fact, it was if some invisible entity had snatched a cheesy block of his awareness, chopping three-fourths of it off—keeping the ruling chunk in reserve.

As breakfast was served—soggy waffles, overdone porky ash known as bacon, et cetera—the poor chap seemed to function as a robot whose programming had been infected by a ferocious onslaught of virus damage. He brought the fork to his mouth in a precise, square maneuver; his posture in the chair was impeccably formal—stiff. Not a decibel of noise was uttered from his throat save for a light, raspy breathing; he stared off into the distance, perhaps intimidating the wall with a suspicious purple fire stirring in his eyes. The violet seemed to wage on, waxing to a full blown state of solidity. It was safe to say that Grandpa was in a trance; there was an agenda that begged to be carried out.

Conversation had been sparse at the table, so Rebecca decided to make one. “How are you doing today, Dad?”

“Fine dear,” grunted he, a monotonous drawl creeping in. “I think I’m going to the cemetery today. Do you mind if I bring Ronnie?”

Rebecca considered the request. “I guess. You want to go visit Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Be careful on the drive there and back, will you? You seem distracted lately and I don’t want you to get in an accident because of it. Please promise me you’ll be careful driving?”

“You bet, sweetheart. Now stop nagging at me.” Grandpa then rose from the table, fishing car keys from his pocket, beckoning for Veronica to follow him.

Within minutes the Volkswagen pulled out of the driveway and was headed to the cemetery at a steadfast eighty miles per hour. Taking into account that the speed limit was normally thirty miles in town and fifty-five on country roads, it was a wonder the Bug didn’t get pulled over.
***

Unlike their previous journey to St. Mary’s fourteen days prior, the drive was not a lighthearted one. To be frank, it was downright scary: not because of Grandpa’s ongoing violation of traffic regulation, but due to his acting like an industrialized machine. In the timespan no emotion was expressed or sign in his spirit that he was human. Confused and afraid, Veronica wanted more than anything to get out of the damned car. It was no longer a beacon of laughter or happiness—only solitude and solemnity.

Upon blessed arrival, they beheld a peculiar sight: Brutoneous and his father were standing underneath the gateway to the burial grounds guarding the path. It was obvious that they were waiting for the arrival of granddaughter and grandfather. The exotic-eyed beings came forth in greeting as the Volkswagen was being parked; the inhabitants of said vehicle soon ejected themselves in response.

Rather than shaking Grandpa’s hand when he approached, Krutonion outstretched his palm, a thin and wispy violet vapor flying from his fingertips that made contact with the man’s eyes. The elderly fellow drew himself up in attention and became perfectly straight and upright, hands clamped down to his side.

Grandpa was a breathing statue.

“There,” said Krutonion, satisfied with his deed, “that will keep the ole bugger from wandering off.” Turning his gaze to Veronica, he then said, “Now on to other matters: I think I have succeeded.”

Ronnie perked a brow. “What did you succeed in?”

“Don’t you remember, silly? Death! I think I’ve made a way to reverse it.”

Excitement aroused itself amongst Veronica’s spirit. “You have? Does that mean you can bring Grandma back?”

A serious note slid into Krutonion’s voice as a small laugh died away. “I can. But the issue is more involved than what you may think; the process of reviving dead tissue is going to be a difficult task.”

Making way towards his house, Krutonion led for Veronica and Brutoneous to follow. When they followed his example, Krutonion said simply, “Come: there are some serious things I need to explain in great detail; it would be best if you sat down.”
***

The three—Krutonion, Brutoneous, Veronica—seated themselves quickly in the garage. Once accomplished, there was a lengthy, itchy silence. Everyone occupying the room was doing some thinking.

Finally breaking the silence, Krutonion said, “I guess before I start talking about technology and procedure, I ought to elaborate on some things of a personal nature. Let me start off by saying that my son and I deviate slightly from the human race. I bet we gave that away with our colored eyes and pointed teeth, huh?”

Veronica nodded.

Smiling and nodding as well, Krutonion continued. “I suppose I should tell you that Brutoneous and I are not from this planet. In human terms”—he winced—“we would be called aliens. In my opinion, it is the rudest term for visitor imaginable. Anyways, I think may interest you to know that I am nearing nine hundred years of age; Brutoneous, a hundred and fourty.

Face aglow, Ronnie gasped. “Really? Then how come Brutoneous looks like he’s just a little kid?”

“By the standard of our planet, his is a little kid,” Krutonion explained. “Our race—one similar to humans, only a bit more advanced in mind and body—ages more slowly than yours. Though our bodies take a longer time to develop, we possess what you might call supernatural strength. To illustrate this principle, I’ll have my son pick up my golf cart.”

Krutonion gave confirmation for the deed to be executed with a nod.

Sharpened teeth pointed into a smile, Brutoneous put his small hands under the back bumper of the cart, lifting the thing from the ground effortlessly to hoist over his head like a professional wrestler. Through it all, not even a patch of red or a trickle of sweat was seen on the boy.

The cart hovered in the air for a while longer. “Okay, Brutoneous—set it down.”

He did so with casualness and sat back down as nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Veronica now stared at the two in bittersweet amazement. They were aliens!

The extraterrestrials grinned when they saw Veronica’s current expression.

Then, for no reason: “So why are you here? Why are on Earth instead of being at home?”

Krutonion sighed. “How should I put this? Indeed! Ugh…I can’t think of way! Wait. Maybe this would do the trick.”

The man met Veronica’s eyes with his violet stare. Two seconds passed. On the third, a minute, mosquito-like buzzing began to drill into her head; the tingling sensation took entry at her temples and worked its way in. Ronnie felt her body begin to convulse and move around on its own accord. She was a puppet whose limbs dangled like a dead snake and shook at the will of the master.

The convulsion came to an end; the tingling sensation increased in offense. Ronnie fought to control her mind, but gave way to the heavy pressure doing battle against her. When defenses were finally breached, something extraordinary happened: Veronica Davis was transported to another dimension.

Perception of this dimension came in a blinding flash of purple. In this new place, she was now floating; or rather, a spectator in a cinema in which the sky was her projection screen. When the purple died down, darkness came into its place.

Without announcement the darkness took shape and had meaning. Around her, Ronnie saw that she was inside a vehicle. Looking ahead, she saw the cockpit. There, she gazed out the window to find the immense black that was space—seasoned by random specks of light called stars.

It was then that Veronica knew that she was in a spaceship.

“Father! Radar picks up an asteroid belt! What should we do?”

Startled, Ronnie jumped. To her left was Brutoneous, but he was now dressed in strange garb—a flesh-hugging suit likewise to spandex.

“Stay calm, Brutoneous—we’ll get through this. The best thing for us to do is to try and navigate around the asteroid field without any major damage to the ship.”

Ronnie shot her head right. Krutonion, also outfitted in spandex, was at the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight, sweat beading on brow.

At the front of the ship, distorting the starlight, were big slabs of rotating rock. As the vessel sped ahead, the rock seemed to increase in velocity. The space boulders were evidently moving and were not content to be stationary.

The ship darted and weaved through the insane web of asteroids with precision and grace. It was obvious that Krutonion possessed exceptional skill piloting a spaceship, sapping said skill to the fullest capacity.

The dense field of rock began to clear, yet the pilot increased speed. Was there a chance that the ship would make it out unharmed?

Wishful thinking.

A great, shocking impact came to the left side of the ship. A sucking noise—vacuum.

Brutoneous whispered while Krutonion cried out in anger. “Brutoneous!” the pilot ordered. “Close off the cockpit and seal all other doors on the ship!”

Shaking all over, nodding the affirmative in nervous fear, the boy’s fingers moved with feline quickness over a ultra-slim keyboard. Once the typed commands were entered, Veronica heard a faint “whoosh!” as all doors in the ship were closed.

But the hasty action led to nothing; turbulence commenced soon thereafter, causing the ship to wobble, sink, and fall out of orbit. Lurching downwards, descending like game being pelted out of the sky, they began to spiral towards certain death. Space became a dizzy whirl through the windshield, yet there was one thing that could be plucked from the chaos: Earth.

“Here comes an emergency landing!” Krutonion announced.

As the ship plowed through the atmosphere, a blanket of fire coated it, and all that could be seen was scarlet flame dancing on the window.

Krutonion gripped onto the steering wheel and pulled upwards; Brutoneous clutched his seat for dear life.

The flames let up. Veronica could see land below.

The ground drew nearer with every heartbeat.

Then the ship made contact with Earth.

Another flash of purple and the sight of a garage became clear. Ronnie was back from her trip.

Silence.

Laughter from the aliens, then Krutonion spoke. “I guess we just happened upon your planet, my dear. We were on a fact finding mission for our planet, but ended up getting stuck on this rock permanently. I say permanently because our ships engine blew out and we can’t manufacture a new one.”

“How long have you been here?” Veronica questioned.

“Forty years,” Brutoneous answered for his father.

“Wow.”

“That’s what we’ve been thinking all along,” Krutonion agreed softly.

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“So you know why we’re so advanced and why we have the technology to raise the dead. It’s just a little backstory, really.”

“So now what?”

“I tell you how the process of raising your grandmother will work.”

“Okay?”

“Basically I have a machine that works with two ends of wires: one to the giver, one to the receiver. When the main switch is flipped, the machine pumps all electricity and energy from the donor and transfers it to the recipient. If successful, the energy should renew the stagnant receiver and even restore all decaying tissue. The end result—a resurrected being.”

Veronica contemplated the situation in her young mind. “Is Grandma the receiver?”

“Yes.”

“Then who is the giver?”

“We haven’t figured that out yet.”

“What happens to the giver when it’s all over?”

“The energy being distributed is sucked out the giver; the volunteer will be weak, but should recover in enough time.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Can I go talk to Grandpa?”

“Certainly,” Krutonion confirmed.

Veronica then scurried out the garage to go find Grandpa.
***

Grandpa was still standing in the same place. When Veronica came up to him, he showed no hints of movement or recognition. He stared ahead with eyes glazed like marble.

“Grandpa, wake up!” Ronnie demanded.

The man grumbled. The glaze over his eyes dissolved. The spell restricting him from being normal seemed to lose its potency. He was very much aware of his surroundings. Grinning, he looked down at Veronica.

“Hi, Grandpa!” greeted Ronnie.

“Hello, yourself, young lady!”

“I have a question for you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all! Ask away, darling!”

“Okay. Do you miss Grandma?”

Sighing, a tender look was upon Grandpa. “Of course I do, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. I have another question.”

“Fire away,” retorted a playful Grandpa.

“What would you do if Grandma came back? What if she wasn’t dead?”

A delighted chuckle from Grandpa due to Ronnie’s naïve inquiry, then: “Well, I don’t know what I’d do, hon. I would be a very happy man to have my wife back.”

“How happy, Grandpa?”

“Like a trillion fireworks being shot off at once.”

That was all Veronica needed to hear. Without another word spoken between them, she ran off to the garage. Deep inside her mind—mostly her heart—she had made a decision.

This matter of judgment would raise the dead.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Veronica?” Krutonion asked, concern welling in his eyes.

“Yes,” Veronica confirmed determinedly. “Any more questions or are we gonna do this thing?”

Krutonion clicked his tongue. “No, no,” he said, attaching little wires onto her neck, “if you want to do this, that’s fine. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“It’s just that since you’re a little girl there’s a possibility that you might not survive the procedure.”

“Not survive? What do you mean?”

“You might die,” Krutonion stated grimly.

“No I won’t!” Ronnie assured, giggling. “Stop being silly! I’ll be alive and so will Grandma! Then Grandpa can be happy and never cry again.”

Brutoneous, who was helping his father by setting up the required gear, shook his head in disbelief.

Veronica, seeing the gesture, said, “What now?”

“Nothing,” said the alien boy.

“Liar!” Ronnie pronounced. “You’re holding something back! Tell me!”

The emeralds in Brutoneous’ skull flashed. “You said that your grandfather would never cry again. That’s impossible: humans are bound to repeat common emotions countless times; they will laugh, anger, envy, lust, love, despair, and cry out in sorrow even unto the death—sometimes all these things simultaneously. It’s just the nature of your kind.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was no more dialogue between the two.

Now at the site of experimentation, the coffin of Hazel M. Travis had been dug up, dusted off, and opened. Surveying her rotting relative, Veronica was repulsed to see that the corpse was draped in a slimy mildew, the gown and flesh writhing with bone-white maggots and other creatures of the underground. Perhaps worst of all was the smell: the combination of skunk gas blended with a garbage dump.

Nevertheless, with the coffin open, business needed to continue.

Krutonion attached multiple sets of thing, suction cup tipped wires to various parts of Ronnie’s body, repeating the same exercise to Grandma.

The machine from which the wires originated was, in human terms, futuristic. It was sleek, sophisticated, and levitated. The thing ran off its own energy without a battery pack or main wire so it could plug into an outlet. It quite literally seemed to run on Ronnie’s own energy; this fact was only attested to when the aforementioned levitation began at the instant all wires were attached to her.

Once everything was to be done, Krutonion and son stepped aside and typed a few things in a remote control. The device beeped a chain of incoherent gook in response.

“It’s all ready to go, Veronica,” Krutonion said. “Tell me when to start.

Veronica inhaled a crisp breath of air, resulting in a smooth exhale. She was about to say “Go!” when—

“Veronica? Veronica! Ronnie, where are you?”

Grandpa was calling out for her. Looking north, she saw that he was edging over the hill—a few seconds and he’d be here. Good.

A fresh inhale as Ronnie closed her eyes for the moment. Then, to Krutonion: “Push the button—make Grandma come back!”

Krutonion pushed the ignition button on the remote control.

Surging force equal to the stampeding of a thousand enraged bulls entered the tiny frame of Veronica Davis. As quickly as the force had introduced itself, it had come out—escaping with her life force through the wires and into the lifeless corpse of Hazel Travis.

Veronica felt her very being draining out of her and was surprisingly not afraid. Though she was by all means dying on the spot, she felt nothing but happiness. She felt this way because she knew that soon Grandpa would be eternally happy.

Convulsion, writhing, and agony: these things now described Ronnie’s state. A cold started to settle in her, it was most likely akin to death. Yet she was still not afraid, as she had an obligation to fulfill.

White light, a spawned byproduct of pure, new energy, burst out into the open world. Veronica looked to the machine: the screws holding it had loosened, allowing everything to pop out, resulting in the demise of the life-giving contraption. The thing did not explode; rather, vaporized into a blinding whiteness.

The light faded and Earth was normal again.

It was over. The life transfusion had ended. Now it was time to see if the seed that everyone had taken part to sow had bloomed.

Silence still ruled. Pain began to form at Veronica’s left side, her heart rate at an all-time high. The world swayed before her, rocking on the waves of sickness.

“Veronica?” It was Grandpa—he had arrived on the scene. “Veronica! What in the hell is going—”

A sputtering serial of coughing from the casket interrupted the man; next, a deep groan which sounded a bit more like a yawn. All present drew their attention as what had seemingly been unreachable for mankind was now taking place: Resurrection.

The casket rocked and creaked and then there was a womanly grunt. Sitting up in the casket was Grandma, fully restored to life. To Veronica, she looked like an angel—rid of her old and rotting carnal self, replaced by a figure perfect in every way save for the rags covering her breathtaking form.

Hazel Travis, formally deceased, took in the world she had been away from in quite some time. Her cool eyes briefly acknowledged Veronica, but understandably rested on Grandpa.

The woman climbed out of the casket and her feet touched the ground lightly.

“Hazel?” Grandpa inquired. “Is that you, love?”

“I know not,” the woman replied. “I do know that I’ve missed you, but your name escapes me.”

Grandpa rushed toward the revived corpse and embraced it, his wife, kissing it with a never before seen passion. The paused in their kiss and had a look at the other, genuinely smiling with joy.

Veronica Davis witnessed this spectacular sight with little grievance but a sigh. When she did so, all supporting energy departed from her end and she collapsed suddenly to the dirt. The life transfusion had taken a great amount of energy from her, and was now beginning to take its toll.

As her crumpled form lay still, Ronnie drank in the image of the two lovers in front of her. They were altogether joyous, beautiful, and in love. She had helped create that feeling—had made it possible. It was because of her that Grandpa was complete again. There had been no greater satisfaction in her life than this.

A wide grin stretching upon her tired face, Veronica passed to the Other Side. Her life was spent.

Death cannot be cheated; it cannot be out gambled—only repaid.