Robbie Dorman - Regrowth

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Jon.

“Mr. Johnson will lead the way,” said Shaw. “I’ll ask that you don’t try and attack him again.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Jon. His anger had left him. He could only muster half-assed sarcasm now. He had to focus on the operation. The team was practiced, and prepared, but he would make sure everything went smoothly. He followed Johnson down to the prep room, where Tommy laid on a stretcher.

“Dad!” he yelled, when he saw him. “You’re okay.” Jon hugged him.

“Yeah, just got a bump on the noggin,” said Jon. “I’ll be fine. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” said Tommy, but Jon saw the fear in his eyes. Jon squeezed his hand.

“You’re doing great,” said Jon. “I have to get ready, okay?”

“Okay,” said Tommy. Jon hugged him again.

“I love you,” he whispered in Tommy’s ear.

“I love you, too,” Tommy whispered back.

Jon scrubbed up and got dressed. He wouldn’t be doing any of the direct work, but it was still protocol. They were following the same procedure as the successful chimp, only altering the serum. Jon and Stone had settled on it after a lot of discussion. It had worked once before. It should work again. But that’s what they had said multiple times before, and failure had resulted.

Shaw looked down on them from the viewing area. Several guards stood there with him, armed with assault rifles, and what Jon guessed were flamethrowers. They had changed their strategy after seeing what the mutated chimp had done. Jon didn’t know if fire would be more effective, but Shaw was hedging his bets.

They wheeled Tommy into the operating room. Mel stood by him, holding his hand. Jon caught her eyes and nodded at her.

“You ready, buddy?” asked Jon, standing next to him.

“I guess,” said Tommy.

“I’ll be the first person you see when you wake up,” said Jon.

The anesthesiologist placed a mask over Tommy’s mouth and nose.

“Count down from one hundred, Tommy,” she said. Tommy counted, and soon he was quiet, unconscious. His vitals beeped on monitors nearby. His heart rate was normal. Jon’s wasn’t, already thumping hard in his chest.

He tried to control his breathing. His whole body hurt, tired, his head aching, his heart trying to break its way through his breastbone. Jon needed to calm down, or he’d be no use to anyone. Mel grabbed his hand and squeezed, and it helped. He squeezed back.

“Okay,” said Jon. “Expose wound sites.”

Dr. Stone stood near Tommy’s legs, and pulled back the sheet, revealing his two stumps above his knees, one slightly higher than the other. Skin covered both with knots of scar tissue at the end of each. They would reopen the wounds, as if the amputation was fresh, and theoretically, with the help of the serum and the nutrient bath, his body would take over, and regenerate them, like the trauma had happened yesterday.

“Reopen wound sites,” said Jon, taking a deep breath. He would make himself watch. He heard glass shattering, metal ripping, the feeling of being weightless before crashing down to earth.

The surgeon cut through the skin and flesh, and blood poured out of Tommy. One assistant sucked it up with a vacuum while another wiped away any remaining with gauze. Jon’s stomach bounced around inside him, his only son being opened up again, but he made himself watch. He took deep breaths, his heart pounding.

“Right leg wound site open,” said the surgeon who then moved onto the left, doing the same again. Within minutes, the wounds were raw and bloody, blood pouring out of them. Without intervention, Tommy would bleed to death.

“Move him to the nutrient bath,” said Jon. They carried him over where his body could lay submerged and his head could stick out. It was a harder proposition, but they managed it, the trail of tubes still leading to Tommy. The nutrients turned pink from Tommy’s blood.

“Dr. Stone, inject the serum,” said Jon. Stone nodded and shot the mixture into Tommy’s upper thigh.

Please.

The nutrient bath level dropped quickly.

“Pump in more nutrient bath,” said Jon, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt his hands shaking, and he squeezed them hard. The soft whirr of a pump started, and more of the liquid flowed in, keeping the level constant.

Here’s where the rubber meets the road.

Jon’s eyes looked at Tommy’s legs, the blood flow from the wound sites slowing to an ooze. He watched, and then they healed.

They always heal right at first .

Jon stared, watching the bone slowly knit itself together. He forced breath in and out of his lungs, because if he didn’t he would pass out. The two leg bones grew parallel to each other, extending downward, forming the knot that was the knee. Jon waited, waited for a mutation, a deformity. The first sign of any aberration, but there were none yet. Muscle filled in behind the bone, covering it with dark red flesh, woven tightly.

Jon blinked, and behind his eyes he only saw all the terrible potentialities, of Tommy’s legs extending, to distend, to bloat and explode into bulbous masses of twisted bone and inflated muscle. But he would open his eyes again to Tommy still healing, the knees formed now, cartilage building, tendons forming in place, tissue covering and intertwining.

Skin had formed, merging with existing skin on his leg, no difference in tone, the same skin, the same skin.

Please.

Jon stared, his eyes tearing. He forced his eyes closed, seeing nightmares, thoughts of a semi-truck tearing his car in half, tearing his son in half, but he pushed them away, forced himself to focus only on Tommy’s legs, watching the bone regenerate itself, down to his ankles. Tommy absorbed the nutrients, still, his skin now an active organ, sending the calories into his body, converted into stem cells, converted into bone and muscle and tendon and skin and life.

The ankles were done now, and then Tommy’s feet grew. Jon remembered his feet, remembered playing little piggy with Tommy when he was little. Tommy was ticklish, but only on his toes, and after the accident he had never been tickled again.

The feet formed, even as the muscle slipped down past the knee, forming around the calf, skin following it. Jon waited for calamity. He waited for disaster. It would come late, another twist of the knife, one more punishment for Jon’s mistake.

But it didn’t come. The bone regrew, finishing the feet, and then the toes, and there was no more for it to do. The muscle continued, covering the ankle, tendons snapping into place, protecting the feet, and then the toes. The skin was last, and it formed.

Minutes passed, the operating room dead quiet, and Tommy healed.

The skin finished healing, and Tommy was whole again. Tears poured down Jon’s cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them. He did his best to blink his eyes clear. The room stayed silent. They knew the true test.

“Stop the pump,” said Jon. The pump slowed to a halt. “Pull him from the nutrient bath.”

The team grabbed him, needing a couple more now that he had the extra weight of legs. They guided him back to the stretcher, toweled him dry, and covered him with a sheet.

“Wake—wake him up,” said Jon, his voice catching in his throat. The anesthesiologist pulled the mask off Tommy’s mouth and nose. He breathed real air again, and a few minutes later, his eyes fluttered open. Jon stood there, and Tommy came back.

“Dad?” asked Tommy.

“Tommy,” said Jon. He grabbed his hand. “Take it slow. Breathe for me.”

Tommy breathed.

“How do you feel?” asked Jon.

“I—I can feel my toes again,” said Tommy. He raised his leg and poked out his foot. “They’re real.” Jon hugged him then, hugged him hard. The team cheered. They had succeeded.