VANDER WILLSBURGH
1017 Words
Chapter 2; Vander willsburgh
Charlotte's pov
A moment elapsed, then—
A gentle beep.
The metal doors glided open with a muted whisper to reveal the cold, antiseptic lab within. Air inside fell to near-freezing.
Bailey shuddered. "Jesus. Why do all secret government buildings smell like morgues?"
"Because we're actually in one," I grumbled, moving forward.
Aisles of metal storage units lined the walls, fresh and unopened. Each contained something important, something the rest of the world wouldn't know. But we weren't here for anything.
We were here for him.
I charged ahead, my boots clanging off the floor tiles. Bailey came behind me, grumbling under her breath that this was "totally illegal."
I ignored her. My heart racing, I scanned over the unit numbers, my eyes racing.
And then—I spotted it.
A huge containment pod wedged in the far corner. Not merely temperature-controlled, like the others. This one sealed up tight. Thick glass covered the front, sheets of frost crawling across its face.
I halted, air trapped in my throat.
This was it.
Bailey gazed. "Okay. Now what?"
"We open it," I declared bluntly.
"Easier said than done, genius. This thing is as secure as Fort Knox."
She was right. The pod housed a top-of-the-line security system—biometric scans, coded software, encryptions in layers.
But I was Charlotte Hayes. And I always got what I wanted.
I slumped forward, fingers racing over the control panel. The interface was old-fashioned—prehistoric, even—but something I could work around.
Bailey stood behind me, arms crossed. "Please tell me you actually know what you're doing."
"Shut up," I growled. "Almost there."
The screen rebelled, straining against me. The government did not mess around with security. But they hadn't expected me to try and break in either.
A few more keystrokes. A bypass sequence. An override.
Then—
Click.
A hiss of compressed air.
The containment pod opened.
Bailey recoiled as the heavy glass door groaned open. Cold mist poured out, curling at our feet, colding the air with its mournful presence.
And there—he was in there—
Kept perfectly.
Bailey puffed out a harsh breath. "Holy shit."
I couldn't draw air.
The body was whole. Skin unblemished, unmarred by time. His chest was still. His face was incredibly lovely.
Broad shoulders. Wavy brown hair down to his back. A jawline as hard as stone, flecked with a hint of stubble. He appeared to be breathing.
But he wasn't.
Not yet.
Bailey swallowed hard. "So… now what?"
I inched closer, my fingertips an inch from his lifeless flesh.
"Now," I whispered, beating heart, "we wake him up."
"Wake him up? You're crazy, Char?"
Bailey's whisper was cutting, her gaze flying to the security cameras in the corner of the room. "You're going to blow a government secret, a stunningly handsome prehistoric man, and wake him up? Now?"
She had a valid point. But I wasn't listening.
My fingers rested inches from his flesh, his nose cold under my fingers. His face was unnaturally beautiful, as if time had deliberately spared him from its rough touches. His hair, dark brown with gentle waves, rested upon broad shoulders. The frost remained on him, giving him an almost otherworldly glow.
"Wait, Charlotte." Bailey tugged on my arm. "Just wait until Monday when the government hands him over officially. You know, legally? Like a regular human being?"
I breathed out slowly, my fingers reluctantly releasing. She was standing on the brink of prudence.
Reluctantly, I placed the pod's control panel closed over, watching as his face disappeared behind the icy seal once again. A chill weighed heavily on my chest.
Then I noticed it.
A yellowed, fragile paper stuck to the side of the pod. The edge was fine, crumbling at contact. It was there all along, but I hadn't noticed it when I was distracted by break-in.
I carefully peeled it off and read the faded ink aloud:
"Vander Willsburgh. 32-year-old male. Bedridden with tuberculosis. Subject preserved under experimental conditions."
My breath froze. Tuberculosis.
One of the deadliest illnesses of the 19th century. There was no cure in 1894. A death sentence.
Bailey read over my shoulder, following me. "So his uncle…?"
"His uncle was a scientist," I whispered. "Most likely desperate. He had to have hoped that one day, smarter brains would find a way to restore Vander."
I followed the date at the end of the note.
Date of death: April 1, 1894.
Date of preservation: April 1, 1894.
Bailey shivered. "An April Fool's joke gone horribly right."
I tried to laugh, but something in this moment was too eerie. Too… delicate.
And then—
A voice thundered through the empty room.
"You know, Miss Charlotte…"
Bailey and I were frozen.
A slow, measured chuckle. And then—footsteps.
"You do realize we were going to turn him over to you on Monday?"
We turned sharply to see Mr. Alex, standing at the entrance with his arms crossed.
I forced a nervous smile. "Mr. Alex!"
Bailey whimpered.
Alex Dawson, a high-ranking government official, had been overseeing this project for years. He was 45, strict but fair, and had always been strangely fond of me.
"You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he mused, shaking his head. "You’re obsessed, Charlotte."
I swallowed. "I just… wanted to check on him."
Bailey snorted. "Check on him? You were five seconds from waking him up!"
Alex sighed, massaging his temples. "You're a genius, but I swear, you have no patience." His eyes softened slightly. "You should be up there enjoying your award. Instead, you're down here attempting to steal a dead man."
"He's not dead," I muttered.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Not yet."
I glared.
"Go have your night," he continued, shooing us off. "Be normal for a few hours. Don't break into any more high-security vaults."
I rolled my eyes but nodded. "Fine."
Bailey, still s
tiff, gripped my arm. "We're going. Now."
As we stepped out of the lab, I caught one last glimpse of Vander.
He was waiting.
And very soon…
I'd wake him up.
- Writer
