Vincent turned to his wife in triumph. “Irene! We did it!”
His wife nodded in pride. “Three generations!”
“As of today, it’s been six years.” That was their goal.
Irene bounced up from her stool and wrapped joyous arms around her husband. “Darling, I have never been happier in all my life.”
He leaned down to kiss her. “Let’s celebrate.”
For fifteen years, Drs. Vincent and Irene Lovell had been working in their basement laboratory on an anti-oxidant drug that rejuvenated tissue and prevented disease. With her background in bioengineering and his in biochemistry, they were uniquely suited to the task they’d set themselves: to create an immunization against tissue breakdown that promoted longevity and possibly facilitated immortality. In less time than they’d ever dreamed, Vincent and Irene had achieved the impossible. This batch of test mice had lived exactly six years, without a single one falling ill or requiring veterinary care. The control group had all died within two years. Naturally, more tests would have to be performed, more data accumulated and analyzed, but this was a true scientific breakthrough. Data had been kept every day, videos had been taken of the mice, regular physical checkups had been done, DNA collected, progress graphed. They had scrupulously observed the conventions of empirical data, and as a result, the Lovells had just accomplished one of humanity’s greatest achievements, with meticulous documentation .
A knock at the basement door roused them from their triumphant reverie. Vincent opened it to admit Irene’s brother, Ignatius. “Am I interrupting something?”
Vincent put a proud arm around his wife. “You know our experiment? The one we’ve been working on for so long?”
Ignatius nodded. “The mice die?”
“No!” Irene beamed. “As of today, they’ve lived three times the normal lifespan of a mouse. We did it! We reached our target!”
Ignatius sighed heavily. For years, he had dreaded this day. He pulled out the gun he’d carried for the last four years and shot his brother-in-law, point-blank. Irene gasped. “Sorry, Renie,” Ignatius wept, and blew her away. He took the fire extinguisher from the wall and emptied the tank on the mice, asphyxiating them. Then he went to the Lovell’s garage and brought out the gasoline can Vincent used for the lawn mower. Knowing fire always burned upward, Ignatius took extra care to pour all three gallons on every inch of the basement.
On his way back out the basement door, Ignatius lit a match and flicked it into the doorway. The blast knocked him flat on the driveway. Still weeping, he crawled back to the hearse, shifted into gear, and drove back to the funeral parlor.
He was truly sorry for what he’d done. He’d tried to tell them ever since they began this stupid project, but they wouldn’t listen. They brought it on themselves, he rationalized – they’d always known the mortuary trade was a very competitive business. It wasn’t like he had a choice.
Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.