Miller’s steps made a dull clicking sound as he strode through one of the many long dark hallways of the Lighthouse Corporation’s main office building. Only in name, he thought, as he slithered past a sleek black marble desk. There were nineteen of these desk throughout the building, all staffed by petite receptionists, who were all wearing reading glasses for some reason. Each desk had two black phones and slim computer monitors. All of them vanished like broken trains of thought after you passed them. But then again, that was the point. The anonymity of the place was a physical manifestation of its purpose. The men he worked for and their clientele didn’t want to be recognized or remembered. They didn’t exist. He reached the elevator at the same time another man did, but the other man walked past and pushed through the door that led to the stairs. Miller thought his name might be Todd. He never rode the elevator, and it had always bothered Miller. He never asked about it though. Conversations were a privilege neither of them had yet to acquire. He pushed a button on the side of the door and after they had opened he stepped inside, alone. He reached over and pushed the top button, floor seventy-eight. He idly watched the numbers slowly blink in rising order. The common misconception was that you had to descend into hell, but the common man had never worked for the Lighthouse. He glanced at the file in his hands. It was a plain manila folder, which in Miller’s opinion contrasted sharply with the rest of the place. Its contents however, were as black as the walls that surrounded him.

There was a low ping, and the doors opened to reveal a large, sparsely furnished suite. The few pieces were tasteful, with smooth lines and shiny chrome surfaces. All of the walls were one way glass, so the Lighthouse executives could look upon the world but the people below couldn’t reciprocate. There was a single wooden desk in the center of the room with a small head-lamp and a few pens. Miller half-expected to an endangered jungle cat to be curled up in the corner. The man sitting behind the desk was tall. He wore black slacks and a white sweater. His graying hair was slicked to the right and slightly towards the back, and he was squinting at something on his desk through wire-rimmed reading glasses. He didn’t look up as Miller approached.

“And how are we today, Mr. Miller?” he rasped.

“Excellent sir,” Miller lied.

“Is that the Donlam boy’s file?”

Miller nodded. He opened the file and laid it on the desk. “Yes sir, James Donlam. He was just approved by Pre-Death this morning.”

The old man remained silent, and continued to squint at what Miller now saw was a thin hardback book. The lettering on the spine read: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, with connections.

“Good read sir?” Miller asked, genuinely intrigued.

The old man looked up. “Yes indeed. We read it in school when I was a boy, and I’ve always been fascinated with Hamlet.” He took off the glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get started as soon as Larren and Walters get here.” Just as he finished speaking, the elevator pinged again and two men stepped into the room.

Larren and Walters. They were both on the short side, Larren at 5’8 and Walters at 5’6. Both men were white. Both were in impeccable shape and were dressed in the obligatory gray coats and fedoras. Field agents. Miller’s eyes instinctively dropped to the floor, and his whole body involuntarily clenched. The tally wasn’t entirely clear, but rumor had it that Larren was closing in on thirty successful resurrections and Walters had just over twenty. Both men had worked for the Lighthouse for a long time, and both ha d spilt a lot of blood.

They slowly walked over to the desk and joined Miller The old man cleared his throat and then said “James Donlam has been approved. How long will it take to set up an H-Sit?”

Walters said “We’ve looked over his file and studied his daily routines. Since the funeral he’s followed an extremely predictable schedule.” Walters shifted his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “In fact we have an optimal coming up in a few hours, if we need him now.”

The old man nodded decisively. “Yes, do it. I don’t want this one to go to waste. We need to snatch him from the edge on our own terms. Do it now.”

Walters and Larren nodded. Then without a word spun around and walked back toward the elevator. They stepped in, hit a button and were gone. Miller let a blast of air loose and visibly shuddered.

“I suppose so, but they’re still good men,” the man behind the desk said.

“Yes sir,” Miller sighed. He turned slightly. “Sir, it seems as though we have given an unusual amount of attention to Mr. Donlam. Is there any particular reason?”

“Mr. Donlam’s task will be high risk, high reward. We had to make sure he was capable.”

“Will we be keeping him around, should he succeed?”

Succeed or not, he isn’t expected to survive. Good day, Mr. Miller”

The old man spun around in his chair and Miller walked back to the elevator. As the doors closed in front of him, he pushed the button for the nearest floor. After they had opened, he rushed towards a bathroom. This kind of work was hard on the stomach.

After he had calmed his stomach down, Miller left the men’s room and headed back to the elevator. He got in and rode down to the 32nd floor, which was essentially an armory. It was decided ahead of time that he would accompany Larren and Walters on the Donlam setup to make sure everything went down smoothly, though there was little chance that it wouldn’t. They were very good at their jobs. Miller swiped his electronic card and entered. He casually waved to Reed, the overseer of the arsenal, who in response frowned and spat stream of tobacco juice into a nearby can. Miller shook his head and tried not to smile. He liked Reed. He pushed through a set of revolving doors which released him into a dark spacious room. The Lighthouse must have used the same interior decorators as the rest of the place to save money. It was dimly lit and everything was black, gray, or off-gray. Miller walked around, hands in his pockets, not really looking for anything and enjoying the silence. The armory reminded him of a supermarket, albeit a dark sinister one. It had long steel racks that held a variety of weaponry, with big lit-up signs over each aisle with words like Pistols.” Thus most of the agents called it The Grocery. Miller began walking up and down the rows and picked things off the shelves. There wasn’t a need to go heavily armed. They would be out an hour, maybe less. Any more than that meant the something was wrong and they were improvising. Improvising meant death at the Lighthouse. He walked into the section and stood looking at a wide array of small caliber handguns. Miller disliked guns the way children disliked vegetables. He avoided them whenever possible and hated putting them in his mouth. He chuckled to himself. What a dry sense of humor his work had instilled in him. Eventually, he settled on a small 22. Miller frowned and twisted a small black suppressor into the barrel. Showtime.

James Donlam sat in his small Honda, watching raindrops dot his window. The wind was blowing and as the drops hit the glass they were swept to the side, trailing away with tails like tiny asteroids. He traced them with the tip of his finger and thought about how marvelous it would be if he caught one. His tears kept on a line as they streamed down his face. Straight ahead was a cemetery; that which will eventually be his cemetery, and that which his now his wife’s. He gripped the wheel in front of him to steady himself. His throat began to close and he wondered what he was still doing there. Then as he looked out over the small gray headstones and he was reminded. He still clung to the hope that if he waited, Sarah would return. She would float out of the mist and walk to his window. She’d smile and get in the car and he would drive away and never stop. He shuddered and leaned back and let his eyes slowly close. This was the third day, and so far it had yet to happen. He opened his eyes to look at his watch. It was 7”27. Maybe he would stop for a drink on the way home. Then again maybe he wouldn’t Alcohol had never passed his lips up until a few days ago, and he had long prided himself on his sobriety. But after the casket had lowered and his tears had been shed he had passed on a bar on 2nd street, as he had done a hundred other times, but had never gone in. He had read about liquor’s detrimental effects on the body, and decided that there was definitely something inside of him that needed to die. He had walked in and ordered a drink. The barman had asked him what he wanted. James looked at him and said he wanted a cloud, a deep impenetrable fog. In a glass, preferably. He got the odd look he was expecting then the man brought him a brown liquid in a chilled mug. He took a sip, and grimaced. He didn’t care for the taste, but after an hour and another beer the edges of his vision softened and his head began to numb. His mind’s eye blurred, like he was swimming underwater. It was marvelous, and he was hooked. James had been there three consecutive days at 8:00, like clockwork. He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition.

Larren and Walters sat in their gray crown Vic watching James Donlam grieve. Walters glanced at his watch. “It’s almost 7:30. Are we sure he’s going to move soon?”

Larren didn’t look up from the hypodermic needle he was filling with a thick red substance. “He’ll leave. He’s been at that bar every night by eight. Just be patient.”

Walters nodded, while Larren finished filling the needle and flicked it a few times with his index finger. Walters pulled a two-way radio out of his coat pocket and said “Ten minutes tops. Stay alert.” There was no answer. There was nothing left to say.

Miller sat slouched in the driver’s seat of his car, which was the exact same model as the one Larren and Walters were in. He watched their silhouettes and tried to guess what they were saying, which would probably be very little. He sighed and pulled a small brown pipe out of his coat pocket. Some of the other younger executives poked fun because it was old-school, but Miller didn’t care. He stuffed the end with some tobacco he kept in the glove compartment and then lit it with a match. He breathed in a lungful of smoke the slowly released it. Surely it would kill him eventually. No matter. It would certainly be a much more pleasant death than James Donlam’s was going to be. Miller yawned. He hated coming to these things but he was one of the few higher-ups who actually had any real field experience; so occasionally he was sent to supervise these gruesome get tog ethers. That and this one was incredibly important to the Lighthouse. He checked his watch. It was 7:27. According to his file each day since he buried his wife James Donlam had been at Sebastian’s Pub on 2nd street by 8:00 to drown a little sorrow in a tall glass. It was a pity. He was such a bright young man. But then that’s why he had been chosen. Common men didn’t work for the Lighthouse, and common men weren’t exploited by it either. He glanced over and saw Larren and Walters straighten up and point. James Donlam was moving.

James put his car in reverse and twisted around to make sure he wasn’t going to hit anything. Sometimes life can be funny like that; because while he was looking out the back of his car he failed to see another vehicle speeding towards him through the cemetery parking lot. The white paneled van smashed into the passenger side and kept accelerating, pushing the Honda fifteen feet through empty spaces until it screeched to a stop. James’ car had been lifted up onto is side after the initial collision and landed upside down with a wobbly spin. Miller thought it looked like a turtle. Voices began to screech over radio.

“That’s it! Move!” Larren and Walters were out of their car and sprinting towards the crash. They reached the cars and cautiously approached; hunters making sure their prey was well and truly dead. The driver of the white van was a young man. His face was bloody and swelling rapidly, but he managed to open his eyes and look up hopefully at Walters. Walters shot him in the forehead. Larren had taken the time to move to Donlam’s car. He got down on his hands and knees and reached inside the shattered driver’s side window. He pulled James’ limp body out and flipped him onto his back. He pushed his finger into James’ neck to check for a pulse.

“How are we looking over there?” Walters asked, anxiously looking around. The cemetery was deserted, and the rain was still coming down at a steady clip. It was pitch black except for a few street lamps that periodically lit patches of the parking lot. The collision had occurred under one of these lights with darkness swallowing everything else. Miller was reminded of a Shakespearean play his grandmother had taken him to see once, when he was younger.

Larren closed his eyes and was silent. James Donlam had no pulse. He took his walkie-talkie out of his coat pocket and pressed the button. “Donlam is ready for resurrection. Shall we proceed?”

“Do it.” Miller responded.

Larren took out the needle he had prepared in the car and held it in a two handed grip. His aim had to be perfect. He glanced over at Walters, who nodded. Larren took a deep breath to steady himself. No matter how many times he did this, he hoped he never got used to it. He slammed the needle down into James’ chest, in between two of his ribs and into his heart. He slowly pushed the plunger down and watched the blood colored solution empty from the cylinder. He waited a moment, and then withdrew the needle. James body began to convulse, slowly at first, then became violent. He kicked and his arms flung limply around his body, like a savage marionette. He drew in a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Confused, he looked around and settled on the closest thing to him, which was Larren. Larren knocked him out cold with a right hook to the jaw.

“We’re all clear. Clean it up,” he hissed at Walters. Larren stuck the needle back into his coat pocket and then picked up James. He slung him over his shoulder and jogged him over to the car and threw him in the back seat. Walters holstered his gun and went to work. He hurried around to the back of the white van and threw open the rear doors. There, as requested, was the body of another young man. He was six feet tall and roughly one-hundred and seventy pounds, per their exact specifications. He picked up the body and walked it over to James Donlam’s totaled Honda. He kneeled and slid the dead man through the shattered window. Then he went back to the van and grabbed a can of gasoline. It was full and sloshed as Walters unscrewed the lid and began to douse both the cars.
From the driver’s seat Larren yelled “Miller’s mad the call. The ambulance will be here in ten minutes! Hurry the hell up!”

Walters emptied the last of the gasoline and threw the can next to the cars. He pulled a small green Zippo lighter from his coat pocket and flicked the wheel. A small blue flame sprang to life. “To all others, may we be a beacon of light,” he whispered. He tossed the lighter onto the van and the flame quickly spread, engulfing both cars in seconds. Walters ran back and slid in the passenger seat next to Larren. Larren threw the car into drive and the y pulled away.

Miller sat in a cloud of smoke listening to the fast approaching sirens. He started his car, but left it in park. He wanted to watch the burn awhile longer.