From: nakazawa@girtab.usc.edu (Rei Nakazawa)
Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative
Subject: "He Is Risen" Part 1
Date: 21 Apr 1994 23:51:23 -0700
Organization: University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA
Message-Id: <2p7s5b$qcc@girtab.usc.edu>

Well, here's my first story, the first of many I've written and hope
to get input on.  Just to warn you now, I wasn't sure how long my
parts should be, so this first part is about 22K.  If you think it's 
too long, let me know.  Right now, your best bet is to save it then
get it out with FTP if you don't want to read it all now.  

Anyway, I hope to get input on this, though I'm going home on May 7 or so, but
hope to keep up through modem connection, though probably only once a
month, what with the long distance phone bill and all.  I'll be posting
more of my stories if I get enough good input on this one; I've got 
plenty!  I plan to be doing this for quite a while; I'll stick with
it if you all do!  Hell, as many of those who worked on the QL show
said, this CAN last forever... if ST can, why can't this group, too?
Enjoy! (I've been having problems gettting this from my word
processing program-if you have any problems reading this, let me
know.)


	His environment was hot and dark.  Sam was lying on 
something soft, maybe a bed.  A silky pillow propped up his 
head.  Band music was playing somewhere, but it was soft, 
muffled, as if from a distance.  He could barely recognize the 
tune, but he couldn't quite make it out.
	A sad, solemn voice ran through his little space, 
stifled, but clear.  "And as we lay Jake Andrews to rest, we 
must take comfort in the knowledge that his soul is moving 
on to a better place, a happier place."
	Lay him to rest??!  Sam thought in panic.  It all came 
together: the dark enclosed space, the eulogy droning outside, 
and the band music.  It was "Amazing Grace."
	Sam sat bolt upright, pushing upwards as he lifted 
himself up in a blind panic.  Flowers slid off the lid of the 
coffin as Sam emerged into fresh air.  Several gasps and 
screams rang through Sam's head.  A large crowd of people 
surrounded him, several sitting in chairs set up in front of 
him.  A priest standing by his coffin was gaping in shock.  A 
chubby woman sitting in the front row of seats stood, mouth 
wide in terror, and fainted into the lap of the man next to her.  
There was total, oppressive silence.  Finally, a girl in the second 
row spoke.  "Daddy?" she asked tentatively.  "But you're dead."
	Sam buried his face in his hands.  "Oh boy."

Quantum Leap
"He Is Risen
September 21, 1961."

	The crowd began to murmur frantically.  People were 
shifting and getting up in their seats, staring at Sam all the while, 
as if trying to decide whether or not to run for their lives.  Sam 
looked up mournfully.  
	"Honey?" a thin woman with golden blonde hair in the 
front row of seats croaked nervously.  Her black outfit and red 
eyes told Sam that she was probably the grieving widow.  
"Is that really you?"
	Sam's mouth opened, then shut again rapidly.  He saw 
the priest out of the corner of his eye cross himself and clutch 
his Bible tight to his chest.  "I - I guess so," Sam stammered, 
running his fingers through his hair nervously.  There was 
another long silence.  The very wind seemed to have stopped.
	Finally a red headed man with the build of a football 
quarterback stepped forward and reached for Sam's neck without 
a word.  Sam started to jerk away, but the man's forefinger and 
middle finger merely pressed against his neck.  "My God," 
the man breathed.  "Last week you were stone cold dead."  
He shook his head.  "I don't know how I..."
	The woman rushed forward and held the man's 
arm.  "Please Ray... Dr. Brewster.  I'm sure you did your best.  
None of us could've known!"  She then rushed to the coffin 
and hugged Sam tightly.  "Oh, Jake!  If we had buried you, I 
don't know what I would've done!"
	"Neither do I," Sam joked, hoping it would make 
him feel better.  It didn't.
	A man in a tan uniform and a large gleaming badge 
on his chest stepped forward, taking off his sunglasses and 
squinting at Sam.  "Well, I'll be damned.  It is you, Andrews.  
But how?"  His salt and pepper mustache was beaded with 
sweat as he slipped his sunglasses back on.  "Well, I'll have to 
take a statement, just for the record, of course.  I mean, you 
can't just cancel a death report without some explanation."  
He chuckled weakly.
	"Yeah, sure."  There was another period of silence.  
"Uh, could you sort of help me out of this?"
	"Of course."  The sheriff and doctor each gripped one 
of Sam's arms as he scrambled out of the coffin, managing to 
get out without tipping the whole thing over.  
	"Thanks," Sam said half heartedly as he dusted himself 
off.  The crowd suddenly began buzzing with talk, and they 
slowly pressed forward toward him.  Sam's breath choked in 
his throat.  He suddenly felt very claustrophobic.
	The sheriff must've seen this, for he immediately 
stepped forward between Sam and the collecting crowd.  
"Okay, folks, funeral's over!" he shouted in a voice that echoed 
through the small graveyard like God's at Judgment Day.  "You 
just go on home!  There's nothing to see here!  Come on!"  Slowly 
and reluctantly, the press of people turned and dispersed, most 
walking out the nearby gate, a few driving away in black cars, down 
the drive past the large stone church, and out the main gate.  Sam 
heaved a sigh of relief as the last of the extra people were gone.
	Now there was only himself, "his" wife, the sheriff, the priest, 
the doctor, and the little girl that had spoken up earlier.  She was 
somehow very average looking, yet still beautiful.  She had the same 
sparkling blue eyes and crumpled blonde hair as her mother, and her 
black lace dress made her look thinner than she probably was.  
She was staring at Sam, uncertain, happy yet very afraid.
	"Well, Mr. Andrews," Dr. Brewster finally said, "I'd like 
to have a look at you.  Just to make sure.  Are you coming, Sheriff Davis?"
	"Yeah.  I'd like a few answers about this whole thing, 
if you or Mr. Andrews have any.  Um, Reverend, if you could be 
present, I'd greatly appreciate it."  The priest nodded silently.  
"I know that this must be a very difficult moment, but, well, you 
know what I said before." The sheriff coughed nervously.
	"No, that's fine."  Sam took a quick glance around to 
get his bearings (or at least as much as he could) and back 
at the small group.  
	"We'll be in the church, so whenever you're readyI"  
	"Sure.  I'll be up in a second."  Sheriff Davis nodded and 
started up a small hill towards the church, the priest following, 
herding the daughter with him with gentle arm.  The wife stood before 
Sam for a second, staring with moist eyes filled with some pent up 
emotion, before the doctor softly lay a hand on her shoulder and 
led her toward the church.
	Sam watched the last of the people disappear and turned 
back toward the scene.  The hardwood coffin lay open and empty now, 
flowers scattered all around it.  Several wreaths with statements 
such as "Rest in Peace, Jake" and "We'll miss you" were standing 
around the area.  The only sounds were the rustling of trees and 
the faint chirping of birds.  There was also the hollow "whoosh" 
that Sam knew very well.
	Al Calavicci yelped.  He shivered, shaking his head.  
"I hate cemeteries!" he pronounced.  "And I hate funerals!"  
He eyed the coffin and the surrounding fields of stone.  
"Tombstone city!" He shivered again, looking Sam over, asking 
with his eyes, "What's your part in this?"
	Sam shrugged and turned his back to Al, staring at the 
coffin and tombstone.  Al waited for Sam to say something.  After 
a minute he shrugged and began reading the output on his hand link screen.
	"Okay, your name is..."
	"Jake Andrews," Sam said quietly.
	"Right.  And it's..."
	"September 1961."
	"Yeah, September 21st."  Al looked up.  "How did you know?"
	Sam stepped aside.  Al's eyes bugged out as he read the 
carved granite letters:  

Jake Barton Andrews
 Born: March 17, 1925
Died: September 14, 1961
A faithful husband and loving father
He will be missed

	"You think you hate funerals, Al?  Try being on the receiving 
end of one sometime!" Sam started up toward the church, Al 
staring after him, frozen like a statue.
	"Sam!  I-I had no idea!  I mean, the guy in the Waiting Room, 
he's alive and kicking!  According to Ziggy, he's the owner of the 
local mill, the most prominent citizen in town.  And for this one 
horse town, that's not saying much."
	"Does he have any idea of what's going on?" Sam asked as 
Al ran up alongside him.
	"None.  Last thing he says he remembers was painting his 
house on August 17.  Everything else after that is a blank, and 
Ziggy says it's not the 'Swiss-cheese effect.'"
	Sam stopped walking and turned toward his best friend.  
"Then you have no idea why I wake up in a coffin about to be buried?"
	"Sam, I know you're upset, but this is Serene, North Dakota, 
middle of nowhere if there ever was one!  Ziggy only has real sketchy 
information, but we do know that there is a death certificate for Jake 
Andrews dated 1961."
	"So maybe by Leaping in, I saved him from being bur...  No, 
that would mean that my Leaping into him brought him back from 
the dead!"  Sam rubbed his forehead.  "Al, this is getting weird."  
He paused, thinking for a moment.  "Maybe that death certificate was 
the one they gave after I, I mean Jake Andrews died, and it just 
never got revoked.  Like you said, this is a small town, mistakes can happen."
	Al grimaced.  "Maybe, but there is no other death certificate 
on file after that, meaning Andrews does die in 1961."
	"But that could mean..."  Sam froze.  "Al, exactly when was 
that death certificate dated?"
	Al looked at his hand link.  "Ziggy doesn't know.  I'll 
have her check on it."
	"Please do."  Sam reached the top of the hill.  The church, 
gloomy rough gray stone, with ancient spire, bell tower, and round 
stained glass window, stood before him.  "Want to join me?"
	Al looked up at the church nervously.  "Uh, I think I'll get 
going now."  He quickly opened the Imaging Chamber door and hurried 
out, the blue portal shutting behind him.  Sam shook his head and 
entered the church.
	
	Sam heard the rumble of storm clouds as he swung the heavy iron 
doors open.  The interior of the building was shrouded in 
shadows, the only light from several large brass candelabras set up 
along the two aisles.  He could barely see five people in a small 
huddle up near the altar.  They all turned toward the door as Sam 
entered.  The doors slammed shut with a resounding clang.  
	It was then he noticed that the priest had been kneeling 
before the altar.  He got up as Sam slowly walked down the center 
aisle, his footsteps echoing harshly through the building.  "Hello, Jake."
	"Hi."  Like the building, the solemn faces of the 
five people who faced him were partially obscured by shadows.  
His wife's half face turned toward him, her blue eye still 
moist and red.  The crescent of his daughter included an eye, 
which was looking up in worry and deep concern.
	The shadows were accentuating the rolls and flaps in 
the sheriff's face.  He stepped forward tentatively.  He looked 
Sam up and down carefully, as if he were looking for something.
	Suddenly, it hit Sam all at once.  The sheriff was, 
consciously or unconsciously, checking to see if Sam was some 
sort of zombie.  Sam wondered what his reaction would be if a 
man pronounced dead suddenly woke up at his funeral.  He realized 
that it would be much like theirs: worry and fear.  By the way the 
sheriff came just short of begging the priest to be nearby, he 
suspected that if the other townspeople had as much religious 
faith as the sheriff, he was in for a lot of this discomfort.  
Even now it was so thick that Sam could almost touch it.
	"Well, Jake, I might as well be blunt.  Do you have any 
idea what happened?"
	"I-I'm afraid that I'm still a little disoriented right 
now, Sheriff," Sam managed to say.  "I don't think I remember 
anything after, uh, August 17th, I think, when I was painting my 
house.  What happened?"
	The wife stepped alongside the sheriff.  "I was coming out 
to offer you lemonade when I found you lying on the lawn.  The ladder 
was lying next to you, so I thought you'd fallen.  But when we got 
to the hospital, Dr. Brewster said that you weren't injured.  
You'd just fallen into some sort of coma, and you... died three 
weeks later.  There wasn't an autopsy because you asked that you 
not get one in your will.  And we were going to bury you just 
as you were, no embalming or anything.  You asked for that in your 
will too, remember."
	"Moorehouse was pretty impressed by the way you held," 
Dr. Brewster joked weakly.  "He said he never prepared a body 
that looked as good as yours without embalming."
	"That's what I wanted to ask you about, Jake," the 
sheriff interrupted.  "I mean, those items in your will sound 
pretty strange, especially considering the circumstances.  Not," 
he added hastily, "that I think you've done anything criminal, of 
course, it's just that, well, I have to ask."
	Sam hesitated, but fortunately Dr. Brewster came to his 
rescue.  "Look, Sheriff, I think Mr. Andrews has been under enough 
strain for one day.  I think I'll take him and his family home, 
I'll examine him, then I'll recommend at least two days of rest.  
He's been through a very harrowing experience.  Your questions can 
wait until then."
	"Fine.  But, Stacey," Sheriff Davis said, turning toward 
Jake's wife, "I might need you to sign a couple of papers."
	"Of course."
	"Shall we go?" Dr. Brewster stared toward the doors.  
"Thank you for your support, Rev. Foster."  The priest waved acknowledgment.
	"Come on, Jenny," Jake's wife said, quietly leading the young 
girl toward the doors, pausing for an instant in front of Sam before 
they went on ahead.
	_Well, one thing I've accomplished,_ Sam thought.  _At least 
I know everyone's names, now._
	
	It was raining hard by the time Dr. Brewster drove his 
black late model 1960 Chevy into the driveway of the Andrews 
home, a two story home with a neat front yard and a half finished 
white paint job.  Dr. Brewster scrambled out with a large black 
umbrella, opened it, and opened the passenger doors, offering 
his protection against the elements.  Sam, Stacey, and young 
Jenny hopped out of the car, an unexpected puddle soaking the 
cuffs of Sam's pants.  They scampered into the house, finally 
relaxing when they were safely under the protection of the patio roof.
	"Looks like it's gonna rain for a while," Dr. Brewster observed.
	"Guess so," Sam muttered.
	"We sure need it, too."  They watched the rain fall 
for a second.  "Shall we go in?"	
	"Jenny, go up to your room, okay?" Her mother's order 
reluctantly sent her trudging up the oak staircase as she and 
Dr. Brewster sat at the dining room table.  The lamp hanging 
above them swayed a little as the wind outside picked up.
	"Uh, Jake, could Stacey and I talk alone for a minute?"
	Sam paused.  "Sure, I guess."
	Stacey smiled as best she could.  "We won't be a minute.  
I promise."  She squeezed his hand as Sam left the room.  He 
glanced into another room off the hallway.  It was a cluttered 
room, a bit dusty, couch and floor covered with books, magazines, 
and newspapers.  A large oak desk stood at the back of the room, 
facing away from the large windows that showed the torrents outside.
	A small wall mirror leaned against the leather couch.  
Sam picked it up.  Reflected in it was a pale middle aged man, 
with a full face and balding brown hair.  His small brown eyes 
squinted as Sam tried to make out his full beard and mustache 
in the semi darkness.  He put down the mirror and flipped a 
nearby switch.  The room was brightened by a large desk lamp.  
Sam strolled over to the desk and sat down behind it.  
	The desk was literally covered in papers, which dealt 
with everything from annual input/output to a reminder to cancel 
a magazine subscription.  He began to pick through the stack.  
If Al didn't know what he was here to do, he decided, he'd have 
to figure it out for himself.

	"Well, when are you going to tell him?" Dr. Brewster demanded.
	"You know as well as I do that now is not the time!"  Stacey 
stood up and began pacing the dining room.  "Maybe after things cool down."
	"You'd better.  Or I don't think I..."  He turned as someone 
rapped on the front door.  He got up and opened it.  A man, hunched 
and shivering, his raincoat pulled tightly over him, stood in 
the doorway, the sky behind him darkening rapidly.  "Dexter?"
	"Hi, Ray.  I heard about Jake."
	"I'm not surprised.  The whole town must be buzzing about it by now."
	"Sure is.  Say, can I see him?  Or can I at least come in?  
I'm freezing out here!"
	"Oh, of course."  The doctor stepped aside and let the 
trembling man into the house.  Grinning gratefully, he stripped 
off his soaking wet overcoat and hat, shaking out his beaded, thick 
black hair.  He wiped his glasses off on his shirt and hung his coat 
and hat up on the nearby rack.  He went into the dining room, where 
Stacey had already sat down.
	"Stacey," Dexter Owens greeted curtly.
	"Dexter," she returned.  "Jake is in the study.  I'll make 
both of you a cup of coffee."
	"Thanks."  He immediately turned around and returned to 
the hall, brow furrowed in concern.

	Sam's eyes skimmed over the pages of a ponderous log book 
that had been buried under papers.  They showed that the mill 
processed locally grown crops for consumer use, everything from wheat 
to corn to vegetables.  The business employed almost 90% of the town, 
and it constantly made a large profit.  That is, until the second 
quarter of three years previous, when the profits began to shrink.  
Most of the loss was made up by cuts in the relatively generous 
employee salaries.  Sam couldn't seem to find any reason among 
the papers why the profits should've gone down the way it did.  
	Apparently, Jake Andrews didn't know either, for there 
was a memo prominently written on his desk calendar, apparently 
untouched since Jake "died" so it was still open to August.  It 
said to consult with someone named Dexter on the 18th.  The note 
was circled in red, with the word "URGENT" scrawled across the page 
in big capital letters.  Sam raised his eyebrows.  He remembered Al 
saying that Jake Andrews "died" on August 17th.  He wondered what 
he had wanted to talk to this Dexter about the day after he collapsed.  
	"Jake?" A tall man with glasses stood in the doorway, the 
hall lights behind him throwing his face and form in shadows.  
"How are you doing?"
	"Uh, fine."
	"Yeah, I understand."  As he sauntered into the room, Sam 
could see more clearly his pudgy face and shining blue eyes.  
"Must've been pretty difficult, being through something like that.  
Whew!  I don't think I want to go through anything like that!"
	"You don't.  Believe me," Sam chuckled.  
	"I mean, I've been living in this town a lot longer than 
you.  It's nice, but it's boring.  When I became your partner after 
you moved the mill here, I never thought you'd be the biggest thing 
to hit Serene since FDR stopped by here in '39!"
	"Bet you didn't, Dexter," Sam answered, hazarding a guess.
	"Nope!"  He sat himself down on the couch and sighed.  "I'm 
just glad you're okay."
	"Thanks."  Sam idly picked up a pen and began fiddling with 
it.  "Was there anything else you wanted?"
	"Uh, no."  Dexter abruptly stood up again.  "I-I just wanted 
to see how you were doing.  It came as a real shock at the mill when 
you, er, died.  I'm sure everyone will be pleased to hear you've... 
recovered."  Smiling nervously, he tipped his hat and hurried out 
the door, nearly bumping into Stacey, who was trying to enter the 
room at the same time.
	"I... thought that you and Dexter would like some coffee," 
she said, delicately setting two cups of coffee on the desk.
	"He had to leave early," Sam said in a low voice.  He picked 
up one of the cups and began sipping it absently.  Stacey picked up 
the other and took a large gulp.  They sat silent for a long time.
	"Jake," Stacey began, "I don't know what to do now.  I'm so 
confused.  When you went into that coma, I spent every day at your 
bedside, praying to God to let you wake up.  Then, when you died, 
I..." She tried desperately to blink back the tears welling up 
in her eyes.  "I thought my life was over.  So I..." She trailed 
off in tears.  Sam leaned forward in his seat.  He had a feeling 
there was something that she didn't want to tell him.
	"What?  What is it, Stacey?"
	"I can't!" she cried, getting up and running from the room.
	"Oh, boy," Sam muttered as he watched her go.  He had a feeling 
that there was going to be a lot more to this Leap than just convincing 
a town he wasn't something out of Night of the Living Dead.  The problems, 
he knew, struck much closer to home.

More to come...