Hello, folks! I'm not sure what inspired this, but I'm pretty sure it's because I can't finish one of my original horror fics (which might show up on fictionpress if I get around to it). But, this is my first House of Wax fanfic, so, don't go off on me too badly. Constructive criticism is welcome, but no flames. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Don't sue me. All I can give you is a half-eathen peanut butter sandwich. It's crunchy.

I listened to the soft squish of my rain boots against the sidewalk. The rain was pouring down, waking tinny sounds against the shovel swung over my shoulder and soaking my bare shoulders. I glanced around and noticed a few flashlight beams at the cemetery's entrance. They were early this time. "Hey," I said roughly, casting a survey of the surroundings and making sure no one had noticed us yet. "Put those lights out." The flashlights winked out and I approached the large ornate gate. I ran my hands along the lock, following the chain twined in the bars, and made an annoyed noise. I thrust my shovel at one of the others with more force than necessary, and brought my foot down on the lock. There was a metallic clink as the chains slid down the bars and were hastily unwound. I grabbed my shovel and we filed into the graveyard.

"It's up here," someone whispered, and there was a rustle of the map. Within minutes we were clustered around a fresh grave. The person with the map flicked on a flashlight to double check, and I realized it was Rick. He looked at me. "Yo, Morgue, think we should be digging in this weather?"

I walked across the grave, testing it. "We might have a cave-in," I said slowly after a moment. "But there's some guys coming with supports." I speared my shovel into the dirt. "We better get moving. Patrol comes around in a hour." We made quick work of it, using a crowbar to snap off half of the coffin and chains to haul out the corpse. It was fresh- fresh as in fresh fish, not fresh air. I frowned and snapped my mask over my nose.

"Damn," Rick commented after a moment, pulling his shirt over his nose. "This one was poorly done." I watched as they loaded the corpse into the body bag and pulled the zipper. "Oh, shit." I turned with the rest of them, grabbing the crowbar, and watched as the groundskeeper slowly made our way toward us.

"Hey what are you kids doin'?" he asked, and I made a small scoffing noise.

"We're robbing graves," I said easily, placing my hands on my head.

"Rob--" He stopped as he saw the body bag. "Why?"

"'Cause we're resurrectionists. It's all in the name of science." I lept up onto the head stone. "Kill him."

-x-

To clear up any preconceived notions, we are not the resurrectionists associated with Frankenstein. "Resurrectionist" is a term commonly used in the 1800s to describe people who robbed graves for anatomy schools. Usually executed criminals were used, but when corpses came into high demand, a band of resurrectionists would dig up the grave of a freshly buried corpse and sell it to an anatomy school. Pay came at $1,000 a year with summers off.

Of course, this was back when embalming was still in the experimental stages and embalmed corpses weren't common in the graveyards. But, by today's standards, the corpses that were couldn't be considered embalmed. Resurrectionists today have a little more trouble. My troupe, comprised of six or seven people with medical specialties, keep records of funerals and have a network of mortician contacts. I used to be in with the contacts, before the...accident. We track the burials of unembalmed decedents (That's the polite term) and dig them up. Every so often we cart away an embalmed one in an attempt to perfect the practice.

We all have our separate reasons for doing this. Some of us are medical school slackers or dropouts trying to catch up. Some of us are just plain sick and have nothing better to do. I, personally, am waiting for the chance to go back to the funeral parlor and just work behind the scenes. Perhaps not as good as the others, but until I'm cleared as "fully recovered" I'm technically not allowed near any dangerous implements. Something about brain damage and not being entirely sane in the first place. I really could care less.

Around twelve years ago, at some point between the time we hit the dry spell and had to resort to the Scoretti job, I was involved in a car crash. Some typical teenage road speeding thing that left me with half a metal skull. The driver ended up like a poorly-made puzzle. It wasn't the best repair, not at all approved by a medical association, and it forces me to wear a mask. Well, that's an understatement. Sew a piece for skin over the visible metal is more like it. It makes me look like Ed Gein.

After getting out of the hospital I've been monitored, offered several replacements and alternatives, and been suspended from all medical procedures of any kind, on the dead or the living. I've been living off the government's money since I can't work. That, and harboring an anatomy school in my basement.

I've gotten used to the macabre going-ons, the occasional disappearance of members of the troupe while they were doing time and the police investigations. One member owned an apartment building, empty of residents, where we held any of autopsical events. It was all in the lower level, which had been renovated with secret rooms, soundproofing, and good insulation to contain the smell.

I guess I could consider it my life. It's the last thing I feel like giving up.