Chapter 7.

Rick slept through the alarm. When he finally woke, he was groggy and momentarily unfamiliar with his surroundings, like a drunk waking up in a holding cell.

He reached under his pillow for the box. It was warm, pulsating, practically alive. For a moment, he was overcome by an intense desire to run. Such choices, however, were no longer his to make. His eyes shut against his will, and his breathing slowed. The Black Ash claimed its first victim.

"Breakfast is ready," his mother shouted.

After changing, Rick put the box in his backpack and went downstairs to the kitchen. His mother and father were at the table. John Kilroy was headmaster of the local secondary school. His wife, Anne, taught English part-time and filled the rest of her week with charity and church work. Rick was their only child.

He sat down, said nothing, and took a piece of cold toast that disintegrated under his knife. He pushed it to the side.

"Not hungry?" his mother asked. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine," he shot back. "Dad, I have to meet Jim. Can you drop me off?"

"Sure, once I finish." John gave his wife a what-do-you-think-is-wrong glance. She shrugged, content to ignore a little teenage angst.

Rick’s simmering impatience quickly brought breakfast to an end. He headed for the front door without a customary goodbye.

Riding into town, he stared out the window while his father detailed his plans for the day. Rick offered nothing to the conversation. After a time, he took the wooden box out of his backpack and turned it in his hands.

"What’s that,” his father asked.

Rick didn’t answer. Suddenly his father raised one hand to his chest and started gasping for breath.

Rick watched, more intrigued than concerned, much like a scientist observing the reactions of a lab animal to a new formulation. Suddenly, realizing that the car was drifting toward the curb, he grabbed the steering wheel and shouted at his father to stop. The car hit the curb, crashed through a wooden fence, and came to rest in the middle of a well-tended garden.

John’s face was red, his eyes closed. The intense explosion of fire in his chest peaked and started to ease.

"Rick, I think it's my heart," he said. "Can you get help?"

By the time an ambulance arrived, John was feeling much better. The pain had subsided quickly, leaving him embarrassed that he had called out the emergency services for a case of heartburn. The medic examined him, dismissed the heartburn theory, and asked him to go to the hospital for tests. John resisted but finally agreed and left in an ambulance. Rick stayed behind and dealt with the police and an unhappy homeowner, then drove the car home.

On his way to the hospital, John called his wife and briefed her. He knew the words 'heart' and 'hospital' would set off alarms, no matter how he phrased it. After much debate, he persuaded her to stay at home. He was fine and would be home soon.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

* * *

Anne Kilroy found John changing in the bedroom. "Where are you going?" she asked. "The doctor said you have to rest."

"I’ve been resting all morning," he answered, clearly annoyed. "I need to go to work for a couple of hours to finish some things up."

"Why not do it tomorrow, dear? You really should take it easy."

He took a slow breath, then started, as he always did, to negotiate the compromise.

With conditions agreed to by all parties, he drove to the school. The stack of paperwork on his desk held his attention for a time, but he remained distracted, and by mid-afternoon, had achieved very little.

Torn between staying and leaving, he sat back and closed his eyes. His thoughts immediately turned to the accident. He recalled the fire explode in his chest and his lungs fighting for breath. Beyond the pain, however, there was something else. With memories more subliminal than conscious, he recalled a vague, shadowy form envelop him. In slow motion, he could see it seep through his skin. The chest pain had grown as the ghostly invader came together, like the debris from an exploded star retracing its path to reform the whole.

He opened his eyes. Had he been dreaming? Was he going crazy? Both seemed equally reasonable.

Jumping up, he reached to the table for balance. He walked to an open window. The cool breeze provided no relief. He desperately wanted to be home, getting the 'I told you so' treatment from his wife. He locked up the office and set off.

On the drive home, his mood darkened and steadily gave way to a nagging fear; had the accident had changed him in some way? He had a sense that some internal switch had flipped, and he was now a different person. His emotions danced across the conscious spectrum: rage, sorrow, fear, love, hate. They surged through him like drugs injected into his veins.

His cell phone rang. He snatched it as if it was a bomb about to explode.

"What?" he answered angrily.

"John, what’s wrong?" his wife asked, immediately concerned at his tone.

"I'm sorry, dear. I'm just a little tired."

"You should come home and rest."

"I know. I know. I’m on the way now."

"That's good. Can you pick up a few groceries on the way?"

John sighed as a flash of unfamiliar anger shot through him. He was tired; he had told her so, for God’s sake, he had almost died that morning. Didn't she get it? Could she never give him a fucking break?

"Okay, what do you want?" he answered after a long pause.

He scribbled the list on a scrap of paper. Pulling into a car park, he said, "I'm at Tesco now. I'll see you soon." He hung up.

Anne said, "Love you," to the dial tone.

He found the milk quickly but walked the aisles looking for the sugar. Finally, he was down to a can of Ovaltine.

Up and down the aisles he walked before giving up, frustration bubbling in his veins; a more pissed-off shopper it would have been hard to find. He approached a couple of female employees who were chatting.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "Can you tell me where I can find the Ovaltine?"

The two ladies looked at him, clearly annoyed at the interruption. One pointed down a few aisles, then revised her advice and pointed in the other direction. She then resumed her conversation.

"To the left, or right?" John asked, his voice sharp.

"The left."

John started to walk away, but the desire to speak his mind was unquenchable. He turned back to face the two women.

"I don't know what your definition of customer service is," he said, "but you are two unhelpful bitches."

The women looked at him. They said nothing, sensing in this customer a level of dissatisfaction far beyond casual annoyance and, noticing his clenched fists, the real possibility of violence. John stepped forward, looking forward to an escalation of the encounter. The women turned and walked away quickly, not daring to look back. John suddenly felt a little better.

Back home, he parked in the garage and grabbed the shopping bags. At the door, he noticed his golf clubs in a corner under a pile of clothes Anne was planning to donate to their church charity drive. He tossed the clothes onto the ground, picked up his golf bag, and put it in the trunk. Tomorrow he would have a game, the perfect cure for all his worries.