Free Ashes to Ashes by Nathaniel Fincham Page B

the effort and manpower.
    They should thank him for taking the time to
consider their needs. No. How foolish to consider such a thing.
They would simply continue to hunt him. Fine. Besides, there was
another reason to leave his belongs on and near to the dead thugs.
They were , in fact, thugs and they might be known by the
police. Having his jacket would possibly show robbery,
self-defense. It was slim but he had to try. Also, leaving the
Ruger behind would inform his trackers that he was unarmed and no
longer dangerous, possibly getting the trailing officers to lower
their own guns as well, or at least getting them to momentarily
pause before they try to fire them in his direction.
    As he arrived at the other side of the park,
coming out next to a broad street, Scott realized that he had
gotten rid of his gun but he had his cell phone in his pocket. It
was still turned off. He thought about using it to call Bam, but
promptly decided against it. It could possibly be traced, which was
why it had remained off. He jogged across the broad street,
watching out for any traffic, seeing none. He would take it apart
and discard it in some random trash can along his long route. It
would be one less trail for the police to follow.
    He did have to find some form a phone,
though. There was no way he could run all the way to Bam. He would
never make it before sunrise, that moment when a ball of lit up the
world and exposed the sneaking creatures.
    It took Scott nearly another twenty minutes
of slipping along the nearly empty streets before he found what
might have been the last remaining payphone in the city. He was
surprised that any remained. They were like dinosaur bones,
remnants of an era that existed before cellular capability.
    He picked up the receiver and found it
sticky. He kept it an inch from his skin and deposited the few
coins he had on him. While keeping his eyes on the street and any
possible law enforcement presence, he dialed Bam’s number. After
several rings, she answered the call and her voice was the sweetest
nectar Scott had ever experienced.

     

Chapter 8
     
    Sleep had been no friend to Ashe. His dreams,
whenever he was able to fall into a deep enough sleep to have them,
had been filled with images of Owen, lying dead in his bed, his
skull blown out from the back. There hadn’t been any sensations in
the dream except for sight and Ashe seemed to be viewing the death
from the doorway of the bedroom, as an observer afraid to pierce
the barrier. As he peered into the bedroom, he saw that everything,
the bed, the ceiling, the floor, and the walls were covered in
blood. However, the blood was not crimson. It was a light blue. The
blue blood was everywhere and it almost resembled the beginning of
a clear, cloudless sky.
    Death never created a clear blue sky in its
wake, he was sure.
    Scott had never entered the dream, either as
witness or killer. Even in his dream, Ashe was uncertain of his
son's role in the shooting.
    Due to the restless sleep and bright blue
dreams, the psychologist found himself in his cage, pulled up to
his desk, at 6:12 A.M., which was slightly over an hour earlier
than his day usually begun. Massaging his temples, he tried to rub
away the sleepiness so that he could focus. Sitting on the desk was
Scott's dream journal, opened to the third page. Next to the
journal was a tiny notebook. If, while reading through the journal,
anything jumped out at him as possibly being important, Ashe could
write it down.
    Three pages in and Scott had written nothing
but strange images and fragmented recollections.
    ...watched myself from above, leaving the
white house from the front door. I walked around the left side of
the house. As soon as I went around the corner, a dim, dark figure
also came out from the front door of the house, following me. The
figure wasn't fully there. It was barely visible. I don't know why
it was following me around the white house, but I don't think it
meant me harm. At least not yet.