The Daylights

© 1995 Brent Zirnheld
All rights reserved.

"It really is the best thing for him," John assured her. "You're not doing anything bad; you're not turning your back on Roger. Why can't you realize that?"

"You don't understand," Gale told him as she doodled a box with her blunt pencil. And it was true. She knew very well there was no way John could understand what it felt like to commit one's only living relative to a mental institution.

Gale stared at the box. Roger had been the one who'd shown her how to draw three-dimensional boxes when they were little. They shared so many memories. After their parents? death it had been just her and Roger for so long.

"I understand it's hard for you. He's the only family you have left and this is a big step, but face it, he can't get the kind of help he needs living here in our basement like some . . . some recluse."

They'd had the conversation over and over, what more was there to say? What she really wanted was for John to say the right thing to convince her that what she was doing was right. Too bad she didn't know what the "right thing" was, or if she would know it when she heard it. She doubted there were any justifications to be found. There were no words to make her feel better.

John put his hands on her shoulders. She resented him for a brief moment, but it wasn't his fault. John wasn't responsible for what had happened to her brother. The war was to blame. The "conflict" was a thirty-year memory in the minds of most, but it was still very much with the Cameron family. Sometimes Gale wondered if her brother Roger wouldn't have been better off if he'd been killed in the war, but those thoughts only made her feel guilty.

Like the way she felt now that the "men in white coats" were on their way to claim him.

Because of her.

"Stop beating yourself up about it, Gale. It isn't like we had a choice," John consoled her. "The guy lives down there in the dark just wasting away. He's getting continually worse and damn it, you're going to blame yourself later if you don't do something now. He doesn't even come upstairs at night any longer. If there wasn't a bathroom down there, we'd be shuttling bed pans back and forth day and night."

"Oh, stop it, I've done something about it. They're on their way and the papers have been signed." She shrugged her shoulders and leaned away from him. "It's almost over now. You can breathe easy. You can stop talking like there's still a decision to make."

"You have a decision to stick with. I know you, Gale, you're going to want to back out and I'm trying to make you stick with your decision for your own sake. It's what Roger needs. He knows you love him and he's not going to blame you. If you want to help him, you have to give him up to the people who are better suited to give him what he needs."

Gale sighed.

She had heard it all before. So many times. She was tired of hearing it.

"Okay," John said, putting his hands back on her shoulders and giving her a little squeeze, "I'll leave you alone. Whatever you decide when they get here, I'll support you."

Placing her hands on his, Gale silently pleaded with him to stay where he was. She didn't really want to be alone; she just didn't want to talk about it. Was silence too much to ask for?

In the living room, the grandfather clock ticked steadily and Gale was only too aware of the countdown at hand. It was easy for her husband to support the decision she had already made, since it was something he had wanted all along. However, there were the fine, emotional nuances that he didn't have to deal with, like the fact that Roger was not his brother. His blood. John had other family. Gale didn't. Roger was all she had left.

John planted a kiss on the top of her head. She suddenly burst out crying. Placing her face in her hands, she put her elbows on the table and sobbed.

"It's going to be okay."

"No, it isn't. I'm turning my back on my brother. I'm the only family he has left. The only friend. What if they hurt him, or mistreat him? I've seen those news specials about nursing homes and day care. What if these people mistreat him? We'd never know."

"Anybody can run a nursing home or a day care facility, honey. We're talking about doctors, here. They?re trained and licensed. They know what they're doing. They?ve probably even dealt with people who have the same problem as Roger, so they'll know what to do. If we visit him and he seems unhappy or says they've mistreated him, then we'll bring him back home. All I want to do is give these professionals a chance to help him. With any luck, he can actually be released and live on his own with no problems."

"I don't know. They couldn't help him before; what makes you think they can help him now?"

"That was back in the seventies. He was fine for a while, afterwards, too. This is something different, you know that."

"It's that damned war and all those chemicals they dumped on him, that's what it is."

"How can it be the war? He doesn't have cancer; he's afraid of sunlight."

"The daylights," Gale corrected, though she wasn't sure why. It was the same thing as far as she could tell. In the beginning, Roger had tried to describe the beings, or people, or whatever the hell it was he thought he saw when the sun was out, but John had long since given up any hope of further explanation. Gale would ask, but Roger no longer tried to help her understand.

"Sunlight or daylight, they're the same thing as far as I'm concerned. I don't see how being afraid of light has anything to do with the war. Hell, Roger doesn't even think it has anything to do with the war."

"I do," Gale said. John hadn't known Roger before Vietnam, so what did his opinion matter?

John went to the kitchen window. The sunny day beyond the glass was enough to crush Gale's hopes into nothing. Bright, sunny days were a reminder of Roger's plight. His phobia.

"At any rate, there's not a thing we can do about it," John told her. He seemed to be watching kids frolicking in the daylight. Gale could hear their screams of joy. "You've talked to Doctor Proyas; you said yourself he seems like a nice, honest man. He's pretty convinced he can help your brother."

Gale nodded. Yes, she knew it was the only way, but she still didn't feel right with it. She doubted she ever would. Unless Roger got better. At the moment she wasn't feeling too optimistic. The situation had been deteriorating for far too long for her to see any silver lining amongst the gathering clouds. Things were grim and it was doubtful they were going to get any better.

"Doctor Proyas, are you sure my presence isn't going to affect the Camerons?" Kathryn Woo asked.

"No more than our two interns will bother them," Proyas said with a nod toward the cab of the van.

"But what of my Asian heritage? Won't it put them on edge since Mister Bigelow's problem is related to the Vietnam War?"

"His problem is unrelated to any war, Kathryn," Doctor Proyas responded. "And I must implore you to remember to address me by my first name when possible and with sir otherwise. It is imperative that we convey professionalism with a good dose of the human element. Gale Cameron is far from positive she wants to let go of her tottering brother."

"I'll remember, sir."

"Very good," Proyas replied.

He looked into the front of the van and saw the two attendants in the front seat. Both were big men, but they would most likely be unnecessary. If Proyas won the day and everything went perfectly, it would be a very easy task to convince Gale the most healthy way to move Roger Bigelow would be to sedate him first. Alex Mann and Michael Donaldson would be along merely to help move the resting Bigelow, not restrain him. Such an arrangement would be beneficial to everyone's sensibilities.

"James, you're no longer sure Bigelow is suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. What changed your mind?" Kathryn asked.

"Research, Kathryn, research. Before, I could not shake the feeling that I had read of a case similar to this one. After a lot of time and effort, I discovered why," Proyas announced, pausing for effect. He eyed the look of intrigue covering Kathryn's face with delight. He had always prided himself on his ability to transfix those he addressed with both his impressive knowledge and mastery of subtle mannerisms.

"Bigelow appears to have what is known as North Creek Syndrome, named for the facility in upstate New York where twenty similar cases occurred in the late seventies and early eighties. An experimental drug known as Mycelenol was used on twenty-one Vietnam veterans who were suffering from PTSD. The drug appeared to work at first, but after several weeks of usage, it appeared to create an aversion to sunlight. Many of the patients just complained of a sensitivity to sunlight, while others actually described seeing things in the sunlight."

"'Things?'" Kathryn was awed.

"Yes," Proyas answered. "What they referred to as 'living beings.'"

"What happened to the patients?"

"The ones with the worst hallucinations were those who reported seeing living things in the light. These were the patients who committed suicide first. Ultimately, all had the visions and those who were prevented from committing suicide suffered heart attacks. Thus, with no patients left to study, North Creek Syndrome remains a mystery to this day."

"So Roger Bigelow is one of the original North Creek patients?"

"No. If he were one of the original patients, he would have been institutionalized to this day, not set free. This is a medical mystery nearly every clinical psychologist wanted to solve in the early eighties. Bigelow is a truly rare gem—the kind you don't know you have until it falls into your lap."

"Since Bigelow has been released into your custody for the time being, you can study this syndrome firsthand," she said with a nod and a smile.

"That is why you are with me, Kathryn. You are such an observant lady," Proyas explained, "and a fast learner."

With a bashful smile, Kathryn broke eye contact briefly to glance to the front of the van. When her gaze returned to Proyas, she said, "This is very important to you."

"This is beyond importance. This is the only case of its kind in over twenty years. If I can prove Roger Bigelow was administered an early version of the drug Mycelenol while institutionalized, I will be the envy of the psychological community."

"Mister Bigelow wasn't admitted to the North Creek facility, was he?"

"Correct. It was another facility in upstate New York. Mycelenol was the final product of a drug initially tested a year earlier on several patients in another facility," Proyas explained, picking up a manila folder from the seat. He handed it to Kathryn.

Taking the folder, Kathryn replied, "The other facility was Greensboro. That's where Bigelow received treatment?"

"Yes."

"When Mycelenol was proving so problematic, why weren't these people assessed?"

She opened the folder and removed a picture of Roger. For a moment she stared at it.

"One of the former patients had already died of natural causes, a heart attack, and the other two, including Mister Bigelow, appeared perfectly normal. Mycelenol was considered so radically different from its earliest forms that the original patients were not looked at as a good base of comparison. Interest was lost, or Mycelenol was forgotten. Either way, Bigelow slipped through the cracks until now."

Kathryn put the picture in the folder and placed it on the seat beside her.

"It looks like the earlier form of the drug caused a delayed reaction."

"But a reaction nonetheless, which is noteworthy in itself."

"What about the other patient?" Kathryn shifted in her seat. "There would be two survivors, right?"

"The second man, one Jim Hurd, was shot by police after barricading himself in a New York subway station six years ago. Hurd was killed by the police when he fired a gun at them. Nothing else is on the police record concerning this incident, but I have a theory as to why he was down there," Proyas declared, "and why he would not give himself to the authorities."

"You believe he had an intense photophobia which forced him to seek shelter in the subway?"

"Precisely."

"Is there any way you can prove that was the reason for his rampage?"

"I plan to interview some of the officers who dealt with Hurd that fateful night. If I can establish a link, then it gives even more credence to Roger Bigelow's condition. Not that we will need to support our claims, as the paper trail linking Bigelow's drug to the Mycelenol used by patients at North Creek is there for any inquisitive soul to discover. Sometimes you just need a little impetus to uncover the obvious. The only formality left is to secure Bigelow. His sister's high-strung sensitivities about the right course of action is the only unknown variable left in the equation."

"Even if the Camerons decide against committing Bigelow, we can make a case that he is dangerous to himself and others, can't we?"

"Maybe. However, a protracted court battle is definitely not something which would preserve the secrecy of Bigelow's condition. Other, very eager doctors would step into the fray, ruining my chances of studying him." "This seems like a turning point in your career. Not that it wouldn't have eventually happened anyway," she told him.

"Yes, you are right. This is a turning point for many people. Over fifty percent of combat veterans, as well as survivors of other traumas, such as rape, suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. These victims could be well served by a refined form of some of the ingredients of Mycelenol. With Roger to help us control for the side-effects, our success is ensured. All the while, Roger gets the help he needs."

Kathryn nodded. Proyas offered her a soothing smile as he thought of his future. It was certainly looking bright. A new, effective form of Mycelenol would make him rich. At the very least, Proyas would gain notoriety as a result of the medical relic Bigelow had become. He would at last get the respect he deserved. The journals would come to him for a change.

In the living room above, the new voices mixed with those Roger knew well.

A woman. Young, perhaps in her late twenties.

And the man. The man who had come the other time. The funny-talking doctor. Yes, the agent of the daylights.

Roger was no fool. He?d always known sooner or later the daylights would find a way to get him. Roger had always thought it would be something more dramatic—like a tornado to rip the house away from the basement and then a quick rolling away of the clouds so that the daylights could trap him and destroy him mercilessly. But this? The subtlety of it was so unsettling.

Roger could fight this, he knew he had that option and it was as simple as refusing to go, but then the daylights would be angered at him and they would use even more dangerous methods to get him. Gale and John could get hurt in the crossfire. Because of his unwillingness to take the easy road. Roger didn't want that. His sister and brother-in-law had been there for him and protected him for a great many years now. He wasn't about to return the favor by putting them in any more danger than he already had.

No, he had to give up. Give himself up to the agents of the daylights.

"I assure you, he will get the best care possible at our facility," the agent proclaimed. "I will see to his needs myself."

Roger could hear every insincere word the man spoke. He was a manipulative monster who had thoroughly won over Gale. As the conversation with John earlier in the day had proven, Gale was facing what was certainly a horrible dilemma. Not only did she want the best for her brother, she wanted to please John, whose charity had long since vanished. It was a wonder it had lasted as long as it had.

Pacing in the darkness, Roger listened as the events unfolded above him.

His stay at his sister's home was nearing its conclusion. It wasn't a surprise, really. John's hospitality was at an end and his marriage was on the ropes. It was Roger's fault and he hated it, but he was powerless to change anything. So much time had passed and so many rifts between his sister and her husband had developed. They rarely even had sex anymore. Roger tried to remember the last time he had heard their love. At least a month ago. At the beginning of his stay they had been wild animals, but their passion had long since gone into hibernation. Roger had cost them that part of their lives, too.

Deprived of any substantial light for so long, Roger's ability to hear things had become amazingly acute. Not only could he hear even whispered conversations, which was a curse in itself, Roger could hear the annoying creaking of the house. The drips in the upstairs bathroom sink. The small insects and mice which crawled through the walls and skittered on the kitchen floor at night.

Worst of all, he could hear the daylights outside plotting his death. Whispering with their hot breath just outside the covered windows. They were going to get him one way or the other. If they didn't, then his self-imposed exile into the darkness would eventually drive him to madness. If it hadn't already.

"Shouldn't we move him at night?" Gale asked.

Roger continued to listen as he walked toward the window. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. He reached up and felt the heat radiating from the blocked window. The daylights couldn't get in, no matter how hard they tried. All they could do was make their presence known.

The window was secure. John had seen to that, just as Roger had requested. Still, the knowledge of the evil outside made Roger shy away. He retreated a few feet from the wall.

"If necessary, we can sedate him so he will not have any reaction to the sunlight," the agent told her.

"I really . . . I'm not sure that would be good. I don't think Roger likes needles at all and he likes absolute darkness. He rarely even watches the little TV we gave him," Gale protested.

The latter half of the statement was true, anyway. Roger did not like to watch television anymore because he knew how desperate the daylights were. He didn't put it beyond them to attempt to get him through the light of the television. He sometimes turned it on and covered the screen. To taunt the daylights. Making a mockery of them was one of the few things that made life worth living. Ultimately, they were going to make him pay for his insolence. He was only too well aware of this.

"I'm not sure sedating him should be an option, not when he can be moved tonight. Yeah, I think that would be better for Roger."

Roger had a big problem with being sedated. He wanted to be perfectly awake when the daylights came for him. He wanted to defy them with every last shred of life he had left. Even as they dealt him his punishment for seeing them—for knowing they existed—he wanted to curse them with the last breath he drew.

"If you would like," the agent replied, "we could leave it up to Roger. If he wants to leave now, or later when it is dark, that can be arranged just the same."

Roger detected a hidden strain in the agent's voice and stilted words. The man wanted Roger now, not later. He was going to do everything he could to ensure that his quarry was taken during the daylight hours. Oddly enough, Roger grudgingly agreed with him, even if it was for different reasons.

"We're concerned with your convenience as well as Roger's," the young woman said. Her voice was sweet and melodic. There was a slight tension in the voice, but nothing as malevolent as the man she was with. The woman seemed to be trying to make a good impression. She seemed to actually care. Oh, how long it had been since Roger had been with a woman. His little eccentricities had long since scared them off and his self-imposed exile from the world of light had ruined his chances of meeting more.

Grasping his head in his hands, Roger silently cursed the daylights for all they had done to him. He wished his life were over. He wished he were dead. Several times he had contemplated ending it all, but could do no such thing in his sister's home. Besides, he couldn't give in to the daylights.

He had to fight them.

They wouldn't get him without a fight and they certainly weren't going to make him take his own life.

Footsteps fell on the floor above, alerting Roger. He cocked his head to the left and listened. Soft footsteps. The familiar gait of his sister. She would be coming to warn him. She would be crying and seeking his approval for what she was going to do.

For doing what she had to do.

"Roger?" Gale asked as she opened the basement door.

Light spilled down the stairwell. Roger withdrew until he was at least ten feet from the nearest beam, though he saw nothing threatening in it this time. They still couldn't harness artificial light. He put on his sunglasses just in case.

"I'm coming down," Gale said.

She hurriedly shut the door and made her way down the steps.

"We need to talk for a minute."

"Yes, I know," Roger replied. "They've come for me."

"'They?'" Gale asked. "No, not the daylights. There is a special doctor who has come to talk to you."

Gale stood at the bottom of the stairs. She didn't like to venture away from the steps unless she knew exactly where Roger was. As a child, she had been very scared of the dark. Roger would give anything to once again have such unfounded fears that could be laughed off when they were confronted.

"Agents of the daylights, Gale. They want to get me out in the open," Roger told her. He cursed himself for not trying harder to put his sister at ease. He feared the daylights so much that he couldn't control himself. He needed to try harder. If Gale wasn't comfortable, she would call the whole thing off.

But was that so bad? He could live just a little longer. Just a little longer.

"Doctor Proyas thinks he might be able to help you, but he can't do it here. He wants to take you someplace more comfortable—but don't worry, there won't be any daylight there. I know you like it here and all, but it's best for you to go with Doctor Proyas. You aren't upset with me are you? If you don't want to go, you don't have to."

Gale's voice was a mess. The emotional strain was causing dips in her tone. It would be audible to most anyone's ears, but was especially noticeable to Roger's. He could sense she was ready to cry. He wanted to beg her to let him stay, but he couldn't. He couldn't let himself.

"I'll go," he blurted. His stomach was in knots. Oh how he feared the known. "I'll go with the agent, er, doctor. Proyas, you said?"

"Yes," Gale said, venturing through the darkness toward Roger. "He seems like a very nice man. He's sure he can help you."

"Worth a try, eh?" Roger tried to sound as though it were trivial, as if doing such would somehow lessen the gravity of his fate. He stepped through the darkness for what was probably a final goodbye.

They met in an embrace. Gale's end of the hold was intense. She was quivering.

"I'm going to visit every day and if you don't like it there, you just tell me and you can come back home immediately," Gale assured him as she burst into tears.

"I'm sure it will be just fine," Roger replied.

He tried to fight his own tears. He was filled with fear. Why did this have to be happening? Why did he have to leave? Why was he the only one cursed with the ability to see the daylights?

"You don't want to go, do you? I don't want you to feel like you're not wanted here because me and John both love having you here. I mean, you're no trouble at all, it's like you aren't even here, actually. You always stay down here and you keep to yourself. If you don't want to go, tell me."

"I want to go. Thank you and John for all you've done, but it's time I left. I need help. I need to move on with my life. And I can only get that help with the doctor."

He hoped he wasn't laying it on too thick.

"Uh, that's great," Gale said. She seemed more than a little confused. Sniffing, she asked, "Do you want to talk to the doctor?"

"No. I've heard all I need to. Thanks, Gale. Please stay in the house when I leave with them. No tearful goodbyes, okay, sis?"

"Roger—"

"Please, Gale. You know . . . just in case."

"He can come back tonight and take you, Roger. It's whatever you want. I don't want you to think we don't want you here; you're perfectly welcome to stay if that's what you want. Tell me if that's what you want."

"I want to go. Really."

"But you want to go now? While it's light out?"

"The sooner I face my fears, the better off I'll be, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," Gale answered. She clearly didn't know how to take Roger's sudden agreement to leave the basement or his desire to confront the thing he feared most. She was worried.

"I'll be okay," Roger assured her as he followed her up the stairs.

Roger took the first few steps cautiously but his anxiety was overwhelming and he bolted up the next few, running into Gale and nearly knocking her down.

"Sorry," he mumbled, helping her keep her balance so she could finish the journey. It was all he could do to hold himself back.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked. He could hear the thumping on the stairs and was scared Roger may have finally flipped out. As John took steps toward the basement door, Gale emerged from the stairwell, holding up a hand.

"It's okay, he's coming," Gale said, her puffy red eyes temporarily void of tears. "You okay?" she asked Roger.

"Yes, fine," Roger muttered. Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, he moved his head in an effort to look at something. John turned and saw Roger's gaze was at the picture window. "Let's go, let's go! Let's not keep them waiting any longer."

"Roger?" John asked.

It was the first time he had seen his brother-in-law for quite some time. Roger was thin. Even though his eyes were hidden by the sunglasses, John imagined there were dark circles under them, which would be accentuated by Roger's chalky white pallor. His brother-in-law's face was covered with a grimace, as if he were in pain. The man clenched his teeth mercilessly.

"You don't have to leave," Gale protested, but Roger crossed the living room, strutting toward the front door as though he had something to prove.

John looked at Proyas. Wasn't the doctor going to sedate Roger? No telling what Roger was going to do once he got outside.

"Mister Bigelow," Proyas called. "Perhaps we could talk for a few minutes. There is no rush."

"Time to go," Roger mumbled.

Kathryn blocked his path to the doorway. She extended a hand. "Let's go back to the basement, okay? Just for a little while and we can talk things over. We can wait until dark if necessary."

For a moment, Roger stopped and stared at Kathryn. She seemed to calm him, but John couldn't see the expression on Roger's face, so he couldn't tell for sure. Proyas was standing to the side of Roger. Maybe everything was under control. John couldn't shake the feeling that the ticking time bomb inside Roger was about to explode

"Do you want to go downstairs?" Kathryn asked.

John loosened his collar. He was hot. Sweat rolled off his forehead as he felt the pressure of needing to do something, but not knowing what to do. John hadn't prepared for anything like this. They were supposed to sedate Roger and take him quietly, not let him run rampant.

"Let me go," Roger mumbled. "They'll destroy us all!"

He moved around Kathryn and hurried to the door.

"Wait, Roger!" Gale called.

With a twist of the knob, Roger opened the heavy wooden door. Sunlight flooded through the glass of the storm door. Roger stopped, letting Proyas close the distance. At the last second, Roger threw open the storm door and lurched onto the porch, nearly falling.

"Roger!" Gale objected.

Someone needed to restrain Roger. Didn't the doctor have some kind of tranquilizer ready? Roger was getting wilder by the moment. As John went out the front door behind Proyas, he watched Roger run into the yard. A yard well lit by the sun on what was to everyone but Roger a beautiful spring day.

"God, look at all of 'em!" Roger yelled at some unseen enemy. Roger's head glanced furtively around the yard and into the air. "Yeah, I see you! Come and get me, I'm right here!"

What had John caused? Had he sped up Roger?s decay by demanding Gale take some sort of action to get him out of the house? What was Gale going to think now? John feared that his persistence had damaged their relationship for some time to come, if not forever.

"Alex, Michael!" Proyas called. "Restraints!"

"A bit too late now," John mumbled. He shouldered by Proyas, intending to restrain Roger himself. This was no good. This would prey on Gale's mind for weeks. She couldn't see her brother taken away in this manner. Roger would have to come back and stay in the basement, and to hell with the problems his presence caused.

Gale jumped off the porch. She ran into the yard.

"Come back inside, Roger!" Gale called out. "You don't have to go! I've changed my mind!"

"He will be okay!" Proyas snapped.

Alex and Michael cautiously walked toward Roger, but John feared they would only further inflame Roger's outburst.

"You two just stay back," John commanded the two burly men as he descended the porch's steps.

It was getting unbearably hot. Sweat gathered on the back of John's neck and forehead as everything continued to spiral out of control.

"Sir, we're trained to handle situations like this; we won't harm Mister Bigelow," one of them replied.

John held up his hands and moved between the attendants and Roger. "Just hold it right there, my wife and I will handle this," he said, looking at the men's name tags.

Horror overwhelmed Alex's face. "My God, his hand!"

"Roger!"

"Ahhhhh!" Roger yelled.

Whirling around, John saw Roger's left hand engulfed in flames. Fire spread up his left arm as his long black hair ignited.

"Oh my God!"

"Gale, get away from him!" John exclaimed, suddenly all too aware of the arid heat's intensity.

Roger's right arm was being tugged in the direction of the house by Gale. Roger's entire head was engulfed in flames—flames that were too quickly spreading down his body, adding to the frenzy of his movements. John grabbed Gale and pulled her away from Roger. Roger then fell to the ground screaming obscenities as his arms struck at invisible enemies.

"I've got him!" Alex yelled. He produced a fire extinguisher from the van. Aiming it at Roger's smoldering body, he grimaced. Before getting a chance to send a stream of foam, Alex shrieked and dropped the extinguisher to the ground. His hands smoked, then burst into flames.

All around, the air seemed to be moving as heat radiated through it.

Michael pushed Alex to the ground and stomped his foot on the man's burning hands.

Roger's screams subsided as his body continued to blaze. He stopped moving. Flames curled over his blackened flesh. Ashes flew into the air, propelled by the intense heat.

"Get in the house!" John commanded Gale, but she stared at her brother, sobbing and mumbling his name over and over. John grabbed her around the waist and carried her into the house.

"I called the fire department and an ambulance," Kathryn Woo said, rushing from the kitchen.

"Too late for Roger," John mumbled angrily.

After sitting Gale on the sofa and commanding her to stay, John went outside. The fetid stench of burning hair and smoldering flesh assaulted his nose. Roger's charred black body was still in flames. Alex rolled on the ground, screaming in pain, but his hands were no longer burning.

The intense heat was replaced by a sudden rush of cool air that blew ash from Roger's body.

" . . . Syndrome and he combusts right in front of us," Proyas was telling Woo with more than a passing hint of anger. He loosened his tie. "This is unbelievable. Spontaneous combustion! And no way to document it, no less! Do you realize what I've lost today, Miss Woo? Do you?"

"Spontaneous combustion?" John asked. "I don't think so, Doctor. He knew exactly what was going to happen when he left the house. He knew they were waiting for him."

John descended the steps and walked toward Roger's scorched body. The arid heat was gone. Completely. As if the day had never been anything but pleasant.

In the house, Gale screamed Roger's name.

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