Soul Pills

Chapter 1

An overly enthusiastic voice blasted from the clock radio. "...and you'll want to avoid the overpass there, we have a three car pile up near the off ramp in the eastbound lane. The whole thing is backed up all the way to the meat processing plant. Coming up this hour we have your first chance to win..."

Marcus rolled to his side and stretched for the off switch. His forearm grazed the corner of the clock and sent it tumbling to the ground. The announcer's voice was silenced by the floor and replaced a split second later by a blend of loud static and pounding Japanese synth-pop. Marcus sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and jerked the clock up by the cord.

He slid the alarm switch into the off position and set the clock down on the bedside table. For a couple minutes he sat, staring across the room towards the bathroom door. Eventually he knew he would have the courage to face the icy tile floor, but right this minute he'd rather just lay back down.

From outside his room Marcus could hear a clattering noise. On the front hall table his cell phone danced about happily, enjoying its freedom from his pocket. Marcus stood and strode quickly to his bedroom door. He moved out into his living room, paused momentarily, and then crossed to pick up his cell phone.

"Doctor Coburn here," he said.

"Hello, Doctor Coburn, it's Grace," came the response, "how are you?"

"Better than most, I suppose, " Marcus quipped as he walked from the front hall towards his kitchen.

A giggle came from the other end of the line, "I can't argue with that, not when you sign the cheques."

"Grace, can we just skip the foreplay and jump to the reason for this call? I haven't even had my coffee yet," he said as he poured his first cup. His alarm clock might not be the greatest thing in the world, but his coffee maker was more reliable than his Lexus, his watch, and his dog all rolled up in one.

"Sorry, sorry. So sorry, I.. Well, I called because I wanted to tell you that Mr. Kulas said he'd be in at nine."

"Damn.  Nine?  He said he'd be in before noon," Marcus took a quick sip of his coffee and dumped the remainder out into the sink, "I'll be there in a couple minutes. If I'm running late find some way to stall him.  I thought it was universally accepted that 'before noon' actually means 'right around lunch'."

"Yesterday you tried to convince me that 'I'll get back to you on that' actually meant 'figure it out for yourself'," Grace fired back.

"Clearly you've never had a seat on any sort of committee, Grace.  I assure you - almost any time someone tells you they will work on something it means the exact opposite," Marcus disconnected the call before Grace had a chance to reply.  He didn't have much time to spare if he wanted to get into the office before Mr. Kulas.

Marcus glanced at the screen on his fridge, several red icons were blinking. He opened it up and pulled out a half eaten roast. He sliced off a piece for himself and ate it cold. "Zombie! Zombie, c'mon!" A huge matted black dog came trotting out of the storage room, excited. "I'll get you some real food on my way home tonight, eat this." Marcus dropped the remainder into a large steel bowl on the kitchen floor and strode back into the bedroom.

Marcus tore off his pajama bottoms, balled them up a bit, and threw them into the hamper across the room. He pulled open the top drawer of his dresser. Inside were tidy rows of perfectly pressed pairs of underwear. They were sorted by colour and style, ordered light to dark, with boxers at the back and briefs near the front. His eyebrows furrowed a bit as he selected a pair of black boxers. Today needed to be a serious, but comfortable, day.

He went top to bottom in his dresser, selecting clothes from the lowest layer out until all he had left was a shirt. He turned to his closet and opened it. Marcus reached in and neatly unwrapped a soft blue shirt from it's dry cleaning bag. Marcus closed the closet door and stood for a moment checking himself in the mirror. He tugged at the edge of his shirt, evening the lines.

With everything perfectly in place he marched towards the front door, gathering his keys and cell phone along the way. As he pulled on his jacket Marcus glanced around and called out, "Back in a bit, boy! Be good!" Zombie's head rose lazily above the back of the couch.

"And get off the couch!" Marcus shouted, "I paid a fortune for that thing, you dirty beast."

The door slammed behind Marcus as he left, and Zombie put his head back down and spent the next five hours sleeping off the roast.

Marcus entered the parking lot beneath his condo complex at a brisk pace. His Lexus was parked on the far side of the complex, in the darkest, dankest corner. It had always been a point of contention between Marcus and the condo board, a better parking space was one of the few things in life that for some reason money couldn't buy.

He moved towards the front of the car and pulled a small piece of paper from the windshield. It was a simple piece of rice paper, tacked in place with a natural tree gum adhesive. On it was a single Japanese character. Marcus wiped the smudge on his windshield off with a tidy white handkerchief and then carried the paper to his trunk. He opened the trunk and placed the paper inside a small mahogany box. which he then locked with a silver key.

Once inside the vehicle he pressed a small disc beside the steering column and muttered the words, "Pert Em Hru". The vehicle sprang to life and a screen lit up, displaying a local map and the time, 08:42. Marcus pressed an icon on the screen and local traffic congestion rates filled the map, changing some roads to an angry red and others to a blue not unlike the color of his shirt. A soothing color. Marcus traced a route through the city and clicked the "estimate" icon. Beside the button flashed "16 mins".

From across the street it looked as if the condo building had been shot from the inside; a flash of silver erupted from the parking lot before the heavy door was fully open. The bullet wove out into the street, narrowly missing a pedestrian and flashing through the red light at the corner. Behind the wheel of the street-bound projectile sat a grim faced man, hands clenched and eyes darting left to right. The estimate on the screen dropped to fifteen minutes and the edge of Marcus' mouth turned upwards. As long as the estimate dropped faster than the time rose, he would be okay.

A horn blared as he forced his way onto the freeway and sped past the deadlocked cars along the shoulder of the road. He only needed to ride the freeway a short distance between two exits. Up ahead he could see the lights from the police cruisers flashing. Several officers moved between the cars, measuring distances between wrecked cars and taking notes. They were too busy to pay attention to the silver Lexus as it angled its way around the police lines and tore off northward. The time now read 08:50, and the estimate was down to five minutes. Marcus thought to himself, "Any faster and I'd be driving backwards in time, I love this car."