The Ashes

What is a person worth once they are gone? Not empirically, but the effects and impressions left behind. What is the price tag on life or, at least, what remains of it? To my friend, Robert Conway, the answer was precisely $1,800. And half of that was mine.

It began with an odd skip in my chest. For an instant the world flexed and fell away then came crashing back. The heat inside and outside of the truck was stifling. I reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out the bottle of lorazepam and popped two under my tongue.

“Y’alright?” Rob asked. The concern was genuine, but I also knew he was also worried that I could mess things up at the auction.

I nodded as the pills started to dissolve. “Just another attack. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look so hot.” His eyes flashed to the clock on the dash.

“I’m good.” I slipped the pill bottle into my jeans pocket and unclipped my seatbelt.

Judging by the trucks and panel vans parked around us, the others had already arrived. I twisted the key. The engine shuddered for a moment and then stopped. Afternoon light glanced off a sun-bleached entrance sign: Big Bubba’s Self Storage. I followed behind Rob onto the lot as he headed for the first unit of the day.

“Try not to look so nervous, would ya?” he said, looking back at me. “I’ll take care of the bidding. You just tap me on the shoulder if we’re at our limit.”

“You gonna listen to me this time?”

“No promises.” He winked.

This wasn’t our first auction. We were a long way from being experts, but you’d never guess it from the way Rob walked in. The rest of the bidders had gathered outside of a dilapidated, mid-size storage locker with a corrugated door. About a dozen spoiled slices of American pie—bloated, callous, shifting with impatience—waited for the bidding to start. None of it sat well with me, bidding on other people’s stuff. It had always been Rob’s plan. I was just along for the ride, even if it was my truck. And old friends are like old habits; hard to avoid and even harder to let go. Besides, he needed the money. Not that I didn’t, but Rob was the consummate “get rich quick” kind of guy. Always something up his sleeve and never a doubt in his mind that something better was just around the corner. His personality was infectious if you didn’t mind catching it.

So, there we stood, one and the same with the other parasites, salivating over the chance to turn an easy profit; making money off the things the dead had left behind. Of course, they couldn’t all be dead, but that’s what I told myself. It felt better than the thought of someone losing their possessions because they had defaulted on one too many payments. Or worse, maybe they belonged to some poor bugger whose mind and memory had slipped away—everything forgotten and abandoned.

No. Dead was better.

The auctioneer, a rosy-cheeked caricature of some cheap car-salesperson with a nametag on his lapel that read “Max,” pushed through the crowd carrying a pair of bolt cutters. All bluster and bullshit, he shook a few hands with the regulars as he clocked Rob and I standing at the front of the crowd. His eyes smiled “hello” to the new blood. Rob was busting out of himself with excitement. I shrugged into his shadow as best I could and waited for it all to begin.

Max stood in front of the unit. Paint peeled and heat radiated off the exposed tin. Already, sweat was drawing lines down my back.

“Good to see y’all today,” Max sang like some carnival shill. “If everyone’s here, let’s get this show on the road.”

Without missing a beat, the bolt cutters snapped the padlock like a dead twig. As the gate rolled open, the crowd swelled forward, teetering on the threshold but never entering. That was part of the deal. You could look, but you couldn’t go inside. Not without paying. I watched Rob and the others making their silent appraisals, valuing what the items could sell for in whatever shop or re-sale website they frequented. The space was filled with cardboard boxes, patio furniture, some gardening equipment. Or, as Rob whispered just loud enough for all to hear, “Shit.”

“We’ll start the bidding at five-hundred dollars,” Max boomed.

Hands fired up and the numbers quickly grew. I kept my eye on Rob, who jumped right in, standing with that confident smirk of his as he battled it out with the others. But in the end…

“Sold! For $2,200.”

The winner, a pale man in a wilted Stetson and sunglasses, grinned and tipped his hat mockingly towards Rob. His teeth were twisted and stained a chain-smoker’s yellow.

Max pulled the door closed and, with a theatrical flourish, led us to the next unit. Rob shot me a confident smile. My throat and mouth were tacky from the pills. I thought of the water bottle left in the truck and prayed the rest of the day would move quickly. It did not.

My neck burned and my shirt clung like loose skin. To distract myself I made a game of reconstructing the lives of the abandoned lockers’ past owners—a health nut, a hunting enthusiast, a retired mechanic. The units with tools seemed to get the most attention. The man in the hat must have had a sizable bankroll as he had purchased three units by the end of the afternoon, easily outbidding Rob and anyone else that dared to try.

As Max slid the door open on the last bid of the day, I felt my world flex again. Acid rose in my throat. I was accustomed to anxiety, but this was somehow different. Rob must have felt something too, but judging by the excited look on his face, it wasn’t anxiety. He pushed himself to the front of the group. The room was dim, about twelve feet in each direction and thick with cobwebs. There were half a dozen pieces of old furniture, blanketed in mold, clearly worthless, arranged in a haphazard way that made it impossible to see much.

Max smiled. “Okay everybody, we saved the best for last. Whose gonna get things started? Do I hear five hundred dollars?”

“Five hundred.” Rob jumped in.

Without waiting for Max, the man in the Stetson and sunglasses waved. “Six hundred.”

Rob’s hand shot up. “Six fifty!”

“Six-fifty. Seven hundred? Can I see seven hundred?” Max called out.

“Seven hundred.” He came back without a beat.

He was playing with Rob, driving the price up—eight hundred, a thousand, all the way up to fifteen hundred! Rob was on a junkie’s roll and shot past our limit of twelve hundred without a second thought. I elbowed my way forward as Stetson threw out another bid.

“Seventeen hundred. Alright, can I get eighteen hundred?” Max rattled.

I grabbed for Rob’s arm as he raised it, but missed. All eyes turned. Nothing.

“Eighteen hundred, going once.”

A grin spread beneath the Stetson. I felt sick.

“Going twice.”

Rob smiled.

“Sold! For one thousand eight hundred dollars!”

From somewhere in the crowd, a sarcastic clap as the rest of the group laughed. The auction was over. That was it. Cash changed hands and the unit was ours.

As everyone began to leave, I grabbed Rob by the shoulder and shook him out of whatever he was on. “That was almost two grand! Are you nuts?”

But he pushed my hand away and just smiled. “I was sick of that prick out-bidding us all day. Besides, you’re the one that was supposed to remind me.”

Time out. Two more lorazepam. “You didn’t give me a chance. You let that creep drive the price up on you.”

“We would have left empty handed. Besides, I had a feeling.”

“Well congratulations. I’m so happy for you.” My throat was dry, and I was done for the day. A good thing too or I might have torn him a new one right there.

There was no way we were going to make our money back. There would have to be more than just a couple of choice pieces in the unit to make up what we had paid. I parked the truck outside the locker and lowered the rear gate, already planning the quickest route to the junkyard.

Rob stood inside with his back to me, fixated on something in the far corner. I stepped around the furniture to take a look. The air was dry and metallic. If Rob heard me come in, he didn’t show it.

“Find something?” I asked.

He flinched. “Maybe. Help me with this.”

He moved towards something tucked into the shadows behind a decrepit bookcase. It was a large trunk—a faded tan color, beaten and fraying at the edges. Stains mottled the surface like bruises, and black mold webbed across the lid. The trunk had not been visible from outside. We heaved it out into the sun. The rusted clasp disintegrated in Rob’s hand as he lifted the lid and a shower of dust fell to the ground. I jumped back as the hinges snapped and the top fell free by my feet. Through the rising afternoon heat, a whip of chill air passed over us.

Rob reached inside and pulled out what looked like an intricately carved, oblong metal container, a little less than a foot tall. Covering its surface were spiralling—no, screaming—faces wrapped counter-clockwise, upwards from the base. At first, I thought it was made of brass but as he turned it in the light—

“Is that—”

“—Gold,” he interrupted with a nod.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Well I’m not gonna bite the damn thing, but I’m pretty sure.” He beamed.

Rob squinted and moved whatever it was closer to his face. He took hold of it with both hands and twisted. It separated along a thin line about two thirds up from the base and opened. Inside, it was filled with a coarse grey powder.

“Shit,” I said, “I think those are ashes.”

Along its base there was a name written in relief: Howard Barlow.

“Any date?” I asked.

Rob turned it in his hands, but there were no other inscriptions. “Don’t see one.”

“How the hell are we going to sell it now?”

He seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“That’s a person.”

“You’re right,” he sighed, “Nobody’s gonna buy an urn filled with ashes, even a gold one.”

As casually as tipping a watering can, Rob turned over the urn and poured the ashes out onto the concrete, the wind washing them away in little dust devils.

“Rob, wait. What—"

“You see anything else in there worth eighteen-hundred bucks?”

I didn’t.

He continued, “We can sand off the name. It’ll be perfect. I’ll talk to Hutch. He’s always good for a quick turnaround.”

Hutch Lerman owned an antique store on Main Street—mostly tasteless knick-knacks from estate sales, but he paid pretty good, no questions. The whole thing was starting to make me feel sick. But Rob was feeling just fine.

“It’s done,” he said, wiping a smear of ash off his knee. “Let’s load up the rest of this junk.”

It took the better part of the afternoon, but we fit everything onto the truck and hauled it away to the dump. By the time I dropped Rob off at his apartment, the sun had nearly set. He grabbed the urn from between his feet and hopped out.

“I’ll call Hutch in the morning,” he said with a half-wave, and shut the door behind him. “Come on, smile. In a few more hours we’re gonna be rich.”

*

The next morning my phone buzzed me awake. It was Rob. I checked the time: just before noon. Strange, I never slept in. Thank you, anxiety. And Rob never didn’t sleep in. But there he was, all bushy tailed and ready to rock. Hutch wanted to meet us at the shop in an hour. I showered, dressed, made two slices of dry toast and some instant coffee and headed out to the truck. I slid the key in and turned the ignition. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

“What the—ah, screw it.”

I could get a boost later. I checked my watch and decided to call a cab. What the hell. Like Rob said, we were gonna be rich.

When I got to Hutch’s shop, Rob was waiting outside. “You look like crap,” he said.

“Where’s the urn?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. He’d already made the deal with Hutch.

“How much?” I asked.

“Ten grand!” Rob took off the elastic and started to count off my share.

“Holy shit! Ashes to ashes, man.”

He slapped my half of the money into my palm. “Dust to dust, baby.”

Laughing like a couple of maniacs, we high-fived with the cash, still not quite believing our good luck.

“Where’s the truck?” he asked.

“Dead.”

“Are we good for tomorrow?”

I shrugged. “Just needs a jump.”

“Kinda like me.” He laughed, fanning himself with the cash. “Wanna come celebrate?”

“Maybe later. Not much of a day drinker. Think I’ll take a walk. Clear my head.”

“You’re gettin’ old,” he said with that shit-eating grin of his.

“Yeah, that too.”

I got home about a half an hour later and as I walked past my truck, I noticed something was very wrong. The red hood was warped and completely burnt. The metal ticked and popped with heat. Inside, I could hear the engine block hissing with what sounded like its last breath.

I shielded myself from the heat and took a step back, looking around for anyone suspicious, anyone that could have done this. The street was empty.

“Jesus. What the—"

A little later, as I watched them tow it away, still smoking, and all I could think was, there goes my cut. I tried to give Rob a call to let him know we’d lost our ride for tomorrow.

I got his voicemail. I was thinking of dialing again when my phone rang. It was Rob calling back. I answered but there was no response on his end, just this muffled, scuffling sound. Butt dial, I thought. I could hear what sounded like voices—vague, monotone, speaking over each other. It sounded strange, even for bar talk, but Rob wasn’t picky about his watering holes.

“Rob?” I said. It was worth a try. Maybe he would hear me. I thought I could just about make out his voice. “Rob!”

No response. Just the same voices over and over—strange, discordant. Then the line went silent. A second later, my screen went blank and the phone died. Perfect.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, not sure what to do. My truck was toast. My friend was fried. And my nerves were shot. Halfway through the day and I was already done. I was going back to bed. Fuck Rob. He could wait.

*

It was dark outside when I woke, but damn it was hot. I fumbled for my phone and saw that it hadn’t charged. So much for calling Rob.

It took me over an hour to drag my ass across town to his place. He lived in a two-story walk-up that looked more like a motel than an apartment complex. When I got to the top of the stairs, he was standing there, propped against the door jamb, shivering. His skin was flushed and covered in a film of sweat. When he saw me coming, he tried to pull himself up straight, but didn’t make eye contact.

“Now you look like crap.” I smiled.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

I put a hand to his forehead, but he backed away.

“That’s a hell of a fever, man.”

“It’s a hell of a hangover.” He shrugged and made room for me to step inside.

His apartment was sparsely furnished, empty but still somehow claustrophobic. Rob went to the kitchen and started to make coffee.

“What’s up?” He filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove.

“Truck’s busted.”

He walked back over and slumped onto the couch. “What happened to just needing a jump?”

“I don’t know. I got home and the engine had just… burned up.” The words sounded strange on my tongue, but I still didn’t know how else to explain it.

“Could have just called,” he said.

I could hear the water starting to boil. “Phone’s dead. Maybe the charger. I don’t know.”

The kettle whistled. “Not your day, I guess,” Rob smirked, staring at the wall.

“Rob,” I said. His gaze drifted to me at last. I nodded towards the kitchen. “The kettle?”

As I watched him cross the room, my eyes were drawn to the electric fireplace on the opposite wall. A small flame danced over the imitation firewood. On top of the mantlepiece sat the golden urn.

“What the hell?” Rob either didn’t hear me or ignored me.

While he made the coffee, I walked over to the fireplace to take another look. I lifted it up. The twisted faces gaped up at me. It felt warm to the touch. Barlow’s name had been filed off and polished over.

“What’s this doing here? I thought you sold it to Hutch.”

He looked over. “He brought it back. What can I say?”

“Brought it back?” I put the urn back on the mantlepiece. “What’s up with that? I can’t afford to pay him back. Not now.”

“He said keep the money. Seemed to be in a real hurry too. Like he couldn’t wait to get outta here.”

“Keep the money? Just like that?”

“I didn’t complain.” Rob pressed his hands against the counter.

“You feeling alright?” I asked.

His head was down, facing away from me. It took him a while to answer. “Sure.” His shoulders sagged. “Look, I’ll meet you at the lot in a few hours. I just gotta sleep this off.”

He didn’t turn around or say goodbye, just stood there staring at the space between his hands. I opened the door and let myself out.

*

I got to the lot late that morning. I didn’t care much. Rob was the one that did all of the bidding anyway. The usual suspects were milling around, but something was different. Max was on his phone, speaking frantically to someone on the other end. A crowd had gathered and as I approached, frightened faces lifted and people stepped aside.

There on the tarmac, Rob lay on his back, eyes wide and tracking from side to side. His skin had turned a mottled shade of red. His lips flaked and split. His hands lay palms up, stained a patchy grey-black.

“What happened? What’s going on?” I shouted.

It was the pale man, wearing that same old Stetson, that answered first. “He was shaky when he got here, like maybe he was on something.”

Someone else spoke up, “But he wasn’t all marked up like that. It just seemed to happen all of a sudden. He fell over and then his hands…” They trailed off.

I knelt over Rob trying to figure out what to do. I could hear people murmuring about never having seen someone die before, or if maybe they thought it was contagious.

Max burst in. “Ambulance is—Oh Jesus. Is he dead?”

“Don’t think so,” one of them said, “not yet at least.”

The paramedics were quick to arrive. They loaded Rob onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. I tried to jump in after him, but they wouldn’t let me. The man in the Stetson offered to give me a lift to the hospital.

Most of the time we just sat there in silence, feeling like two magnets with the same poles. Finally, he spoke. “I was just kiddin’ around yesterday. It’s just… we like to haze the new guys, ya know? I know you ain’t exactly new, but you are compared to most of us. I been doing this a long time.” He lifted his hat and scratched his head.

I dug my fingers into the armrest as we blasted through another intersection.

“So how about that locker? Find anything good?” he said.

I could see the hospital now, just a few more blocks. “No,” I answered, “nothing good.”

Before the car had even stopped, I was out the door and into the emergency entrance. The acrid, antiseptic taste in the air had my stomach turning over. I felt the spike in my chest, a pump of adrenaline—another panic attack. Reflexively, I shoved my hand in my pocket, my meds right where I’d left them… at home.

By the time I reached the front desk, chills were spreading over my skin and stars were circling inside my head. Rob had been taken straight to intensive care. They gave me a sheet and clipboard and took me to a chair to fill out his details—probably to calm me down more than anything. It didn’t work. I knew the symptoms all too well. I dropped the clipboard and shoved my head between my knees. Nausea twisted my insides and I flashed between hot and cold. Somewhere a voice was asking if I was alright. I fought the urge to vomit; fought the pull of unconsciousness. The world tilted—my cheek struck cold linoleum—then all slipped into blackness.

*

Rubber pressed around my nose and mouth. A stale, steady flow of oxygen. Obscure shapes hovered above—people. Yes, they were people. As my focus returned my hand instinctively went to the thing attached to my face, but I was stopped by a nurse who propped me into a seated position against his knee. My mask was connected to a gleaming metallic cylinder.

“Give it a minute,” said the nurse.

My head throbbed. I nodded and did my best to relax but my mind had kicked back into gear and all I could think about was Rob.

I mumbled through the oxygen mask, “My friend…” I tried to push myself up, but the nurse held me back.

“Just breathe. How do you feel?”

Not like I had much choice. My mind was clearing but I was weak, and the nurse had a firm hold. Onlookers tapered away. Eventually the nurse helped me to my feet. I was unsteady and I felt a tinge of fever.

“I’m fine. I get panic attacks, that’s all. My friend. Rob Conway. Can I see him?” I asked.

I could see him giving me a mental assessment, but in the end he handed me back the clipboard. “Are you family? I’ll check, but it’s probably going to be a while. You may want to go home and—”

“I’ll wait.”

With a nod, he turned and was gone. When he finally returned it was with a doctor who made her way over to me. She walked with purpose, but I could tell she was exhausted. She asked about Rob, and my relation to him. He had no close family and I suppose I was the next best thing.

She took a deep breath. “Your friend has sustained considerable trauma. There are third degree burns over most of his body. I don’t know how to explain it. There was very little we could do. The labs are still running tests.”

“Is he…” I couldn’t finish the question.

“He’s stable. We’ve moved him to a room in the ICU and administered something for the pain.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s sedated. It wouldn’t do any good.”

“It would for me.”

She sighed, too tired to argue. “Follow me.”

We walked down through what seemed a thousand double doors and endless hallways until, at last, we reached Rob’s room. She motioned me inside.

The smell of burnt flesh and anaesthetic filled the air. Rob lay prostrate in bed, wrapped from head to toe in gauze soaked through with blood. His heart monitor beeped and an IV fed fluid into his desiccated veins. I was thankful for the bandages. As I moved closer, I could make out the raw sketch of his lips taking weak, helpless sips of air.

I tried to swallow. My throat clutched at his name. “Rob?”

Machinery whirred, punctuated by the incessant beep of the heart monitor and Rob’s steady wheezing. I looked away, embarrassed by my own desire to leave, when suddenly Rob bolted upright and fixed me with his lidless gaze, desperate eyes bulging from their sockets.

“Fire!” he screamed, grabbing my wrist in a death grip. “Fire!” He held me tight.

I pried at his fingers but couldn’t loosen his hold.

The heart monitor raced. An alarm wailed. My ears screamed.

“Fire!” he cried again, holding me tighter and tighter.

Footsteps clapped down the hallway towards the room.

“Fi…” His voice faded, his eyes dulled, but his grip was unrelenting.

The doctor and several nurses exploded through the door.

“Fire,” he gasped one last time. I could almost hear the bones snapping as they pried me from his grip and then, a whisper, “the ashes.”

I remember being pushed out of the room and down the hallway, looking back into the madness—syringes were filled as smoking bandages were torn free. Ribs breaking through bubbling flesh and peeling skin. Then the door slammed shut.

*

Name: Robert Anthony Conway. Cause of death: acute hyperthermia.

Bullshit. He just burned to a crisp. Nobody could tell me why, but when they gave me the news, all I could feel was relief. The funeral arrangements were easy enough. Not much to talk about when the best you could say about someone’s life was, “at least it’s over.” All that was left were ashes. As soon I collected them, I knew exactly what to do.

The vaporous heat of a new day rippled from the tarmac as I stood staring up at Rob’s place. I climbed the stairs and let myself in, using the spare key he’d left me. I could see the urn still sitting on the mantlepiece, its tangle of inscribed faces glinting in the thin light from the open door. Making my way across the room, I placed the bag with Rob’s ashes on the mantle then, with both hands, lifted the urn and opened it. I untied the bag and poured the contents inside. They streamed like the sands from an hourglass. With a final, silent goodbye I replaced the lid and that was that.

I sat back on Rob’s old sofa, readying myself for the anxiety attack I knew must be coming. That’s when I saw it. Staring at the urn, I couldn’t believe my own eyes. Where Barlow’s name had been removed, another now took its place:

Robert Conway.

I picked it up once again to take another look. There it was, plain as day. Rob’s name. The urn felt suddenly hot in my hands. I nearly dropped it but managed to place it back on the mantlepiece.

“Shit,” I said, looking at my palms. I could just make out the imprint of a face branded in the reddening skin. Could it be? I looked back at the urn where a new face now stared back at me amongst the others with Rob’s unmistakable features frozen in perpetual agony.

And then, a knock at the door. Six, slow solid knocks.

I backed away from the urn, thinking more of escape than of answering whoever stood on the other side. My palm felt tender against the doorknob as I opened it to find the man with the Stetson and sunglasses standing in the doorway. He had a decidedly warm smile as he tipped his hat.

“Howdy.”

“Uh, hi…” It occurred to me that I didn’t know his name.

“S’alright. We never formally introduced ourselves.”

“Right, well I’m—”

“Oh, don’t worry. I already know your name.” His grin seemed almost too wide for his face. I didn’t remember ever giving him my name.

“I’m sorry, Rob’s not… I mean, Rob didn’t—"

He scratched beneath his hat. “I know that too. I’m not here for Rob. I just came to thank you.”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked.

He nodded behind me and I followed his gaze to the urn sitting on the mantlepiece, gleaming like embers in the shadow. “For taking such good care of our friend.”

The pain in my hands flared. “I don’t follow.”

“Please. Allow me introduce myself. See, I’ve got a lotta names. Different names to different people.” He stepped closer, to the very threshold of the doorway. “Howard Barlow, once. Friends nowadays call me, Lou” And as his grin spread from ear to ear, he held out his hand and said, “But you can call me Lucifer.”

***

Christian Macklam is an author and screenwriter based in Vancouver, British Columbia. After receiving a bachelor of cinematic studies at the University of Southern California he worked and produced for film and television until making the transition to writing full time in 2020. Christian is currently working on his first full length novel between walks on the sea wall and fighting off Canadian Geese.