Visits from Duncan usually meant bad news; so when he burst through the office door, uninvited and unannounced, doom was pending. Scott sat in his chair and didn’t move, not because he was being deviant but because he was petrified. Duncan was carrying a manila folder with him, and he slammed it down onto Scott’s desk.

"You’re through here, Brewer!" shouted Duncan, leaning across Scott’s desk.

Scott was thin and soft-spoken, with a mature hairline and sad eyes in a twenty-five year old face.

Duncan was a large, bald and assertive. "You’re a disgrace to the scientific community. Every one of your projects has been a waste of precious grant money." His fist hammered the file folder, punctuating the final judgment.

"Doctor Duncan," said Scott, leaning forward, his voice trembling. "I’m on the verge of a major . . ."

"Shut up!"

The force of Duncan’s rejection made Scott bounce back in his chair as if expecting to be punched, and Duncan followed with a verbal uppercut.

"I said no, and I mean no. Spontaneous human combustion is a myth, and as far as I’m concerned, so are you. Now, gather your things. You’re fired!"

He turned and left Scott’s office, slamming the door to make his final remark.

"I don’t care what you say," Scott mumbled. "Spontaneous human combustion is not a myth."

Scott reached across the desk and picked up the picture of his mother that he kept there. She was the source of his drive and determination, and sadly, not because of her constant encouragement and support, but because she was dead. He was a momma’s boy, and as all momma’s boys, thought she could do no wrong. At the emotionally frail age of five, it was inconceivable to him that his mother was not the smartest, funniest and most beautiful woman in the world. This idolatrous fixation made her death all the more tragic.

She died on a mild summer day, following a morning out on the cozy downtown of Palo Alto. The two of them – Scott and mother - stopped at bookstores, sidewalk cafes, and a store that sold walking shoes. It was a perfect day, up to that point. After arriving home that afternoon, Scott eagerly jumped out of the car, and ran towards the house to show his father the spoils for the day, but before he put his hand on the knob, his mother screamed. When he turned back, his mother was engulfed in flames. Terrified, he screamed for his father, but it was too late. Seconds later, there was nothing left but smoldering heap of embers and bone fragments. The heat was so intense that the driver side molding of the car melted.

The memory was every bit as horrifying twenty years later than it had been the day it happened, mainly because Scott was unable to get closer. The death was a mystery: no one really understood what had happened. The autopsy and police report claimed the fire was started by a faulty electrical system in the car. Scott, however, knew better; his mother burst into flames before the car caught fire. How such a thing could occur, he had no idea, but his first hint came while watching a documentary on spontaneous human combustion.

Although the documentary seemed to purposely leave room for doubt, he was determined to find out more. He began to read every book and article on the subject, and pestered middle school and high school science teachers about the theory of spontaneous combustion. After high school, he studied physics and pyrotechnics at a state college, and eventually earned a doctorate in biophysics. His life was completely dedicated to studying the theory of spontaneous human combustion. Few of his peers gave his work equal respect, and often categorized it with UFO’s and Big Foot. Scott endured the insults, and occasionally was convincing enough to receive grants for his research.

That had all changed with Duncan’s visit, and Scott looked around the office, trying to figure out what he was going to do. He down at the manila file folder and picked it up. The label read:

SUB-MOLECULAR HYDROGEN ATOM IGNITION DEVICE

He nicknamed the project SHAID, and the bulk of his research grant had gone into the development of it, and now it was the very thing that had caused him his job.

The purpose of the device was to demonstrate how spontaneous human combustion could be triggered through igniting hydrogen atoms in living tissue, supporting Scott’s theory that friction from invisible particles passing through a human body could ignite a hydrogen atom, given all of the right circumstances: speed, friction, atmospheric pressure, ambient temperature and body temperature. The variables were many, but he was convinced that he was on to something. He stared at the folder for a moment and then slowly laid it on the desk.

A few days later Scott took a commuter train from San Francisco to Milpitas; he intended to visit Silicon Valley Laser, Inc. (SVL); the company he hired to develop the SHAID. Although he had seen the prototype in field tests, he never took delivery of the finished product, perhaps in anticipation of Duncan’s reaction. Given his unemployment circumstances, he reasoned he had nothing to lose by picking up the finished product.

After arriving at SVL, Scott sat in an empty lab waiting for Brian Hickman to return with the SHAID. He paced the floor, scratched his head where there was no itch, and sighed excessively. After several minutes the lab doors swung open and in came a tall skinny young man, with a Will Smith smile and thick lens glasses, he pushing a stainless steel cart. On top of the cart there was a chrome box on top of it.

Anxious, Scott met him half the distance. "Where did you have to go, Mars?"

"Hey, you’re lucky," Hickman said, patting the metal box. "We were beginning to think you were another no-show. You’ll never believe how often that happens, and then we get stuck with overhead costs and no profit margins."

Scott wasn’t listening. He was touching the metal box.

Hickman rolled his eyes, "Go on. Open it. You paid," he thought about it, "half. It’s practically yours."

Scott fumbled as he unlatched the fasteners and lifted the lid. His eyes blinked; inside were several polished metallic components neatly packed in black foam. "It’s beautiful," was all he could manage.

"Thanks, but I’m not an artist. I’m an engineer. You should test it."

"That’s not necessary. I’ve seen the prototype work."

Hickman shrugged. "Whatever. It has a three year warranty, like all of our products, and of course maintenance for life."

"Cool," said Scott.

Hickman’s tone changed. "Of course you’ll have to pay the balance in cash or check. We can’t accept a purchase order since you no longer work for ISR."

Something in Scott changed when Hickman said that, "I thought you were an engineer. You’re beginning to sound like a bean counter."

"Listen, Scott, I don’t do this stuff for free."

"Am I suddenly untrustworthy, Brian?"

Hickman quickly justified his comment. "News travels fast in this industry. You know that."

Scott closed the lid back down. "Yes, I do know that. Don’t worry, you’ll get paid."

Hickman detected something cynical (if not sadistic) in the way Scott said that, and felt compelled to make peace. "Hey, listen, we’re friends. I trust you. Take your time."

Scott accepted the olive branch, and left with his half-owned possession.

Later that afternoon, a chrome rifle sat assembled in the center of Scott’s coffee table, and he sat on the edge of his sofa gently caressing it with a cotton cloth. In the barrel his distorted reflection faded and reappeared in the mist of each excited breath.

From the kitchen, a guttural sound broke his concentration. When he looked up, a pigeon sat on the kitchen window’s ledge, contemplating nature. With trembling hands and excited eyes, Scott slowly picked up the rifle, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The pigeon, detecting something unnatural, tilted its head and leaped into flight, but before its wings could clap once, the winged existentialist burst into flames. Scott was amazed and exhilarated at the same time, and as he watched the charred feathers float below and out of view of the window, he saw opportunity.

It was evening and the lamps at the top of the tall aluminum poles cast a strange hue on the cars below, making it difficult to distinguish their colors.

"A bonus," Scott thought, as he sat in a dark colored minivan behind privacy windows.

The exit of the building to which the parking lot was adjacent was clearly visible from Scott’s vantage point. After several minutes, two female employees came out, huddling together, scanning their dark surroundings cautiously. The first woman to her car, only drove as far as to the second woman’s car, and didn’t drive away until the second woman did.

Something about that parking lot buddy system was agreeable to Scott and he nodded his approval.

Several minutes past, and a tall skinny silhouette of a man passed through the exit and into the parking lot. The man paused, and retrieved something from his pocket. When he pointed it towards the parking lot, the lights of a small car winked, and he walked in that direction.

Scott’s interest was heightened by the man’s presence, and he brought up the binoculars that were dangling from his neck. The parking lot lighting was inadequate, but he managed to make out the rim of the man’s thick eyeglasses. He let the binoculars hang again, and reached over to the passenger seat where the chrome rifle was sitting. He brought the weapon to nose level, and searched for his target through the scope. He found his mark, he squeezed the trigger, and the man in the parking lot stopped, brought his hand up to his neck, and a second later a torch lit up the parking lot where the man had stood.

"The death of Brian Hickman, said the female news commentator, "an engineer at the Milpitas based Silicon Valley Laser, Incorporated, is the fifth victim in three weeks to perish in a series of unexplained burning deaths, and authorities have not ruled out murder."

"That’s right, Mendy," said the male commentator seated to her right. "Pyrotechnics experts are puzzled. They can’t explain how these people burned themselves alive."

Scott jabbed the remote control’s channel button. "They didn’t, dork."

On another station a news program was in progress.

"I’m here with Doctor Jim Duncan," said a young female reporter, "director of the Institute of Scientific Research here in San Francisco." The camera pulled back to reveal Jim Duncan. "Doctor Duncan, we received an anonymous tip that you have a scientist employed here at the institute who has done extensive research in spontaneous human combustion. Is that true?"

Duncan laughed. "No, we no longer support that type of research. We dedicate our grant money to serious projects."

The reporter was visibly not satisfied with Duncan’s response to her question. "The police agencies are puzzled," she continued. "As incredible as it may sound, even some the harshest critics of spontaneous human combustion have conceded that the frequency of the burnings are very unusual. Wouldn’t an expert in that area benefit the investigation?"

"No," laughed Duncan, "it’s a myth! Spontaneous human combustion is a myth, and we can’t solve crime with myths."

"Well, I guess that’s final," said the reporter, with an heir of sarcasm. "Straight from the mouth of an expert. We won’t be solving these mysterious deaths with myths. Back to you, Rick."

Scott pressed the remote control, and the television’s screen went black.

Just days following the report of Brian Hickman’s death, Scott was back at the Institute of Scientific Research, as an employee. He looked around the familiar office with a smile, and removed his belongings from a box. A knock at the door brought him out of his gloating.

"Come in," he said, watching the door.

The door slowly opened, and a white haired man poked his head in. "Welcome back, Doctor Brewer. The reporters are waiting. They want you to make a statement."

Scott’s reply was from a man more confident than Scott Brewer of old. "I’ll be right there."

"Okay, I’ll let them know." The man turned to leave, but stopped and turned back. "Isn’t it a shame about Doctor Duncan? One minute he’s debunking the theory of spontaneous human combustion, and the next minute he’s a victim of it."

"Yes," agreed Scott. "It’s a shame."

"A shame," the man repeated, shaking his head, and then closed the door as he left.

Scott removed the picture of his mother from the box and placed it on his desk, as he did so, he smiled.

THE END

Bio:
Rex Allen Holiday. Born fifth child and third son in Mountain Home, Idaho, November 15, 1960. Married 23 years, five children; 4 daughters and 1 son. Telecommunications equipment engineer. Pursuing Master of Arts in English: creative writing at Sacramento State University. Genre is the science fiction shorts; not yet published.