SPECTRAL REFORMATION

CHAPTER SEVEN: RUST, RICE AND RAGE

Ron wasn't himself that morning.

He sat on an overturned crate inside Minos’ crumbling balcony room, his arms folded, his shoulders hunched like a miserable little bat. His face was pale—paler than usual—and a thin sheet of sweat clung to his forehead like dew on dying grass.

“I think my stomach is melting,” he murmured.

Jerry, chewing on a dried plum, squinted at him. “Maybe it's just hunger again.”

“No,” Ron said, groaning. “This feels like… like something inside me is trying to eat me.”

Mami knelt beside him, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead with motherly instinct.

“Oh dear, you're burning up!” she cried. “Jerry, get water! Quick!”

Jerry sprang into motion, or more accurately, an imitation of motion—he staggered off at half-speed, muttering something about Minos’ cooking being the real cause of Ron’s illness.

Mami fanned Ron with a dusty rag, eyes wide with worry. “My son, you haven’t been this sick since that time you drank rainwater from the gutter and claimed it tasted like coconut juice.”

Ron whimpered in response.

Suddenly, a gust of stale air burst into the room like a dramatic stage cue—Minos had arrived. His yellow eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. He crouched beside Ron, placed a long skeletal hand on his chest, then snatched it back like he'd been stung.

“He’s ill,” Minos growled. “But this is no ordinary human sickness. This... this is internal rebellion.”

“Internal what?” Jerry asked, walking in with a nearly empty cup of water—he’d clearly taken a few sips on the way.

Minos ignored him. “I told you people to feed him better. You lot eat more carbs than sense. The boy’s system is collapsing!”

Mami looked affronted. “What do you mean you people? You eat raw liver and dirt soup!”

“That’s not the point!” Minos thundered, slamming a rusted pipe into the ground for emphasis. “If Ron dies, I swear, the moon will not rise again before I make the entire Oppey Gulf echo with my wrath!”

Mami’s eyes went wide. “But he’s just sick—he’s not going to die!”

“He better not,” Minos snarled. “Because if he does, you’ll see a side of me that even I don’t want to meet.”

“Relax,” Jerry said, flopping onto a nearby stool. “It’s probably just stress from saving us over and over again. I mean, carrying the weight of the family and befriending a half-zombie? That’s exhausting work.”

“I will bite you,” Minos warned.

Jerry slowly stood and moved two feet away.

Suddenly, Ron lurched to his feet, then fell back down with a soft thud. “I think… I think I need a hospital…”

The word hospital rang through the room like a dropped cymbal. Everyone froze.

Mami gasped, clutching her chest. “A hospital? But we haven’t been to one since your father’s arm turned blue from that snakebite and we had to bribe the nurse with dried plantain!”

Jerry looked genuinely disturbed. “You mean… with doctors and injections and machines that beep every time you move?”

Minos snarled. “He will not be touched by needles unless they are dipped in silver and blessed by the Pope!”

Ron groaned. “I’m pretty sure the Pope isn’t available, Minos…”

“Then we ride,” Minos declared. “To the one place where humans still attempt healing with science and bills.”

Mami looked uncertain. “But how do we get there?”

There was a long silence. Then Jerry’s face lit up.

“Papa’s car!” he said.

Everyone groaned in unison.

Papa’s car—or what was left of it—was an old, rusted blue Beetle that had not moved in four years. It sat in the shed like a monument to decay and poor decisions. Its tires were flat, the rearview mirror hung by a single desperate screw, and the horn sounded like a coughing goat.

Nevertheless, ten minutes later, it was pushed out of retirement, with Ron semi-conscious in the back seat, bundled up in three blankets like a feverish burrito.

Before departure, Mami insisted they eat “a real meal to give us strength.” Minos protested, but ultimately joined in after being threatened with a cold bowl of uncooked yam.

And so, in the half-collapsed kitchen, they sat to dine.

The food was a chaotic blend of fried rice, reheated fish, pickled onions, and a small piece of meat that might’ve been chicken or possibly squirrel. Mami called it “surprise stew.” Jerry called it “surprise stomach ache.” Minos refused to identify it.

They ate quickly.

“Ron, you want a bite?” Mami asked gently.

Ron, from the backseat of the car, waved a trembling hand. “If I smell food again, I might explode.”

Jerry stuffed his face anyway. “More for me.”

Minos, chewing thoughtfully, eyed Mami and said between bites, “If this meal kills me, I hope you realize you’ll be next.”

“Oh, hush. You’ve eaten worse,” Mami said, slapping his bony arm.

Once fed and marginally stronger, they set off.

Minos drove—an act that should have been outlawed for reasons of public safety.

The car rattled, screeched, and sighed like it was being exorcised. Smoke billowed from the exhaust in dramatic puffs. Every pothole was a personal insult.

Mami sat in front, holding onto the dashboard like it was her last lifeline.

“This car is possessed,” she muttered.

“No,” Minos growled, “it’s angry—like me.”

Jerry sat beside Ron in the back, recording voice notes on an old phone he found. “If we die, let it be known that I was the smart one.”

“Shut up,” Ron groaned.

The drive to the hospital felt like a journey through the underworld. At one point, a chicken actually chased them. At another, a tire rolled off—and then rolled back on, because even fate was confused.

Finally, after what felt like three lifetimes and a small earthquake, they reached the hospital.

A nurse in a pink uniform ran out when she saw the Beetle sputter to a halt. “Oh no,” she muttered. “Not this family again.”

Minos leapt from the driver’s seat, carrying Ron like a wounded prince. “He needs help,” he growled. “Immediately.”

The nurse recoiled slightly at Minos’ appearance but kept her composure. “We’ll do our best.”

“Do better than your best,” Minos snapped. “Because if he dies, I swear—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Oppey Gulf will weep blood. We’ve heard the speech. Take him inside.”

As they rushed Ron in, Mami and Jerry trailed behind, worry etching their faces.

“You think he’ll be okay?” Jerry asked quietly.

Mami squeezed his hand. “He has to be. He’s our Ron.”

Back in the waiting room, Minos paced like a caged beast, muttering threats to invisible enemies.

“I should have eaten more scientists,” he growled. “Then I’d know how to fix him.”

Mami sat with her hands clasped. “You really care for him, don’t you?”

Minos stopped. For once, he looked solemn. “He stood between me and his family. He treated me like a man, not a monster. He may be the last good thing left in this crumbling world.”

Mami nodded, her eyes misty.

Jerry sniffled. “Even though he hogs the blanket.”

Just then, the nurse returned with a clipboard. “We’ve stabilized him. It’s a bad infection, but he’ll recover.”

Mami let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Jerry whooped. Minos... punched a wall in relief.

“Thank the stars,” Mami said.

“Thank me,” Minos corrected.

They all smiled.

As Ron slept peacefully in a white hospital bed, dreaming of less chaotic days, his family waited nearby—an odd mix of human, half-zombie, and the unmistakable sound of Papa’s car outside, quietly falling apart again.