Shadows of Fear – Part 4
O'Neill held his Berretta steady, pointed directly at the warrior beside him. He didn't fire, because even as he knew the threat was very real, he was also aware of the fact that no way could the Jaffa be there. The slash across his neck was deep and mortal, the blood gushing from it far too much for him to just sit, staring at him with those eyes that made his soul shiver.
He was unwilling to even blink, not prepared to take his eyes off the man even for a second. Not this time.
Nor did he speak. This wasn't someone he knew. This was an enemy and they had nothing to say to each other.
On the edge of his awareness Jack could hear a dog barking and the sound of traffic, but dull and muffled. It was as if he was in a bubble, with just the Jaffa for company, the outside world behind a thin barrier which would take little to break.
And if it broke – what would happen? Would he still be here, outside his own house? Or would he wake to find himself locked in some torture chamber, a victim of a nameless Goa'uld's mind games?
The tap on the glass of his passenger side window was loud and insistent.
"Colonel, are you hurt?"
The voice was one he recognized – Mr Thompson from a few doors down the street, a man he barely spoke to except to exchange pleasantries with when passing.
"Colonel?" And the door began to open, the one the Jaffa had his arm against, the one streaked and smeared with red.
Jack lowered his weapon, quickly slipping it under his leg, because as the door opened Thompson's upper body dissolved the Jaffa, fading him away to nothing.
It wouldn't do to point a gun at his neighbor. Thompson might think Jack was losing it.
He laughed, knowing it came out as slightly hysterical, and shook his head.
"I've fine. Foot slipped on the accelerator."
"Are you sure, because you look a bit pale?"
"Quite sure." O'Neill managed to raise his lips in something resembling a smile. "I'd better sort this out. Thanks again." He made an obvious move towards the steering wheel and Thompson stepped back hastily as the still running engine revved slightly. Jack gave him a nod and reversed, the mailbox tilting to one side when the fender released it.
Driving down the side of the house, Jack parked, turned off the engine, and rested his head momentarily against the steering wheel, before, after a quick look in the mirror to ensure his helpful neighbor wasn't in sight, pulling his gun out to slide it under his jacket.
It didn't take him long to get inside, despite the slight trembling that made getting his key into the lock almost impossible.
He paused beside the phone, even reaching for it before pulling back his hand. If he reported this he'd be ordered back in, and would be knocking on MacKenzie's door before he'd wiped the dirt from his shoes.
His head was thumping, whether it was from tiredness, the stress of the day, or what had just happened, he didn't know – probably all of the above – and it didn't help that he'd hit his head slightly when he had crashed the car. Nothing serious, just enough for him to be aware of the spot and to find himself unconsciously lifting his hand to rub it – yep, he decided, best to do what the doc told him and get some rest.
Checking the clock, he frowned when he read the time. It seemed so much later. Maybe a shower, something to eat, a bit of television, then it might be late enough to justify an early night.
The mundane actions of getting undressed and running the shower helped to settle his unease just a little, and by the time he was under the warm stream of water he was beginning to relax. He lifted his head and let the water flow over him, feeling the tension dissipating and the headache begin to recede.
The whole Jaffa in the car thing was as ridiculous as seeing Kawalsky in his office. Seriously, could he have been more stupid, running to Hammond after what was surely a daydream brought on by fatigue?
Squeezing shampoo into the palm of his hand, he paused, listening.
Had that been a noise?
No.
The shampoo was pleasantly cool on his head and he didn't rub it in as vigorously as normal, instead massaging it lightly and taking his time before shutting his eyes and standing directly under the shower's strong flow.
That little shiver that had saved his life so many times ran softly up his spine and he stilled, every sense quivering.
There was someone near.
He could hear the thin rustle of dry skin on cloth, smell the scent of putrefaction strong in his nostrils.
Right beside him.
Jack leapt from the shower, eyes wide and searching even as the sting of soap blurred them.
There was nothing in the bathroom but a thin, wispy mist as the steam from the hot water dispersed.
Nothing.
He left the shower running, retreating backwards out the door without even grabbing a towel to cover himself. The cold air made him shiver as he defensively half crouched in the hall.
There had been nothing there. Nothing.
He straightened, one hand on the wall. A rub of his eyes and a curse and he turned, going back into the room, leaving a wet palm print on the cream paintwork.
There was nothing there.
With another, fouler curse he climbed back into the shower and rinsed off, swiping at his eyes in an effort to clear them.
And all the while, his spine tingled.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
When he finally walked into the living room, his hair sticking up and still dripping at the back, he headed straight for the cabinet with the whiskey and poured a large glass. Carrying it in one hand he lifted the phone with the other and dialed Daniel's number.
After a minute of dial tone, the answer phone kicked in and Daniel's voice, speaking matter-of-factly about leaving a message, echoed down the line. O'Neill held the receiver closer to his ear, his fingers slipping as the clammy feeling of sweat grew.
The beep had sounded several seconds before, and he knew he had to say something, but wasn't sure what. 'Hi Daniel, just needed to hear a friendly voice'? Anyway, why the hell had he even called – there was no way his friend would be home yet. It was way too early. But then, he'd known that. That's why he had Daniel called now – so he really didn't have to talk to him.
He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Hey, Daniel ... guess you aren't there then ... Okay, catch you later ... Well, see you tomorrow I guess."
He hung up in disgust – at himself for being such an idiot. What would Daniel think when he got that message?
He looked at the glass in his hand. In fact, he had been an idiot all round. It was sleep he needed, not alcohol.
Tipping the whiskey down the sink and rinsing the glass, he left it on the draining board and headed for bed.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
O'Neill groaned, wondering if the headache was ever going to go away and let him sleep. After lying in bed for a couple of hours, tossing and turning as the thumping got progressively worse, he thought perhaps he should reevaluate his decision not to have a drink. At this stage it couldn't hurt.
He slowly sat, the sheet slipping from his shoulders to come to rest at his waist, clinging to his sweaty body as if trying to hold him there. His eyes flickered around the room, scanning every inch of the bedroom as the sense of unease began to build again.
Whispers in the corners.
His head wiped around.
Nothing.
Christ! This had to end.
The bathroom cabinet held what he needed, a packet of discarded painkillers, not finished after his last injury offworld. He downed two in one swallow and finished the water he had poured, his throat suddenly drier than a bucket of sand.
He fell back into bed, uncaring that the damp sheets were already cold and sticky. The drugs hit almost immediately and he fuzzily realized that taking them on an empty stomach probably wasn't one of the smartest things he'd done.
Eyes closing, Jack finally succumbed to the tug of sleep.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Dreams of dying slowly in a cave in Antarctica had the colonel trying to bury himself further under the covers. Damn, but it was cold!
He shivered, rubbing his arms with his hands, and opened his heavy eyes to look at the clock.
Only just after midnight.
A soft breath ghosted across his back, turning the skin it touched to ice.
He rolled and eyes met eyes, a mere inch from his face – eyes he would know anywhere.
He couldn't help it.
He screamed as he flung himself back off the bed, twisting and falling to the floor, and huddled there, watching as Hathor rose, her rime covered body alabaster in the moonlight.
The room filled with frost as she walked towards him.
TBC
