Don Q 5

The next chapter where Don Q finds pot goes crazy, and discovers the terror waiting in the next room and other droll matters leading up to his transition to insanity following his brother who was without a proper wind.

Don awoke in the dark.   It took some time to remember where he was.  The rain still beat on the roof, or perhaps it was a different rain.  Using his phone as a flashlight he found a candle and an old box of wooden matches and started a candle fire.  There were several messages on his phone, all of which he ignored, not even pretending to see who they were from.  How long, he wondered, had it been since he had ignored his phone.
There was a stack of books by the matches and he picked it up and carried it and the candles back to where he sat.  Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, diary of a motorcycle rider in WWI, a marked up script of easy rider and others.  Don looked at the script and wondered who had made the notes.  Perhaps it would be worth something if it was an actual actor's script.  At the top there was, in an unsteady hand, as if the writer had been ill, "Better to travel hopefully than to arrive."  A small bag fell out.  At first, Don thought it contained maggots, but after getting over his initial squeamishness, he realized they were left over marijuana cigarettes.  Medical Marijuana, he thought, although it didn't seem like a prescription bag.
Anything stronger than a glass of wine, certainly a hallucinogen, even a modest one like pot, had always messed with Don's mind more than a normal person.  He had been unable to do drugs as a young man as a result.
He thumbed through the books, this chapter talking about LSD, that one mescalin.  He remembered vaguely something about trying to make synthetic mescalin.  Who knew what they had now.  He thought about the prescription they had tried to press on him for anti-depressants.
There is a noise, something heavy falling and a ripping noise.  Don jerks his feet up.  What should he do, there is stuff everywhere, but nothing like a weapon.  It came from the room with the wet looking boxes.  His heart hammered in his chest as a million dangers came to his mind, zombies, bodies coming alive out of the blood stained boxes, or killer robots, the vampires from his childhood when he'd bend paperclips into crosses to protect himself because his family was jewish and there were no real crosses, monsters, dinasaurs, land sharks.  He pulled the lamp off the table, but was too afraid to reach down to unplug it.  Finally, he settled on a cushion that had a little strap at the back which allowed him to hold it before him.
With the candle in one hand, the cushion in the other he went to the room.
This time his senses were more allert.  He smelled oil.  Killer robots it is, he thought.  He held the candle up and saw where one of the boxes had torn open.  The flicker of the candle made it look like it was moving at first, but standing in the door breathing hard he came to realize that it was still.
Something heavy, dull silver, metallic had spilled out, as if it had decided if Don wasn't going to voluntarily open the boxes, whatever was in them would come to him.