Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  “Your time is precious. Got it, Mr. Blomberg.”

  “Please, A.G., be seated.”

  “You first.”

  Exerting his authority, Asgoth placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder and guided him through the Burlington Depot toward a corner table. All around, townsfolk conversed over hotcakes and sausage links. Monde slid into a seat, craned his neck for a view through the window. On the opposite street corner, the Finnish locomotive stood on display, freshly painted yet largely overlooked.

  “Engine 418.” Monde whistled. “Quite a specimen, I must say.”

  Asgoth nodded, afraid his voice would betray his obsession with the train. The fact he had stumbled upon it here, halfway around the world, suggested an appointment with destiny.

  The Consortium demanded of him a hundred thousand dollars. Based on time-tested formulas, this meant two thousand per citizen or ten percent of Junction City’s average annual income.

  Seed money for turned eyes and deaf ears.

  If the tales were true, this train held the key to riches far beyond that. Enough to sow corruption throughout the entire county—perhaps the entire state.

  “Is it true, A.G., that the train is cursed?”

  Asgoth snapped his head around. “How do you—”

  “Don’t look so shocked. For quite some time, I’ve known of her link to our past, but I’ve kept the information to myself. Here and there, I’ve heard whispers that ancient forces stand watch over her secrets.”

  “Misfortune and grief to all but the innocent.”

  Monde seemed riveted by the recitation of the curse.

  “More than a few times I’ve tried to go on board,” Asgoth said.

  “The result being?”

  “It’s impossible, as if it reads your intentions. It’s like being impaled on a fence crafted from spears of fire. But listen, Monde, take a crack at it. If pain’s your thing, you’ll enjoy every second.”

  “I tried this morning,” Monde confessed. “It hurt like hell.”

  “Which means we have to find someone innocent enough to help.”

  “Innocence is a misnomer. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Not in the way most think, but I may’ve found a young boy who fits the bill.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t meet the fate of your earlier failures.”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean, Monde.”

  “Oh, but you have no reason to hide it. We’ve all lost a friend or two.”

  “You mean William? He was my best friend. My only friend at the time.”

  “And you let him die a premature death.”

  “Are you implying I was at fault?”

  “Merely stating the obvious.”

  A waitress approached the table with place settings in hand.

  Asgoth erupted. “What does it take to get some privacy here?”

  She never even looked at him. The dishes clattered in her hands, and she hurried off, spooked by the outburst.

  Monde crossed one leg over the other, then rested his wrists together on his knee. “Are you trying to convince me you shared no blame in William’s death? Are you going to tell me you were the victim? In fact, you should’ve prevented it.”

  This was absurd. Why should he, Asgoth, need to explain himself? Yes, he was the victim; even the Consortium had acknowledged so after their investigation.

  In a rush the memories came back …

  Twelve years ago along the riverbank. A face with sightless eyes.

  Only one other person knew all that had transpired that day, and once Clay Ryker understood the weight of his obligation, once his darkest sin was exposed, he would have no choice but to offer himself as a sacrifice.

  “Listen, Monde, let’s stay focused on what’s ahead.”

  The black-haired agent tilted his head in agreement. “I’m listening.”

  “Here it is, a list of my most promising contacts. This is where you fit in, with your ability to uncover the human psyche’s frailties. Your job will be to identity their most exploitable faults.”

  “A rewarding task.” Monde perused the list. “Let’s see, this first name here … Mitchell Coates. Is this correct, that he’s sixty-eight years old?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “A problem? No. A challenge? Certainly. It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it, that the elderly ones often show the least weakness of all.”

  Asgoth smirked. “His wife’s still alive. I’m sure she could play a role.”

  The bin of Molly bolts was depleted. Just his luck. Done with his first week on the job, Clay meant to grab a few supplies at the hardware store on his way home. Rather than compete with his old man for the remote, he’d wall-mount a TV in his old bedroom. A little weekend entertainment. First, he needed the items to secure the set.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  Clay shook his head.

  The lady in the Ace Hardware uniform informed him the store would be closing in five minutes. “I’ll be able to ring you up at the front register.”

  “Ready to call it a day?”

  “Definitely. My feet’re aching.”

  “I’ll make it quick.”

  Clay turned to scan another row of fasteners, stumbled, and almost ran into a portly man in a buttoned shirt and sagging canvas pants. In an effort to catch himself, he grabbed at the man’s hairy forearm while uttering an apology. Then, as he withdrew his fingers, he felt it again.

  Numbers. 7.2.0.4 …

  Defined and burned into his palm.

  The sensation’s clarity was startling, like a branding iron seared into his nerve endings. He wanted to quiz the man for information, wanted to study the guy’s skin so he could put the questions to rest, but he knew he’d only look like some head case. The numbers were real—he was sure of it—yet invisible, numinous. Beyond proof.

  Proved one thing only, that he was losing his mind.

  “Might wanna watch where you’re going, big fella,” the gentleman said. Above his chest pocket his name was stitched in white thread: Mitchell Coates.

  “Should pay better attention,” Clay agreed. “You okay, uh, Mr. Coates?”

  “Think I’ll survive.” The man gave a sage nod. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “A couple of Molly bolts, that’s all I need.”

  “Tried goin’ down to Jerry’s yet?”

  “Not yet. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “Glad to help.”

  Clay rubbed his hand against his shirt and continued browsing. He nudged up to the register a few minutes later, but as he set down brackets and a laminated shelf, he noted that the numbers continued to linger on his skin. He ran a brief self-exam and found nothing obvious to the eye, but they persisted, hardwired directly to his brain.

  7.2.0.4 … What was their meaning?

  “You find whatcha needed?” The woman was back in her retail rhythm.

  “For now,” Clay said.

  The bell rang over the door. He turned to see Mr. Coates heading out to a van at the curb. The man heaved a yellow container through the side door, swiped his hands against his overalls, then let the rust-pocked vehicle carry him away.

  After dinner Clay nabbed a cold can of Coke and followed his father into the living room. He settled into the couch, glad to take the pressure off his feet. He felt drowsy. His muscles were tight from lifting gravestones, proof that he needed to chisel his body back into shape. Tomorrow he’d take a solo day hike along Alsea Falls.

  “Blomberg says you’re slow.”

  Clay sighed. “Good to see you too, Dad.”

  “You’re unmotivated. Those’re his words.”

  “Since when?” Clay took a gulp.

  “Just relaying the message.”

  Armed with travel mug and remote control, Gerald was facing the TV. Draped over his recliner like a hero’s cape, a throw blanket declared the supremacy of the New York Jets. From this spot, Gerald had harangued his son about those mythical footb
all greats: Look at Joe Namath. He’d stand in the pocket till the last second, then launch that pigskin. There’s a guy who could teach you something, Son. Man’s man, lady’s man … the guy had it all. Just don’t make ’em like they used to, do they?

  Amazing how a father’s words stuck in a kid’s head. Like flaming darts.

  “Got something to say?” Gerald demanded. “Or you gonna just sit there?”

  A defensive tone clogged Clay’s throat. “I just started the job, Dad.”

  “First impressions, Clay. First impressions.”

  “Don’t worry. A couple more days and I’ll have Mr. Blomberg converted.”

  “Converted? If you mean religion, you’ll be preaching to the choir.”

  “Do I look like a preacher?”

  “Blomberg’s already got religion up the wazoo. You just remember, Son, your beliefs are a personal matter. You leave it at that. Your mother told me how you and Jenni got real involved in that church in Cheyenne. Well, look at how things turned out. Not quite the miracle cure you thought it’d be, was it?”

  Anger tightened like a cinch around his ribs at the memories. The obscenities and denials that rushed to his lips remained unspoken as sitcom laughter filled the room. He went to the kitchen and yanked open the cupboard over the hooded stove. Into his Coke, he splashed some rum from a bottle his mom stored for cooking.

  A long swallow. Fortification.

  “Jenni,” Clay said, returning to the living room. “Is she what this is about?”

  “You still yakking? I’m trying to look at some TV.”

  “You never did like her. You wanted me and Jenni to fail so that you’d come out looking like the successful family man.”

  Gerald changed the channel, changed it back.

  “Admit it,” Clay insisted. “You never liked her. Am I right?”

  “Never liked any of your girlfriends,” Gerald corrected. His finger flicked the lid of his mug. “Never could figure you out. Blond bimbos, punk rockers, that black girl …”

  “Mylisha.”

  “My-leee-sha. Sounds like a cough medicine. I mean, who names these kids?”

  The cinch grew tighter. Clay’s head was pounding, his blood pumping.

  “Truth is,” said Gerald, “Jenni’s your wife and none of my business. I can’t take the blame for your mistakes. You gotta own up to them on your own. Be a man.”

  “Least I didn’t let her run our household,” Clay reacted. Jenni had avoided control actually, even begging Clay to be more assertive in his role. Still, this was perfect ammo for fighting back against his father.

  “Son, I’m going to pretend you never said that.”

  “Well, let’s face it. You let Mom call all the shots. What she says, goes.”

  “I keep the peace! That’s a secret you should’ve learned.”

  “Oh, you think? Maybe Jenni wanted more than just peace.”

  “This oughta be good.”

  “Yeah, maybe she wanted an actual friend, someone to talk with. Maybe that’s all Mom’s ever wanted!”

  Gerald clenched the remote. Inadvertently he pressed the mute button, and the TV fell silent as though Clay’s statement had shocked it into submission. Clay had to ask himself, though: What kind of friend had he been to Jenni? A meager provider, a distracted lover, certainly not much of one for communication. Jokes and shoptalk, sure. Deeper connection? Nope, too vulnerable.

  He could still see the tears in her eyes that he wished he had wiped away.

  The TV blared back to life, yet in that moment of shared stillness Clay sensed comprehension pass between father and son. They were two of a kind, more than either dared admit.

  As quickly as the moment came, it passed.

  Gerald lost himself in the sordid details of a prime-time exposé, and Clay retreated to his bedroom.

  Clay anchored the TV stand in the upper corner. As he tightened the brackets with a screw gun, his mind played over the past few days. Things had turned strange. He tried to shake the sets of numbers from his head.

  1.2.2.5.2.1 … 6.2.1.0.4 … 7.2.0.4.

  Was there a pattern? A purpose?

  Six numbers, then five, then four. Each set incorporated the numeral 2.

  He connected the TV plug, flopped on the bed, hit the remote. He was midway into his second hour of mindless entertainment when an idea crawled its way out of his vegetating gray matter. It clung there, like a stubborn leech waiting to be recognized.

  Clay snapped alert, suddenly aware of the leech’s presence. His peripheral logic plucked at the idea and examined it. Could this theory be true? Could it explain the pattern behind the numbers?

  Come on, Claymeister, do your math. Okay, this is creepy!

  Counting on his fingers, he confirmed that each set of numbers totaled unlucky thirteen.

  6

  Dying Breed

  Scritchh, scritchh, scritchh …

  Eve Coates heard the sound in the dead of a Thursday night, and her eyes sprang open. Normally she would’ve been snuggled like a spoon in a drawer with her husband of forty-seven years, but now her body turned stiff beneath the toasty eiderdown. Her fluffy pillows gave little comfort.

  Tonight she was alone. Mr. Coates had traveled north to Silverton.

  Scritchh, scritchh …

  Probably one of them critters, she told herself. If it weren’t for them in the first place, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  Rats, field mice, possums … Whatever they were, they’d been messing with the crops, and her husband, Mitchell, was fed up. Couldn’t blame him after the years of attention he’d given this property. Built their family a little slice of heaven here on the edge of Junction City.

  Problem was, he couldn’t rid the place of these pests.

  Aggravated, he’d picked up a container of poison at Ace Hardware a couple of days ago, then spread it around the farm as the label instructed. This morning she’d been at his side while he checked the barn and the fence line, but he’d found nothing. None of the little beasts. No sign that the stuff was doing its job.

  Mitchell said it was the final straw—and when he said it, he meant it. He’d decided to go north to see his brother for some advice, said he’d be back by sundown.

  Three hours ago he had called with the bad news.

  “Eve, I might not make it home tonight,” he told her. “Van’s gone belly up. Could be the fuel injection, could be somethin’ simple. We’ll try to get her fixed up so I can head back soon as possible.”

  “What about supper? You gonna sleep there at Donny’s?”

  “I’ll be just fine, darlin’. Good news is, Donny’s got some chemicals for me to use, swears they’ll do the trick. Mean stuff, downright nasty. When I’m done, those buggers won’t know what hit ’em. Stuff’s so powerful you hafta wear a mask while spraying it.”

  “Sounds dangerous. You be careful, Mitchell.”

  “Don’t you worry. I won’t start glowing in the bedroom or nothin’.”

  At that, she heard Donny’s distinctive hooting in the background. Not a bad guy for a brother-in-law, though he did have his quirks. As for Mitchell, he was a good man. Almost fifty years since their wedding at First Presbyterian on a warm spring day.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Coates …

  She still liked the sound of it. Did that make her a hopeless romantic? Well, why not? Sure, the grandkids puckered their little faces and squirmed when Gramps and Grams got snuggly, but they found reassurance in the farm’s atmosphere, and Eve took pleasure in that. Families didn’t always stay together like they used to. Had to hold on to the old ways.

  A plain fact: she and her man, they were a dying breed.

  “You don’t worry about a thing,” Mitchell had told her before ending the phone call. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  That was just it, though. She was worried. There was that sound again.

  Scritchh, scritchh … krr-thump!

  What were the critters doing, having a party out t
here? She smiled at the thought, but her fears stayed close by. Her mind flashed to the loaded shotgun her husband kept stowed in the corner of the closet. No sir, that was just silly. A last-ditch option. Sure, with a little prompting from her man, she’d fired the thing a time or two, but she hadn’t enjoyed it, not one bit. Thing could blow a hole in a concrete wall.

  She settled for an alternative.

  In a flurry of movement, she flicked the clock radio to FM jazz oldies, then burrowed herself under a mound of pillows and covers. Creating an opening with her elbow, she inhaled cool air. With the muffled sounds of Duke Ellington lulling her to sleep, she curved her body into the space her husband usually occupied.

  She missed having his little potbelly to wrap her arms around—two spoons in a drawer. Life really wasn’t all that complicated; people just liked to make it that way.

  In her billowy cocoon, Eve began to snore.

  Through the lace curtains, Asgoth saw the still form beneath the eiderdown. The inactivity confused him. Hadn’t the woman heard his noisemaking? Was she a hard sleeper? This was supposed to be easy. He’d coordinated events flawlessly thus far, and his friends in Silverton had waylaid Mr. Coates without a hitch.

  Now it was a matter of executing the rest of the plan. If he failed to placate the Consortium’s members, he had little doubt as to his next destination.

  Hell …

  Under another name perhaps—Fresno, Salem, Olympia—but hell all the same. He ground his teeth at the thought of further isolation.

  After midnight, a set of lights sliced through the rows of corn at his back, then stabbed at the side of the barn. Mr. Coates had arrived. After the necessary delay, the boys in Silverton had carried out Asgoth’s orders by getting the man’s rattletrap van back on the highway.

  The vehicle now wobbled from view around the far side of the barn, the lights went out, and springs creaked as the driver disembarked. Mitchell Coates entered the barn with a large canister and gas mask in hand.

  Asgoth grinned. Time to wake the lady. To let fear become a weapon.