by Vin Carver
Pick me, pick me. I’m the cutest puppy here.
His right shoulder clipped an end cap, and a container of jerky sticks spilled onto the floor. Doc bent over, and footsteps came down the aisle. “Pay no mind youngin. I’ll get these here sticks.”
“Are you sure, sir? I’m here to help.”
“Nah. You just keep reading your maggy-zeen.”
The boy tipped his head to the side and stared. Either he recognized Doc, or the jersey-sandal combo confused him. Doc waved him away, but the boy didn’t move. Doc grabbed a handful of meat sticks and crammed them into the container.
“Really sir, let me help you. Those need to go back in the container with all the labels showing.”
Doc’s neck burned up, and he twisted his head toward the boy. An ancient anger ignited in his gut, and he peeled his lips back. “Are you telling me what to do, and how to do it?”
The boy put up his hands and stepped backward. Doc put the container on the shelf and studied him. He searched for a way to claim this was his temcor, but the boy didn’t look like Warren.
Goldurnit.
This maggy-zeen reading snot needed to die. Doc wanted to kill him so bad, but he couldn’t risk breaking rule #3. If he found Warren and removed him, then killing this snot would make two teenage deaths in less than twenty-four hours. The police might link them together, and it wouldn’t look like an accident. The whole town would go nuts. He took a breath and calmed himself. “I got me some business to take care of, Hawt Rawd. Where’s your commode?”
Wide eyed, the boy pointed at the back of the store. “It’s down the hall to your left.”
Doc put his hand in his pocket and wrapped it around his knife. He stared at the boy. The boy went back behind counter, and Doc blinked several times before walking down the hall. Half way to the bathroom, his left shoulder snagged on a pin and pulled a high school letterman’s jacket off the wall. Doc caught the jacket, and a bunch of sports medals clinked together in his hands.
“Is everything okay, sir?”
The sarcasm in Doc’s head said, Is everything okay, sir?
Above the front door of the convenience store, a curved security mirror bore a warped image of the boy sitting behind the counter. Doc smiled at the reflection, and sneered under his breath, “You pathetic saphead.” He put the jacket back on the wall, and a set of keys clanged onto the floor.
“Sir?”
Doc bent over and picked up the keys. He closed his hand around them, glanced at the security mirror, and walked into the bathroom. He dropped his drawers, sat on the toilet, opened his hand, and grinned when he found a key with the letter T on it.
This is going come in handy. It ain't boating, but I’m going to get to have some fun after all.
He put the keys in his cargo shorts and finished his business. Flush.
“Hey, Hawt Rawd.” Doc approached the counter. “You got a pack of Blue Stripe back there?”
The boy dropped his magazine on the counter, and his face turned white. “No sir. I don’t think we carry that brand.”
“All right, give me them Reds then.”
The boy turned and stared at the boxes, immobilized.
“Reds boy. Right there.” Doc pointed at the cigarette section with one hand and swept a brand new lighter off the counter with the other. The lighter bumped up against his knife when he stuck it in his pocket.
“Here you are, sir. That will be—”
Doc narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips.
“That will be…free, since we had the problem with the jerky and all.”
What’s that? We had a problem? You had a problem, Hawt Rawd. I ought to—
The door went bing and closed before Doc could see who had opened it. He turned back to Hawt Rawd, and a k-flump came from outside. Doc glared across the counter, grabbed his cigarettes, and headed for the door.
“Thanks for shopping at the Tenoco. Have a nice day.”
Bing-bong.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Strangers in March
Warren tried to act natural walking with Tanner between the gas pumps at the Tenoco, but his nerves made his ankles shake, and he wasn’t sure what “acting natural” meant.
The deck of the Tenoco had an ice machine, a stack of shrink-wrapped firewood, and three newspaper machines. Tanner stepped onto the deck and pulled on the door.
Bing—
Warren tripped over the deck and grasped onto one of the newspaper machines. Tanner let go of the door and helped Warren regain his balance, but the machine popped open and a stack of newspapers slid into Warren’s shins. He fell onto the deck with a k-flump.
Bing-bong.
A skinny old man dressed in a red football jersey, a bandanna, and a pair of leather sandals opened the door and accidentally kicked Warren in the hip. The old man grinned, and a colony of cracked, yellow teeth grew out in all directions. “Just isn’t your day, is it youngin?”
If only you knew.
The old man smiled like he had put his hand in a cookie jar, and Warren was a cookie.
The grin transfixed Warren. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Warren kicked at the newspapers, and Tanner helped him to his feet.
The old man grinned, licked his lips, and stared.
Tanner said, “Excuse us creepy old dude. We’re kind of busy here…”
“I know you are.” The old man stepped off the deck and walked across the parking lot. “Believe me youngins. I know you’re busy.”
Warren shook the old man’s grin out his head.
Tanner stared into Warren’s eyes as if national security depended on it. “Listen. When we get in there, you distract my brother while I go get the…” He turned to the gas pumps where the old man walked, and turned back to Warren. He raised one eyebrow and hushed his voice. “While I go get the pot.”
Warren rolled his eyes at Tanner’s dramatic performance. “I got it 007. Let’s just get this over with before someone else comes.”
Tanner walked inside the store while Warren double-checked the parking lot. Nathan’s tricked-out pickup truck sat alone on the edge of the pavement. Sunlight bounced off the metal trim around the driver’s side window and into Warren’s eyes. He turned his head away.
Why do people paint flames cars? It’s so stupid.
A cloud crossed the sky, blanketed the truck in shade, and cooled the fiery hood.
Satisfied the coast was clear, Warren stepped inside the store. Nathan sat on a stool behind the checkout counter reading a magazine devoted to hot rods. More cars covered in flames for no reason. Warren didn’t hold it against Nathan, he just didn’t understand it.
The door made its obligatory bing-bong as it closed. “Hey, how’s my favorite brother?”
“I’m your only brother,” Tanner said. “Man, do you always have to say that?”
Warren walked past Tanner on his way to the counter. Nathan greeted him with a warm smile. “How’s it going dude? You look like you’ve had better days.”
“I have, but it’s not so bad.” Warren couldn’t help it. The corners of his mouth rose.
Tanner winked and slipped out of sight into the hallway past the coolers.
Nathan said, “What happened? Anything I can do?”
“No, it was nothing.”
“Were the upperclassmen picking on you?”
“Yeah—I mean, no,” Warren said. “I mean, it wasn’t them. It was Darren Sredo. He’s only a sophomore.” A redness—part embarrassment, part anger—started at the base of Warren’s neck, and crawled up his face.
“Oh, him.” Nathan stuck out his tongue. “I think they must have dropped Darren on his head when he was little. That guy is so dumb…” Nathan waited. “That guy is so dumb…come on Warren.” Warren cocked his head, and Nathan motioned for Warren to hurry. “Come on Warren, that guy is so dumb…now you say—”
“Oh, yeah. How dumb is he?”
“He is so dumb—hey, what the hell is he doing back there
?” Nathan’s eyes shot over Warren’s head.
Warren turned around. “Who?”
“Tanner. Do you see him in the mirror?”
Nathan pointed at a security mirror above the coolers. In the bottom, right corner, Warren could see Tanner standing in the hallway. Tanner’s reflection was small, blurry, and suspicious.
Warren said, “Maybe he’s looking for gum?”
Nathan came around the counter, and Warren stepped in front of him. Warren jumped up and down and waved his arms.
“Get out of my way,” Nathan said. “What are you guys up to?” He moved left, then right, and squinted at the mirror.
Warren spread out his arms. “I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”
“Tanner.” He pushed Warren to the side and ran to the hallway.
Warren said, “Nathan, wait. There is something you can do to help me at schoo—” He ran after him, but it was too late.
Nathan eyed Tanner. “Put that back.”
The brothers squared off, each waiting to see who would make the first move.
Tanner said, “Warren, go. Go, go, go—”
Panic and regret coursed up Warren’s neck and bounced off the ceiling of his skull. He pushed on the door handle and looked over his shoulder. Tanner took off toward the back door, and Nathan ran after him.
SMACK
The door stopped, and Warren’s face smacked into the glass. Someone blocked the way.
It’s Darren. He’s come for money.
A stranger pushed on the door, and Warren pushed back. In the summer, tons of campers came to Tamarack to camp, and in the winter, tons of skiers came to ski. Strangers in March were rare. Warren took a step back, and the stranger pushed the door open.
“Tanner. Come back,” Nathan said.
Warren turned around and Tanner ran out the back door. Nathan glanced at Warren, scowled, and ran after Tanner.
Look away, then, run away.
Warren turned and bolted through the front door, tripping over the stranger’s foot. He fell next to the newspaper machine, and a pair of sandals slid across the deck.
The stranger walked over and picked up one of the sandals. “Here Warren, this one’s yours.”
Warren stood up, tilted his head, and tried to recognize the stranger. He was about Warren’s age, maybe a little older. His square jaw jutted out beneath a razor-sharp nose. He was thinner and paler than anyone ought to be, but not starving. He wore a black, sleeveless shirt with a skull on the front. On his shoulder, someone had scrawled a red and black tattoo, but Warren couldn’t tell what it was. It looked as if the strange teenager might have gotten drunk and given it to himself.
“Here, take it.” The strange teenager waved Warren’s sandal in front of his face.
Warren hesitated, took the sandal, shoved his foot into it, and ran.
“Hey bro, wait. Where’s the fire?”
Warren dodged the gas pumps and stopped at the trail.
Hey bro, wait. Where’s the fire?
The teenager’s voice was familiar. Warren tried to get another glimpse, but he was too late. The convenience store door closed behind the teenager, and Tanner came running around the side.
Tanner waved. “Go Warren. Run.”
Warren ran on the thin trail. The scabs on his heels popped and bled. Coach Chaney’s voice echoed in his head.
Come on Renner, are you going to let Maxwell beat you?
The trail split in half, and Warren ran on the left side. Tanner ran behind him on the right. Warren struggled for air, bent over, and stepped off the trail. His knee twisted and wobbled. He stumbled into a tree and wrapped an arm around it. His lungs wheezed, and everything dimmed. He put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. Pain surged through his torn heels and up the backs of his legs. His backpack dropped off his shoulder, and he forced himself to stand up straight. The world spun. He opened and closed his eyes several times, but everything stayed dim. Thunder cracked in the distance, and feet stomped behind him.
“Warren.”
Stars spread, and his vision returned.
Tanner held up a plastic bag. “Warren, man. You okay? I got the pot.” Tanner’s crazy smile lit up the trail. “Come on, let’s smoke it before it rains.”
“What?” Warren gasped for air. “What about your brother?” His vision cleared, but it was still hard to see. Giant, black clouds gathered overhead—demons around a sacrificial bonfire.
Tanner said, “He went back in the store. He can’t leave it unlocked, and he’s not allowed to close it.”
“Was he mad?”
“What do you think, man? Of course he was mad, but he’ll get over it.” Despite the pain, Warren felt better. He hated stealing from Nathan, but Tanner was right. It didn’t matter how mad Nathan was, he’d forgive Warren.
Tanner said, “So, hand it over. Let’s get high and fly.”
Warren picked up his backpack and unzipped the outer pocket. “It’s not here.” He thrust his hand in and out of the backpack. His heart raced. He might have lost it. He might have lost the urn forever. He stared at Tanner, and his eyes welled with tears.
“Whoa, calm down, man. We’ll find it.”
“Oh no. No, no, no. My parents are going to kill me. No, no, no.” Warren shook his head back and forth. “My dad will go ballistic. No—no, no, no.”
Tanner shoved the bag of pot into his pocket, put his hand on his forehead, and gazed into the trees. “It’s back at the aspens, man. Everything's okay.”
Tanner grabbed the drawstrings hanging from Warren’s hoodie and gave them a gentle tug. Tanner’s grin said, Everything will be okay if you just follow me. Dark, demonic clouds drizzled water onto Warren’s face, and he stopped shaking his head.
Tanner held up his hand. “Feel that, man? We’ve got to go. Don’t worry, the bong will still be there.”
“It’s an urn.”
“Sure, man. You’re right. The urn will still be there.” Tanner let go of Warren’s drawstrings, and they ran.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Peapod Biceps
Doc stepped out onto the deck of the Tenoco convenience store and accidentally kicked a boy in the hip. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His temcor sat there on a pile of newspapers looking up at him. Doc said, “Just isn’t your day, is it youngin?”
He shot his hand into his pocket and wrapped it around his box knife, but Warren had a scar-headed friend with him.
“Excuse us creepy old dude. We’re kind of busy here…”
Doc glanced at the window, and that stupid Hawt Rawd was standing there watching him. Doc swiveled his head back to the two boys with an uncontrollable grin. “I know you are.” He turned, walked between the gas pumps, and curled his lips into a wicked smile. “Believe me youngins, I know you’re busy.”
He stopped at the edge of the lot and watched the boys go inside the store. The cold, metal ends of his box knife soothed his calloused hand. He shuffled down a short but steep trail, jerking his elbows up to keep from falling. At the bottom, he left the trail and walked into the bushes. He pushed his way through until he found a place to hide. A sharp pain stung the bottom of his foot. He raised his knee and pulled a pine needle from between his foot and his sandal. The tip of the needle was stained red, but Doc didn’t care. He stuck it between his teeth and peered around a tree.
Come on out, youngins, I won’t hurt you.
He crouched and his knees ached. Father Time had put marbles beneath his knee caps, and with each passing year, the marbles grew bigger. Doc rolled back onto his haunches and pulled out his job paper. His knees thanked him for the relief, but now his buttocks complained. He re-read the description and smiled. That boy—not the surly one with the scar on his head, but that other one—was without a doubt his temcor. He was the potential preempter, the potential temporizer…the potential everything. Now that he’d found his temcor, the rest would be easy.
He lifted his head and smiled at the sky. Doc had a nose for this work. It w
as no mistake he had gone straight to the Tenoco. Whenever he began a job, at some point, a funny blur of black ink would appear behind his eyes. The ink would change and turn into the shape of a place he ought to go. Sometimes, if the inkling was strong, he would hear the name of the place. Today, he had heard Tenocoooh, in a long, drawn-out whisper. Doc liked to chalk it up to his superior tracking abilities, but deep down, he knew there was another power at work.
Safely hidden between the trees, Doc planned. From the looks of it, those boys had come to the gas station on that trail, so chances were they would leave on it. Too bad Warren had a buddy. That made following rule #3—remove the assigned temcor and no one else—a real challenge. Doc wished he could kill both boys and be done with it. More so, he wished he could go back inside the Tenoco and kill that stupid Hawt Rawd—tell me how to stack jerky sticks, you pathetic saphead—but no. Remove the temcor, and no one else. He would have to wait for the boys to leave before separating them, and he would have to forget about killing Hawt Rawd.
Oh, how he hated the rules.
The trees of Homestead Forest had changed over the years, and like his friends, a lot of them had gone away. He remembered when the highway was dirt, and the gas station was a hardware store. His dad had taken him there to get supplies for building traps. His dad had set many traps in his time, some simple, some complicated. The simple traps caught and killed small animals. Doc stared at the Tenoco and pictured the boys. He didn’t want to kill Warren with a trap. He wanted to do it himself. It would take a complicated trap to catch a boy without killing him. He’d seen his dad build complicated traps. It had involved bending branches, winding and tying ropes, running the ropes over pulleys, dropping baskets, and flinging rocks. One time, his dad had dug a hole four-foot-deep and lined it with sharp sticks. Doc blanked on what animal that trap had caught, but he liked to think it was a bear. If Doc caught one of the boys in a trap like that, then the other one would run home to mommy.
Mommy, mommy. We found a twenty-dollar bill hanging from a tree, and when my friend reached for it he fell in a hole. Then someone jumped out at me and said, “Boo.”
