Expiration Date
edited by Nancy Kilpatrick
Copyright © 2015
All contributions copyright by their respective authors.
E-Book Edition
Published by
EDGE Science Fiction and
Fantasy Publishing
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HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.
CALGARY
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This book is also available in print
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CONTENTS
Introduction
by Nancy Kilpatrick
NEGOTIATING OBLIVION
Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word
by Kelley Armstrong
Banshee
by Daniel Sernine (translation by Sheryl Curtis)
Riding Shotgun
by Elaine Pascale
The Twenty Seven Club
by J. M. Frey
Trinity Death
by Steve Vernon
What I Said to Richie was…
by Ken Goldman
To Dance, Perchance to Die
by David McDonald
Death Doll
by Lois H. Gresh
RESISTING EXTINCTION
The Long Wait
by R. B. Payne
That Brightness
by Mary E. Choo
Night Market
by Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem
Sooner
by Morgan Dambergs
The Great Inevitable
by Patricia Flewwelling
In a Moment
by Christine Steendam
Death Drives a Cordoba
by Ryan McFadden
Prison Break
by Tobin Elliott
This Strange Way of Dying
by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
The Deaths of Jeremiah Colverson
by George Wilhite
BEST BEFORE / BEST AFTER
The Shadow of Death
by Paul Kane
An Inspector Calls
by Rebecca Bradley
What Would Lizzie Do?
by Sèphera Girón
Ashes to Ashes
by Amy Grech
The Greyness
by Kathryn Ptacek
things in jars
by Judith & Garfield Reeves-Stevens
Right of Survivorship
by Nancy Holder and Erin Underwood
* * * * *
Introduction
by Nancy Kilpatrick
Modern lives seem littered with expiration dates. Packaging tells us when: our food will go bad; we can expect appliances to cease functioning, (often around the date the warranty expires!); contracts for services like cell phones and internet finish (and sometimes we only know this after the fact!). We spend a lot of time checking to make sure we’re in the good zone, that we’re covered, that there’s still life happening.
But as annoying as these small expiration dates are, they fade to nothing compared to the larger events, when life as we know it stops: a species that goes extinct forever; a body of water evaporates, or dies because the PH balance alters; giant icebergs break apart and glaciers melt forever, threatening the ecosystem of this planet.
And beyond this, we are plagued with gargantuan, abstract worries the media forces us to contend with that effect not only life in the present, but the threat of oblivion for future generations of humanity: when will a huge asteroid hit the Earth and change our climate irrevocably, if it hasn’t already reached that stage through ozone depletion that leads to climate change? Our sun is halfway through its existence— should we start to worry about when it will burn itself out and make living in this solar system impossible?
Buried in the midst of all this worrying are the undercurrents that touch us when the news services of the world report another catastrophic flood, tsunami, hurricane, earthquake, sinkhole, tornado, pandemic, wildfire, or a man-made devastation like a leaking oil tanker; a nuclear plant meltdown; a massive annihilation through the genocide of modern warfare. These are occurrences that reset the hands of the famous Doomsday Clock closer to the midnight hour, drawing our planetary expiration date too close for comfort.
As if we mere mortals didn’t have enough on our plates, from the micro to the macro in terms of expirations, we are faced with the one termination with which we are all too familiar— the up-close-and-personal end of life for each of us and for the ones we love. It’s the personal that terrifies us most because it feels the most real. And despite the internet’s deathclock.com where anyone can, supposedly, estimate at which age he or she will die, the reality is, no one knows the exact date and time of their departure from this mortal coil. The only guarantee we have is that it will happen. The fact that you were born and are reading this means your end is destined.
Death of the young is always horrifying, because the bud of youth has not yet had a chance to blossom. Death of the old is often a release from physical or mental infirmities due to aging and, while still difficult to accept, it is perhaps more understandable that the flower wilts. Terminal illness and fatal accidents are shocking and sad, but sometimes provide relief for both the dying and for those who care about them. And then there are the hale and hearty people who succumb to a sudden heart attack or stroke, an instant end to life, unexpected, leaving survivors unprepared to cope. And victims of senseless violence that shock us and cause everyone wondering: why? Human beings die in war and in peace, at home and in prison, alone and in crowds, surrounded by loved ones or enemies or strangers. Some welcome their passing, others resist the end. We may die conscious of the process or unconscious. And the exceptional Aldous Huxley took the mind-altering drug LSD on his deathbed to provide him with more insight into the experience which, sadly, he was unable to pass on to the rest of us.
For almost all of us it is shocking to contemplate: the I that we identify as who we are, will be no more. The philosophy that offers the balm that we are part of nature’s compost heap soothes only some. It’s commonly said about life: nobody gets out alive! More than one person has wondered did the God or Gods they believe will offer another crack at existence in some form, in some realm, did these deities really give enough thought to the notion of being incarnate?
Expiration Date is an anthology of brilliant stories that examine all sorts of expirings, but mainly the ones that are personal, because those are the demises that matter most to us. How people meet their end speaks volumes about who they are, who they were, and sometimes who they were not. Death is the final mirror that reflects back at us ourselves in our raw form. All the excuses and smoke-screens and other facades vanish in the face of this brutal inevitability leaving a shocking-honest visage. Such clarity has a power and honor to it that is unique.
These stories span a range of emotions. Some will make you laugh, other will make you cry. They are grim and hopeful, sad and joyous, horrifying and comforting. You can expect to be touched in some way.
Death is one of the two largest experiences we will have, equaled only by our birth, though we are usually more aware of the one ahead than of the one behind us. It’s been estimated that in the roughly 50,000 years of homo Sapiens history, more than
100 billion of us have been born. The planet’s population today is less than 8 billion. As far as we can tell, but for the present survivors, everyone who has ever lived has died, and we who are alive at present will join them, eventually. Expiration is a universal connection we share with all human beings, those currently living, those who have lived and will live in the future. It is what homo Sapiens have always and will always have in common and one of the major definitions of what it means to be alive. We come with an alpha and an omega stamp, an inception and an expiration date. Knowing this is what allows us to focus on what is truly important: paying attention to our best-before date and treating ourselves, each other and life in general with kindness, understanding, respect, and experiencing the awe of the miracle that we are, at this very moment, alive!
—Nancy Kilpatrick
Montreal, 2014
* * * * *
Negotiating Oblivion
Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word
by Kelley Armstrong
“Looks like someone made a wrong turn on her way to Yorkville,” Rudy grunted as the bar door swung open, a blast of October air rushing in.
“Close the fucking—” someone began.
Then he stopped and murmured an apology that almost sounded genuine. That’s what made me twist on my stool for a look. The woman did indeed look as if she’d gotten lost on her way to the fashionable shopping district. She was in her early forties, long designer coat pulled tight, knee-high boots under it, short copper hair perfectly coifed, as if the gusts outside didn’t dare disturb it.
As her gaze swept Miller’s, I swear every guy sat up straighter, even the ones so drunk they needed to prop themselves on their elbows to do it. Part of that was because she was an attractive woman. Mostly, though, they pulled themselves together for the same reason one had apologized— because something about her says they damn well better. A bar filled with supernaturals, half of whom look like they’d rob their grandma for beer money, and when she walked in, they straightened and squirmed like errant schoolboys.
She strode across the hardwood floor, boots clicking. I was impressed. I’ve never been able to manage that sound effect in here, where the sheer amount of old booze and vomit underfoot sticks to my boots with every step.
“If you’re looking for the wine bar—” Rudy began.
“I would love the wine bar,” she said. Her accent was French. France not Quebec. Old, aristocratic French. Very old. Very aristocratic. “In fact, I’m quite certain I would prefer to squat in the alley next door. It certainly seemed cleaner. However, the person I am meeting seems to be quite comfortable here. Which does not surprise me one bit.”
I lifted my beer. “Hey, Cass. Found the place okay, I see?”
“No, I do not find the place ‘okay,’ Zoe, as I’m sure you knew when you told me to meet you here.”
“Rudy? Meet Cass. Cassandra Ducharme.”
Up until this moment, there’d been one guy in the bar who hadn’t quailed under Cass’s haughty stare. When she was insulting his bar, Rudy looked about ready to toss her out on her ass. Now he stopped, bar towel hanging from his fingers. It took him a moment to close his mouth. When he did, he winced, as if he’d shut it so fast he bit his tongue.
“Ms. Ducharme.” He hurried from behind the bar and extended a beefy hand. “Rudy. Sorry about the, uh…” He waved around the bar. “The mess. We had a party last night, and I haven’t quite finished cleaning the place up.”
I peered about. Miller’s looked exactly as it has every day for the last fifteen years. In all that time, I’d never heard Rudy apologize for it. Now, he was wiping off a stool and offering her some Cristal he “kept in the back.” He kept Cristal in the back?
I could say he was tripping over himself to be nice because Cassandra Ducharme is a vampire. But so am I. The difference, as I’m sure he’d point out, is that Cass was a real vampire— the kind that other supernaturals imagine when you say the V word. Hell, even other vampires aspire to be Cassandra Ducharme. She embodies the romantic, sophistication of the stereotype with none of the broody angst. Also, she’s a stone-cold bitch. Who doesn’t want to be a bitch? Well, me, for one. But that’s why the joke in Millers is that there are no vampires in Toronto, because Zoe Takano doesn’t count.
“I don’t believe we’re staying,” Cass said.
I opened my mouth.
“No,” she said. “We aren’t staying.” She started for the door.
“I haven’t finished my beer.”
“Bring it.”
“Haven’t paid for it either.”
She growled under her breath, stalked back to the bar and slapped down an American twenty. I mouthed for Rudy to apply the rest to my tab, but he was too busy gaping at Cass to even pick up the money— another first for Rudy. He didn’t even give me shit for absconding with his glass.
“There is a wine bar up the road,” I said as we stepped out. “And a fetish bar the other way. I’m fond of the fetish one myself.”
“I’m sure you are. As I believe I tried to indicate on the phone, this is a private conversation, Zoe. We’re going to your apartment.”
She swept off, coat cracking behind her. I let her get twenty feet before calling, “Wrong way!”
She glowered, spun on her heel and headed back as I went to hail us a cab.
* * *
If I was still using oxygen, I’m sure I’d have been holding my breath as we walked into my apartment. I’m very proud of my place. I spent two decades in Toronto before I found just the right apartment, high above the city, with an amazing view. Then I’d set about decorating it just as slowly, each piece chosen with exquisite care.
With anyone else, I’d have rested easy, knowing they’d be impressed. But Cass makes her unliving dealing in art and antiques. I consider myself something of an expert in old stuff too— I’m a thief, specializing in artifacts. Both are excellent occupations for people who’ve been around a few hundred years. But as confident as I am in my expertise, I’m not on Cass’s level, and I watched her walking around my apartment, waiting for her to snark.
“Nice,” she said, sounding surprised. “Very nice.”
“Thank you.” I should leave it there, but I couldn’t. “Any suggestions?”
She took a slow look around. “The sake jug doesn’t fit. It’s a very nice piece of folk art, though. Meiji period?”
I nodded.
“I would suggest a tea kettle from the same period. I saw a beautiful tetsubin one last week. Octangular. Silver inlaid handle. I could provide you with the seller’s information.”
I said I’d take it. She was right about the sake jug. As much as I liked it, I’d known it didn’t quite fit.
“Also,” she said. “I’d get rid of the human hiding in your bathroom.”
“I’m not hiding,” said a voice from the hall. “I was using it. Do you want to check?”
A young woman walked out. I’d say “a teenage girl” but she hates being called that, even if, at nineteen, Brittany technically still is one. I’d forgotten she’d be here— she often used my place as a crash-pad following afternoon classes.
“Who’s the vamp?” she asked as she strolled in.
“What makes you think I’m a vampire?” Cass said.
“Because I wasn’t making any noise,” Brittany replies. “You sensed me. Ergo, a vampire.”
“Brittany’s an ex-slayer,” I said.
Cass turns to me, as if she’s misheard. “A what?”
“Former vampire slayer. Well, she never actually got around to slaying one, but that was her plan. I dissuaded her.”
Brittany gave me a look that said she might be un-dissuaded if I keep introducing her that way. It was like having your mom tell people you wanted to grow up to be a rock star or something equally ludicrous.
“She wants to join the council some
day,” I said. “Fight evil. I’m training her.”
I braced myself for her to make some sly remark about Brittany’s chances improving if she finds a new trainer. Yet she resisted, which only made me more anxious. Cass was being nice. Cass wanted something. Shit.
“Speaking of the council…” Cass said as she made herself comfortable, while managing not to inflict a single wrinkle on her outfit. “I need to speak to you about an opportunity there. Perhaps your young friend should be on her way?”
“The council?” Brittany plopped into the chair nearest Cass. “Hell, no. What’s your connect…” She trailed off and her eyes rounded. “You’re Cassandra Ducharme. Holy fucking shit.”
“Language,” I murmured.
“But this is Cassandra Ducharme,” Brittany said. “A real…” She didn’t finish that. Even managed to look guilty for thinking it. “You know what I mean. She’s, like, the Queen of the Vampires.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Cass murmured.
“You are!” Brittany said. “You’re the oldest one around, right?”
Cass stiffened. Brittany didn’t notice and barreled on. “You must have the most amazing stories.”
“I’m sure Zoe does, too.”
“Sure, but none she’ll tell me.”
Cass hesitated, and then seemed to remember why I might not be eager to share my past with Brittany. Might not be willing to share it with anyone I actually wanted to be able to stay friends with me. Cass knew what I was like in the early days. It’s just been so long that she’s forgotten.
“Well, maybe they weren’t that interesting,” Cass said. “You know Zoe. She has two modes: stealing things and partying. Both terribly exciting in the short term, but after a hundred and fifty years? Quite dull, I’m sure. The settings may change, but Zoe Takano does not.”
Brittany tensed at the insult and looked over, waiting for me to react. When I didn’t, her annoyance shifted my way. Even when I was insulted in my own home, I didn’t rouse myself to fight. What Brittany didn’t know is that Cass was actually saving my ass with her insults— giving an excuse for me not telling those old stories.
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