by Peter Clines
He walked closer, away from Bill and the others. Helena stared at him like a bug. A thin scar, at least a year old, ran along the side of her forehead. The kind of thing you’d end up with, he guessed, if someone pistol-whipped you.
Truss was still dead. Or dead already. Dead to both of them?
Which meant what to Helena?
The woman reached into her jacket. Eli tensed, prepared to leap behind the flimsy barrier of the cubicle partition. It wouldn’t offer much in the way of protection, but it would keep him out of line of sight for…
Helena pulled out an envelope.
“Mr. Elias Teague,” she said. Her voice had a soft edge, almost a lisp. She had impressive projection, but the air itself blunted her words. “The situation with your employment has come to the attention of Mr. Truss. I’m sure it comes as no surprise that, under the terms outlined in your contract, you’ve been terminated. Effective immediately.”
Eli said nothing. He’d expected as much.
“However,” she continued in the same lisping tenor, “Mr. Truss has offered you a token severance payment, in recognition of your years of service.”
She held out the envelope.
Eli stared at the woman. Leaned in a little closer. “Mr. Truss,” he murmured, “is dead. Arguably, he’s been dead for a hundred and thirty years.”
Helena said nothing.
“What is this? Some kind of final revenge? Hate mail from beyond the grave? Did he buy out my mom’s mortgage or get my citizenship revoked or something?”
The woman held the envelope out like a blade raised to slash down.
Everyone in the bank had their eyes on the exchange, even if they couldn’t hear the quieter parts of it.
Eli took the envelope. Tore it open. When a cloud of poison dust didn’t poof out, he opened it all the way.
Inside sat a check. A large one. Eli counted nine digits before the decimal point, then counted again to make sure.
“What’s this supposed to be?”
“Mr. Truss may have passed on,” said Helena, now in a much lower tone, “but he’s left an impressive corporate structure behind. One which won’t notice his absence for months. Maybe even years.”
“So you’re in charge now?”
“Mr. Truss is in charge,” she said, blinking too-innocently, “just as he’s always been. And I’ll deliver his messages to all the various executives and district managers, just as I always have.”
Eli held up the envelope. “So this is…a bribe?”
“An incentive,” lisped Helena. “I don’t want any hard feelings between us. Go out, live the life you always wanted. There are people keeping tabs on you these days. People who would listen to you. As I see it, if you’re busy and happy, you won’t feel inclined to talk to any of them about me. Which means things here can continue as they are.”
“So it’s a bribe.”
Helena smirked. “If it makes you happy to call it that. Either way…you’re fired. What happens next is up to you.”
Eli folded the envelope and the check and stuffed them in his back pocket. “And what if I decide it’s not enough?”
She shrugged and reached into her jacket. She pulled something out and pressed it into Eli’s palm. She had very warm fingers.
A wooden poker chip, with golden yellow edges and a pair of marked signs, cents and dollars, each one with two vertical lines running through it.
“I owe you one,” Helena said. “Good enough?”
Eli flipped the favor back and forth between his fingers. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is.”
“Then our business is concluded, Mr. Teague,” she said at regular volume. She gave a short bow, walked past Eli, and gestured for Bill to join her at another desk.
Eli walked over to the other spare cubicle. His belongings waited in a box there. He tried to think of anything in the box worth taking home, but decided it would be rude to just leave it behind for Bill or someone else to deal with.
The new systems tech—he realized he’d never learned her name—stood up inside her cubicle. “Axed you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sucks.”
“It’s okay.”
“Better than a couple of years ago,” she agreed.
“Yeah.”
“Any tips on keeping everything up and running?” she asked. It had the distinct air of a polite, rhetorical question.
“Nope. Actually, yes. There’s a buggy line in the transfer code. I think I flagged it just before I left, but it never got fixed.”
She glanced down at her computer. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“You think you flagged it?”
He tried to shrug, but the box interfered. Instead he gestured back at Helena. “Mr. Truss showed up in person. Messed up the whole day.”
“Ahhh,” she said, this time in a tone that implied she’d already heard stories about Archibald Truss.
Eli nodded. “Good luck.”
“See you around.”
Another week passed. He checked in with his mom every day. He went out with his friends on Tuesday night. They smiled at his derby. Robin still wanted to know about the woman who’d given it to him, refusing to believe there wasn’t a story with a woman behind the small-brimmed hat.
He used his banking skills to set up a few different accounts. His big check went into one, then spread out into the others. He could be rich now or comfortable for the rest of his life. He went with comfortable.
More weeks passed by. Eli spent his days walking around town. He visited Jackson’s and looked through the last wire comic rack. He stopped by the Emporium during its big closeout sale. He stood outside the theater, which still had last month’s playbill taped in the box-office window. He bought a nice lunch at the Silver Arrow one day and two oily slices at Pizza Pub on another.
Had the buildings in Sanders always been so close together?
He tried three different stores in the area, searching for a new coat. He found a thigh-length overcoat he liked in the York thrift store. Simple lines, strong stitches, wooden buttons.
One day in early March he circled the Founders House a dozen times. Nothing moved in the windows or curled from the chimneys. On his thirteenth circuit, Corey appeared. “Hey,” he called out.
“Hey,” Eli replied. “I thought you guys were still packing.”
Corey nodded his head back toward the Emporium, its top floor just peeking out between two other buildings. “We are. Robin saw you walking around over here. Recognized the hat.”
Eli touched the brim and smiled. “Guess it does make me stand out a bit.”
“Pretty sure it’s the only one in town.” Corey lifted his chin and studied the old building. “Remember when we were kids and we’d run up the front steps here?”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta be honest,” Corey said. “Place used to scare the shit out of me when we were little. Even just now, when Robin asked me to come see what you were up to, I got a little case of the heebies.”
“It’s just an old building,” said Eli.
“Oh, yeah, I know that. Now. But back when we were little…I’m pretty sure monsters lived in it then.”
Eli smiled again. “Truer words.”
They started walking again, heading toward the front steps.
“So,” Corey said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What’re you doing?”
He waved a hand up at the Founders House. “Just looking.”
“Okay.”
Eli took off his hat and rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry. Had a lot on my mind.”
“Figured.” Corey glanced up at the building again. “I’ve gotta be honest. I’m kinda half tempted to chuck a rock at a window.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“Nah. Just my luck, Barney’d see me do it too.”
“Goddamned perfect Barney,” said Eli.
“Yeah, tell me about it. I mean, he’s making every other guy in town look
bad. Can’t he just gain a couple pounds or get a zit or something?”
They both chuckled, then walked the rest of the way to the big staircase in silence.
“So, what are you doing, Eli?”
“Nothing. Like I said, just looking.”
“No, I mean…” Corey paused, arranged his thoughts. “Y’know when you first vanished, before all the Zeke stuff started, you know what we all thought?”
“What?”
“ ‘Finally!’ Me and Robin and Josh, even Nicole. We all figured you just finally decided it was time to leave, to go do something with your life.”
Eli raised an eyebrow at him.
“Look…you know I love you. Me and Robin both. But…the bank fired you last week, right?”
“Yeah. Almost ten days ago now.”
“And you’ve picked up the check the last three times we’ve gone out, so I know you got a ton of back pay or severance or something.”
“Severance,” said Eli. “They were generous.”
Corey shrugged. “So what are you waiting for? You’re a smart guy. You could do anything. Anywhere.” He turned away from the Founders House and looked out across the town. “It’s time to move on, buddy.”
46
The classified ad caught his eye. A mint-green 1967 Chevy Impala, as-is. Some work needed. He called the owner and they talked for a few minutes. The man gave Eli an address in Kittery and said he could stop by that evening.
Eli borrowed his mother’s car and went to check it out.
“Had a couple calls about it,” said the owner, who introduced himself as Bear. His heavy frame spoke of youthful muscles gone soft after years of being bathed in beer. “Mostly college kids. They want to know if they can get it painted black like that Supernatural car.”
Eli didn’t understand the reference. The only two supernatural cars he could think of were a red ’58 Plymouth Fury and a customized ’71 Lincoln Continental Mark III. Nobody would ever mistake a ’67 Impala for either of them.
Bear took him over to the garage, walked past it, and pulled a tarp off the vehicle there. As Eli had suspected, the Impala was mountain green, not mint. The paint was faded in places, worn away down to metal in others. Rust coated the undercarriage. Salt corrosion had eaten a few tiny holes in the floorboards, and one the size of a half-dollar behind the driver’s seat. All four tires were smoother than an old pair of sneakers.
It had been a long time since the car had a roof over its head. Not the best thing in New England. The engine looked good, though, and the battery was new.
Bear repeated the Impala’s need for some work, then asked for a large sum, “it being a classic and all.” Eli countered with two-thirds as much, pointing out how much repairs would cost. They batted prices back and forth for a few minutes before settling on an amount Eli said he could pay in cash.
He caught a ride from Corey the next day and drove home with his new car. He stopped for new tires first. Second, a general tune-up of the engine, transmission, brakes, and alignment. New headlights, as well. Saturday, when he had the car inspected, he slipped the mechanic an extra fifty. The woman set a few metal plates along the Impala’s floor to cover the holes and deemed the car road-worthy.
He didn’t bother to touch up the weather-beaten green paint. Automotive camouflage. People rarely broke into a car that looked like crap.
The night after he screwed his own license plates on the Impala, he took his mother out to dinner and told her his plans. More or less. The following night he met up with his friends at the bar in Dover, bought them a few rounds of drinks and nachos, and explained what he was doing. Josh shook his head and laughed. Robin smiled and looked at the derby. Corey nodded approvingly.
The following morning—two months, two weeks, and two days after his return—Eli Teague kissed his mother goodbye, climbed into his beat-up Impala, and left Sanders.
He took the southern route, driving down Interstate 95 and eventually cutting across 85 to 40 West. The Impala’s radio didn’t work, and while that would’ve driven him nuts at one point in his life, he found the sounds of the road soothing enough. When he got tired, he pulled into rest-stop parking lots and slept in his car with his derby tipped down over his eyes. He changed clothes twice in the passenger seat, ate most of his meals behind the wheel.
As he passed through Memphis, he considered diverting south to New Orleans. He wondered how it had changed in the hundred and sixty years since he’d last been there. The exit for southbound 55 came and went. He didn’t look back.
Eli drove through Amarillo, Albuquerque, and Flagstaff before entering California. He allowed himself one detour and took the Impala down through Los Angeles to cut back and drive up the coast. The Pacific Ocean was beautiful, but as a lifelong New Englander, he couldn’t shake the surreal feeling that the water stretched out the wrong way, especially when the sun went down.
He spent a night in a San Luis Obispo hotel, where he took a long shower and slept until the maid woke him up the next morning. He ate a late breakfast at a diner near the beach, filled up the Impala’s gas tank, and got back on the road.
Noon passed before he reached Sacramento. He drove through and continued northeast, into the mountains. He reached over and dragged the legal pad off the passenger seat. A few glances confirmed the directions he’d spent hours searching for online and in library books.
He reached the small ranger station a little after four o’clock, but the park ranger had already left. Eli glanced through the window at the one-room office and wondered how often he or she came by to check on things. A gate stretched across the dirt road, chained at the middle, so Eli drove the Impala around the building and back onto the southbound road.
He passed a few weathered, charred beams reaching up from the ground. A wooden sign stood near them. He guessed it described the site as the remains of a barn.
Another three minutes of driving brought him to Hourglass.
Half the buildings had vanished altogether, half of what remained had become wooden skeletons. According to the few snippets of history he’d been able to find, the First Time Around had caught fire on May 31, 1886, killing nine people as it burned to the ground. The chandeliers had been a huge fire hazard, after all. The bank had closed in July, taking the post office, the sheriff’s station, the Second Iteration, and most of the citizens with it. The remaining families and businesses struggled on for a few months, but—as Harry had said—the town had been abandoned before the end of the year.
He killed the Impala’s engine, left the keys in the ignition. The sun hung above the horizon, but the air had cooled already. He punched his derby down on his head and slung his coat over his shoulder.
It took him a few moments to orient himself, even though he’d been there just three months ago. The few black-tipped stubs to his left were the remains of the First Time Around. The bank’s foundation still looked solid, as did two of the walls. A few steps past the bank gave him a view of the Second Iteration’s stripped and sun-bleached husk. The wooden sidewalk’s frame still stood, but all its planks had long since vanished.
Eli wandered down Main Street, toward the vast plain where hundreds of cars had parked for one brief week over a century ago. He counted foundations where the houses had been stripped away by nature or scavengers.
He reached the next intersection and smiled.
Somehow, in the odd way of such things, the Last Paradox remained mostly whole. Only a dozen or so shingles sat up on the roof. The front railing had split at some point. One of the swinging doors had been claimed by history but its twin still hung by rusted hinges. While the left-hand window had broken and been cleaned away at some point, the right-hand one sat with just a single crack to show the passage of time. The painted snake, its tail clutched in its mouth, had barely faded or flaked at all.
He stared at the old saloon for almost ten minutes.
Eli reached out and set a hand on the dry railing. “I suppose it’s my last visit,” he sai
d to nobody in particular.
He went inside.
Much like the outside, the interior of the Last Paradox had fared better than most. It was the ghost-town saloon that television had prepared him for. Three tables still stood, and twice as many chairs, but many of their brothers and sisters still lay where they’d fallen. A spiderweb of cracks stretched across the bar’s mirror, and a few squares and triangles of glass had fallen free. He counted half a dozen bottles still shelved behind the bar. Dusty cobwebs draped the rafters and the metal loop that would’ve passed for a chandelier.
He’d heard of spots like this, which had somehow escaped the worst of history and humanity. Abandoned for decades, but never looted or repurposed. Shelves still stocked, woodpiles intact, coal buckets full. A pot sat on the battered stove in the corner. Plates, glasses, and bottles were scattered on the tables.
He went back outside and walked the rest of Main Street. The road had been picked and kicked clean over the years. Old tire tracks from park vehicles decorated most of it. No nails or broken glass or other immediate hazards.
Eli lined up the Impala. The engine rumbled between the old buildings. He watched the road for a ripple, a swirl in the dust, anything that stood out.
The air sparkled and he hit the gas. The Impala roared down Main Street and through a patch of sunlit dust. Eli muttered, took the car down to the edge of town, and turned around. He crawled back into Hourglass, his eyes glued to the road.
A faint shimmer danced in the air, and the muscle car leaped forward again. The new tires gripped the dirt every inch of the way, never losing traction for a second as he blasted through the heat haze. He sighed and circled around at the big intersection, swerving past the remains of the First Time Around and the bank.
The third time he drove the Impala at what turned out to be a swarm of gnats as they looped and spun and twisted across the road.
The fourth time was another patch of dust.
