Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  EVERYONE DIES IN THE END

  A Romantic Comedy

  By Brian Katcher

  A Dark Continents Production

  Dark Continents is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2014 by Brian Katcher

  Cover design by Donnie Light - eBook76.com

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Brian Katcher was born in St. Louis, MO, and graduated from Mizzou in 1997. After wandering around Mexico for a few years, he began his career as a school librarian and author. He lives in central Missouri with his wife, Sandra, and daughter, Sophie.

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  Dedication

  To my father, Ed Katcher, Mizzou class of ’71

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not be possible without David Youngquist and Sylvia Shults. Thanks for believing in this. Big thanks also to Claudia Gabel, Paula Garner, Brent Hartinger, and Antony John. As always, none of this could have happened without my writers’ group: Kathleen Basi, Barri Bumgarner, Ida Fogle, Heidi Stallman, Elaine Stewart, and Amy Whitley.

  Finally, a special thanks to my wife, Sandra, and my daughter Sophie; both have stood by me and supported me always.

  EVERYONE DIES IN THE END

  Prologue

  “If only my anguish could be weighed and all my misery be placed on the scales! It would surely outweigh the sand of the seas.”

  —Job 6:2-3

  Columbia, Missouri, September 3, 1935—At two in the morning, any building can seem spooky and inhospitable, but the Holiness Church of Columbia took unfair advantage of this fact. By far the largest structure for miles, it towered over the darkened town. A harsh autumn wind flapped the hand-lettered banner above the main doors, declaring FIFTY YEARS IN CHRIST, 1885-1935 to the deserted street. Above the doors, carved in the granite transom, were the words ‘I stand at the door and knock.’

  Knocking at this hour would have been futile; the doors were obviously chained shut. If one were observant, however, one might notice that the lock on a side door had been jimmied open, then carefully closed.

  It would take a brave person, indeed, to walk through the church at night. Cold as the grave, but not as silent. The steam pipes banged. Things creaked. More than one caretaker had mentioned a feeling of being watched when alone in the building. And yet, past the sanctuary and down a tiled hall, light showed under a closed door.

  Eleven portraits hung on the corridor wall. Ten simple charcoal drawings, and one photograph. It was not hard to place the men in the portraits as former ministers of the church. Dour expressions, white hair, humorless glowers. Only the man in the photo stood apart. Early-thirties, with hair neatly parted down the middle, he was dressed as severely as the other ten. But he was smiling. And not a ‘say cheese’ type of smile either. He was happy.

  The brass nameplate below his picture read ‘Rev. David Gowen, 1931—’ The same name appeared above the door to the only lighted room in the building.

  If one could pass silently into the closed office, one would see the reverend seated at his desk, massaging his temples. Nothing unusual about the scene, though if one only knew Rev. Gowen from his photo, the change in his face might have seemed alarming. He’d gone grey since 1931. And lost weight. From the expression on his face, one might wonder if he ever smiled any more.

  He closed the Bible on his desk and strode across the room. A very poorly executed paint-by-number of Jesus hung among the minister’s cheap office furniture. Gowen paused and faced the wall-eyed Messiah. He stared for nearly five minutes in intense silence. What was he thinking? Was he worrying? Praying? Listening for that still, small voice?

  If indeed he was waiting for an answer, he was probably disappointed with the result. His office door banged open with a noise like a great peal of thunder. Two hulking, shabbily dressed men stood in the doorway. They did not smile. Both of them wore similar lapel pins, embossed with an odd symbol: a sideways capital E over an X.

  Gowen straightened up and faced the intruders. He seemed to know what was coming, but hoped that somehow the two goons had arrived for another reason.

  “Gentlemen…”

  That was as far as he got.

  When the church’s elderly caretaker unlocked the building at seven the next morning, he was horrified to find that the head minister’s office had been trashed. The desk was in splinters, the portrait of Jesus smashed, the reverend’s personal library torn and heaped on the floor. As he rushed to contact the police, the caretaker almost tripped over the prone body of the minister himself.

  The blood coating Gowen’s head seemed to indicate he hadn’t survived the attack. Only when the caretaker determined that he was still breathing did he run for help.

  As it turned out, Gowen’s injuries were severe, but not life-threatening. Not that his attackers hadn’t meant to threaten his life. When you rip someone’s eyeball out of his head, his survival is probably not at the forefront of your mind. Still, the doctor later admitted, they had taken the time to plaster a couple of wadded pages of the Old Testament over the reverend’s eye socket. The crude bandage may have kept him from bleeding to death.

  – Chapter One –

  They always tell you to follow your dreams. What they don’t mention is how easily they can turn into nightmares.

  Everyone wants to be a rock star. You imagine the partying, the women, the fame. You don’t think about the grueling tours, the herpes, and being dead on a toilet at twenty-seven.

  Everyone wants to be a football hero. No one gives a thought to the screwed up knees, the early-onset Parkinson’s, and the embarrassing beer commercials.

  We want the good life. We just try not to think about how we sold our soul.

  My dreams were small.

  Aw, who am I kidding, they were big. Reporter for the New York Times or The Washington Post. Pulitzer before I hit thirty. Couple of book deals, classy, nothing exploitative. Big house in a gated community. Cute, sensible wife.

  Now, here I am at seventeen,
half-blind, with a father who thinks I’ve lost my mind, and the certainty that out there, somewhere, there are men who want me dead.

  When I manage to sleep, I have awful dreams. I’m jumpy and irritable. Suspicious of strangers.

  I’ve traded my health, my peace of mind, and—I have no illusions about this—my sanity, for my shot at glory.

  And a girl.

  My God, what a girl.

  Any fool can start college at eighteen. Me, I was beginning a year early.

  It was a blisteringly hot July day as my father drove me to the University of Missouri, Columbia. Okay, I wasn’t really starting college. This was just the Missouri Scholars’ summer program. But one month here equaled six credit hours. Added to the AP classes I’d take next year, I’d have nearly two semesters finished by the time I enrolled here for real. All part of the plan.

  “More cowbell!” bellowed my father. He’d been drumming the steering wheel in time to some discordant eighties song. He turned and grinned at me, as if he’d just said the funniest thing in the world. I rolled my eyes. A two hour drive from Kansas City, with Dad cracking jokes, singing, and basically behaving like he was my younger brother the whole way.

  There’d been no doubt in my mind, of course, that I’d be accepted into the Scholars’ program. I’d kissed enough ass my junior year to make it a foregone conclusion. Still, it was a great relief when I received the official letter. Otherwise, it would have meant an entire summer, home, with him.

  We were on campus now. I smiled at the austere, white brick buildings, trying to ignore the slummy fraternity houses across the street. I became distracted and momentarily forgot I was supposed to be navigating.

  “Whoa, sorry, you were supposed to turn there.”

  I should have known better. Without slowing down, Dad lurched the steering wheel to the left and hurled down the side street, to the sound of squealing rubber and pipes banging around in the back of the truck.

  Dad laughed. Everything was a joke.

  I shook my head. “Here we are. Mark Twain Hall.” A large banner on the dormitory proclaimed ‘Welcome Scholars.’

  “Sherman, I envy you. Whole month, hanging out with these college babes.”

  We’d stopped so a group of pedestrians could cross the street. I contemplated just grabbing my suitcase and taking off for the building. “First of all, Dad, most of the college women have gone home for the summer. Secondly, I didn’t come here to…”

  I stopped talking when I saw the person walking in front of our truck. She was the sort of girl that could grab your attention, even if your clothes were on fire. Tall, with long, dark hair and a face that made you hope she’d ask you to help move some furniture. Just so you could say yes.

  She was dressed in a long, frumpy skirt and a dowdy white blouse, which somehow added to the whole picture. As she passed, she glanced through the windshield and smiled at me for a moment. I watched as she departed, pulling her little travel bag behind her.

  “You were saying, Sherman?” prompted my dad, with an obnoxious grin. “You didn’t come here to meet girls?”

  I smiled back, I couldn’t help it. “Well…all work and no play.”

  Dad parked in front of a hydrant. Before I could get out, he touched my shoulder. “You know, we’re not going to see each other for a while.”

  He said it like it was a bad thing. “You can visit on the weekends.”

  “Yeah.” He frowned. Dad owned a small plumbing business, specializing in emergencies. The weekends were his busiest times, and I knew it.

  Wordlessly, we got out and he retrieved my suitcase. Then he stood on the curb and grinned at me. He was a ruddy-faced man of fifty, balding, with bad teeth and a nose repeatedly broken in his many misadventures.

  “Damn, boy, I’m proud of you.”

  “Dad…” I longed to grab my bag and go inside to register.

  “Nope, listen to me. I know how competitive this program is. I know there weren’t a lot of slots. This is a big deal.”

  I sighed and glanced over my shoulder.

  “You have enough money, right?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “And you got your cell phone? You can call the eight hundred number any time, Janine will patch you right through to me.”

  “Right.” One month. I’d only be gone a month. Could he let me go already?

  “You know your uncle’s here in Columbia, if you need anything. And if you ever get lonely, or just want to shoot the breeze—”

  “I’m seventeen! I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

  He nodded. “I was just thinking of when you went to Boy Scout camp is all.”

  I stared at him until he winced. He knew better than to bring that up. I reached around and snatched my luggage.

  “You take care, boy, okay?”

  I think he was going to hug me, but I managed to get in a preemptive handshake. I then joined the snake of other soon-to-be high school seniors and hurried into the dorm.

  There must have been over sixty people in the lobby, lining up at the various registration tables. Guys to the right, ladies to the left. I glanced around to see if I could spot the girl from outside, but I couldn’t find her. Oh, well, I had a whole month.

  I lined up at the A-G desk. Ahead of me, students jostled and hollered. Many of them carried radios, tennis racquets, and other junk. Maybe these guys were going to waste their time screwing off. Fine by me. But I had a plan. When I met my sponsor tomorrow, I would impress the hell out of him. That’s how you win scholarships. That’s how you get ahead.

  At last, it was my turn. “Andrews,” I announced to the registrar. Since it was a common last name, I added “Sherman.”

  The guy, a chubby fellow in his late thirties, looked confused. “Sorry, Andrew, you need to be in the line over there. You’ll find people are usually sorted by last name.” He spoke slowly.

  I quickly counted to five. “Andrews is my last name.”

  “Oh!” He searched the files and eventually located a thick manila envelope with my name on it. “Here you are, Sherman. Hey, looks like you’re on my floor! I’ll be your advisor this summer.”

  I looked him over. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, elastic shorts, and horn-rimmed glasses. He was most likely a high school teacher during the rest of the year, probably the kind who showed three movies every class.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr…” I glanced at his name tag. “Schultz.”

  He made a theatrical offended gesture. “Call me Benny! Mr. Schultz is my father.”

  How proud he must be.

  “Stairs are straight down that hall,” he continued. “Your key’s in the envelope, room 223. Get yourself settled, we’ll have a floor meeting at around three.”

  As I climbed the stairs, I leafed through my packet and located my ID card. I winced when saw the photo. Yes, I was the one who’d submitted it, but my blond-haired, baby face looks didn’t exactly scream ‘hard-hitting reporter.’

  Already, someone on the second floor had their music turned up way too loud. I’d expected that; this was why God created earplugs. But I began to worry about my new roommate. I wasn’t in love with the idea of bunking with a strange guy all month. It was my theory that human adults were not meant to live together unless there was sex involved.

  Maybe that’s why Mom left.

  Room 223. I groaned at the two printouts of Bert and Ernie someone had taped to the door. Each displayed a name: Andrew Sherman (shit!) and Lawrence Jacobs. The door was partially open. I knocked once, then entered.

  Mark Twain was one of the no-frills residence halls: public showers, window AC, and located right behind the MU power plant. The dorm room contained nothing but two beds, two desks, two closets, and a shirtless hippie, cradling an electric guitar.

  “Dude!” He made the word two syllables. “You Andy?”

  I sighed inwardly. “Sherman. My name’s Sherman. You must be Lawrence.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sherm. Call me L.J.”

>   “Call me Sherman.”

  He laughed, and flopped back on his bed, which still had no sheets. “What’s your focus?”

  I had opened my suitcase and was unfolding my sheets. “Beg pardon?”

  “Your academic focus. What’re ya studying here?”

  “Oh, um, journalism. You?”

  “Music!” He banged out a few chords on his guitar, which I was relieved to notice was not plugged into an amp. “Where you from?”

  “Kansas City.”

  “Go Chiefs!”

  “Yes.” Politeness dictated that I ask L.J. about himself. “And you?”

  “Right here in CoMo! Columbia, born and raised.”

  “Way to expand those horizons.” My bed finished, I began to hang up my clothes.

  “Dude, I got a car parked at the Hitt Street Garage. One of these nights we ought to go cruising. I can show you the kick-ass spots round here.”

  I tried to ignore this. “We’re not supposed to drive anywhere.”

  “Sposed ta never’ll get you anywhere, Sherm. Hey, you know there’s no dress code here, right?”

  I turned to glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s sposed ta again. Your clothes, man. It’s summer. You look like you packed for church camp.”

  Which is why I’ll be your boss someday.

  “Hey, Sherm, you got a fake ID? Cause a lot of the clubs around here…”

  I hurled a pair of slacks onto a hanger without lining up the creases. It was time to lay down some rules. “Listen. My name is Sherman. Not Andy, not Sherm, not dude. Maybe you came here to get wasted or party, or whatever. I couldn’t care less. But I worked hard to get in the Scholars’ program, and I’m going to take advantage of it. I hope you don’t think I’m boring, but that’s why I came here. The only reason.”