The sheer number of people in my life who have somehow failed to outlive
me is, in a word, incredible. I hope that doesn't sound like bragging,
because it's quite the opposite. I'm fully aware of my own limitations, and
every time somebody around me drops out early, I have to take a moment to
wonder what the hell is going on.
I guess I should start by explaining that I have a rare terminal illness and a
life expectancy best measured in dog years. You wouldn't know it from
looking at me, and it's not something I like to advertise. But as long as I'm
telling my story, I might as well get that nasty detail out of the way as early
as possible, lest you make the mistake of getting too attached. In all
seriousness, there is an excellent chance that I will already be long gone by
the time anyone reads this.
Yikes. Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer right out of the gate like that. (I
know. Three paragraphs in and I'm already apologizing. My psychiatrist
would probably have a lot to say about that, if he were still alive.) I
promise, this tale isn't all death and solemnity. Most of the time, my life is
simply boring. And on the odd occasion, things can be pretty cool. In fact, I
got to hold a bunny rabbit not too long ago!
But I'll get to that. For now, I'd like to start at the beginning. Sadly,
that's not an option, as I can't say exactly where the beginning is. And even
if I could pinpoint the moment, I'm sure it was well before I ever showed
up.
For as long as anyone around these parts can remember, things have
been weird. I don't mean "definitive proof of the supernatural" weird. More
like "there's a cow on the roof of the building again" weird. The kind of
weird that makes you stop and ask "Why?"
But much like the town's smell, you get used to it after a couple of
weeks. The novelty wears off, and you accept that normality is a human
construct, and if you want to get by, you need to mind your own business.
Besides, the oddities usually have a way of taking care of themselves, and
whatever is going on around here has always been (more or less) contained.
That is, until a few months ago.
That was the day I screwed everything up. The day I accidently threw
off the delicately balanced ecosystem. It was a Thursday, the devil was
beating his wife, and I unwittingly started a chain reaction that would
eventually lead to the untimely deaths of a lot of very healthy people,
starting with my own best friend.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. To understand how we got to where
we are now, you should know what went down a few days earlier.
***
It was a Tuesday night. Thirty-six hours before the beginning of the
end. A steady, wet breeze hummed through the trees with promises of a
storm to come. Black clouds illuminated by a full moon and heat lightning
threatened to unleash their torrent on the forest below at any second.
Basically, it was a dark and stormy cliché.
But that didn't matter any to me, because I was safe indoors sitting
behind a cash register, minding my own business and getting lost in an old
cheesy pulp novel about a scientist who goes mad and creates an army of
giant ants.
As far as jobs go, head cashier at the twenty-four-hour gas station
near the woods at the edge of town is not the best, but not the worst either.
Knowing that I won't be around too much longer dulls any ambition to
climb the corporate ladder, and this is one of the few professions where
someone with my condition can really stand out.
Some days churn by without incident, moving the world one cycle
closer to the unavoidable supernova that will eventually swallow the planet
and burn away every memory of humanity forever. Those are my favorites,
when I can pass an entire shift reading and minding my own business. I
don't need to climb a mountain or visit the Grand Canyon to know what
Zen feels like. Tranquility is a quiet, empty gas station at four o'clock in the
morning.
Of course, some shifts aren't so uneventful. I've experienced rude
customers, drunks and druggies, a handful of armed robberies, vicious
raccoons of the chaotic evil variety, and nearly every scenario of human
stupidity imaginable (and otherwise). But any time I dare to think I've seen
it all, the universe sends something through those doors to reassure me that
I have not.
We had been unusually busy in the weeks leading up to that Tuesday night.
A group of wildlife and fisheries agents from neighboring counties were
putting in a suspicious amount of overtime patrolling the woods in the area
on a nightly basis, and our gas station was the only place for miles around
to get fuel or fresh coffee. I didn't care to ask what all the fuss was about,
but I assumed everyone was on edge ever since all those cows were
mutilated.
For the record, that's not my word. "Mutilated" is the sensationalist
go-to expression for bored townies anytime anything happens involving
their beloved cattle. In reality, somebody had been sneaking onto local
farms and meticulously shaving some of the livestock bald. If you're
wondering why anybody would do that, you're probably not from a small
town like mine. Boredom can be a powerful motivator.
And yet that night we were dead. Maybe it was the looming storm.
Maybe the agents found whoever or whatever they were looking for. I
didn't know, didn't care. But I hadn't seen another human being for almost
four hours and couldn't have been happier about it.
My streak of solitude was eventually broken sometime around
midnight by a short elderly woman with an egg-shaped body and purple
rimmed sunglasses that she made no effort to remove, despite being indoors
at nighttime. She had a string of pearls around her folds of neck wrinkles
and long ratty gray hair that appeared to be nothing more than a poorly
fitting wig. She wore ruby red Reeboks, white gloves, a brown coat, and
blue jeans, and when she came through the doors she threw a quick look my
way before heading straight to the bathroom, where she spent the next
forty-five minutes. When she was finally done, she came up to the register,
made an annoyed expression, and tapped her foot until I asked, "Can I help
you?"
"I guess you expect me to buy something just because I used the
bathroom, don't you?"
Her voice sounded like she'd halfway swallowed a kazoo before
smoking ten thousand cigarettes.
"Really, that's okay."
"No, it isn't," she squeak-grunted, "I'm nobody's charity case. I know
the rules. Customers only. So I'll buy something and be on my way."
Her voice was the aural equivalent of a chocolate chip cookie dipped
in ketchup--distressing on a spiritual level--and I was happy to get this
interaction over with as soon as possible. There was a cheap stack of
roadmaps within arm's reach of the register. She picked one out, I rang her
up, and she handed over a credit card.
We get plenty of regulars at the gas station, but the lion's share of our
sales come from out-of-towners. The business is located close enough to
some major highways that I keep somewhat busy from the steady trickle of
lost souls desperate for a top-off, directions, or snacks. This lady was
definitely an out-of-towner, and this was shaping up to be nothing more
than another forgettable transaction, but as I waited for the machine to run
her card, I looked out the front doors at the completely empty parking lot
and realized that something was missing.
The owners had asked me not to park my own vehicle around front
because they felt the sight of it was "too depressing." My chariot of choice
was based on budget over comfort--a piece of crap 1990 Nissan Altima. The
engine made a symphony of mystery noises, the speedometer had a twenty
mile-per-hour margin of error, and the vents kicked out a funny smell any
time I put the car in reverse. To be fair, it did have a couple benefits: I never
had to worry about anyone stealing it, and at the time of purchase, the
cassette player wouldn't open, so the dealer threw in the previous owner's
Louis Armstrong mixtape at no extra charge.
From my vantage point behind the register, I could see all of the
pumps and every empty parking spot. This woman must have parked along
the side of the building by the grease trap for some reason. A curious
choice, but the only other explanation was that she had arrived on foot.
Judging from her appearance, I didn't peg her as an avid walker.
The card reader beeped, sending up an error code that I recognized as
"invalid or stolen credit card number." When I looked up from the machine,
I caught the woman licking her lips.
"Seems like there's something wrong with the reader," I said
diplomatically. I knew it wasn't the machine's fault. Her card was either
corrupt or fraudulent, but experience had taught me better than to attempt
honesty in a situation like this. "Do you have any other way of paying?"
"Well," she squawked with a grin, "I don't carry cash. But maybe
you'd be willing to accept an alternative form of reimbursement?"
Her voice sounded like two angry cats scratching a moist chalkboard,
and I wasn't sure what bothered me more, the words coming from her
mouth or the meaning attached to them. Nothing good has ever come from
a customer asking if I accepted "alternative" forms of payment.
"That's really not necessary."
I was more than happy to pay the two dollars for the map out of my
own pocket if it meant she'd leave me to my book.
"Tell ya what. How about I read you your fortune? If you're happy
with it, I keep the map. If you think it ain't worth salt, we part ways. What
do you say, Jack?"
"I'd rather not," I answered immediately. I couldn't outright tell her
that I would have preferred she steal the map, but secretly I was willing her
to make a run for it.
"I know what you're thinking. It's all hogwash. You don't believe in
divination. But it's an art that's been around for millennia, and for good
reason. Entropy is what guides us down every path we take. The same thing
determines how the cards fall. You only need to believe."
She was right about one thing, only I would have substituted "hogwash" for
a different word. Call me a skeptic, but I couldn't see this woman having
the ability to look into the future yet somehow missing the obvious fact
right in front of her: that I wanted to be left alone. (Not to mention that a
real psychic should probably realize that her only form of payment was
going to be declined or that her wig wasn't on straight.)
The fact that she knew my name might have lent her a modicum of
credibility, if it weren't clearly printed right over the left side of my chest.
The employee name tag pinned to my jacket was part of the gas station
dress code. Actually, it's the entirety of our dress code. We don't even have
a rule about wearing socks or shoes or pants while we're on the clock. As
long as I have my name tag, the owners are satisfied.
I did not want to participate in any divinations, but by this point I
couldn't see any other way for the conversation to come to an end, so I put
my book away, leaned back in my seat, and asked, "Is it going to take
long?"
She pulled a small pack of tarot cards from her back pocket and
fanned them out, "Not at all, Jack. We've already begun."
She had me cut the deck, then arranged the cards one at a time on the
counter, muttering to herself after each reveal. When she had finished, there
were nine of them between us in a three by three square.
She shook her head.
"Would you look at that?" she croaked. "I've never seen anything like
this before."
It was nine cards randomly picked from a deck of fifty. It would have
been a near statistical impossibility for her to have seen something like that
before. But I realized that this was all part of the reading. Showmanship
101.
Sensing that she was waiting for a reaction, I prodded her along with
a quick, "Okay. What do they say?"
"Jack, I don't know how to tell you this. But the cards are very clear.
The corners are-" she pointed at each as she said their names- "upright
tower, reversed hanged man, reversed wheel of fortune, and upright death.
These symbols tell a story. A very bad story. This can only mean one thing.
You must be cursed."
Makes sense, I thought.
"What about this one with the guy juggling?" I said, referring to the
card in the center of the square.
"That's the reversed fool."
"Is it good?"
"No."
"Oh."
"Give me your hand," she barked.
"Why?"
"Do you want to know what your curse is or not?"
I didn't suspect she was going to tell me, specifically, that I was
cursed with a rare gene mutation that results in the loss of certain higher
neurological functions and premature death, but I was fine with giving her
the benefit of the doubt.
"I'm pretty sure I already know what it is."
As she stared at me from behind those purple-rimmed sunglasses, I
couldn't help but think the giant frames gave her a somewhat insectoid
appearance.
"You already know about your curse?"
"Yeah."
She scrunched up her face in a look of bewilderment and said, "In
that case, allow me to offer my condolences."
I pulled my book out of my lap and thumbed through until I found the
page where I'd left off (the ants had just figured out how to work door
handles). She gathered up her cards and pocketed them.
"I think that fortune was worth a roadmap," I lied.
She grunted and nodded and turned towards the doors, but she didn't
leave. Instead, she stood there for a few seconds before turning back to face
me like a thought had just occurred to her. "Jack, aren't you scared working
here all alone like this?"
"No."
"But didn't you hear? There's a monster out there. It's been feeding,
and nobody knows how to stop it."
This was the first I'd heard of any monsters in months.
"It's probably just one of the cultists."
She sniffed loudly, then asked, "The what?"
"The cultists. They've got a community in the woods near here.
They've been known to wander around at night. Sometimes they stop in for
smokes or snacks. Rumor has it they like to get out and dance around naked
in the moonlight. You know, cult stuff. I'll bet somebody saw one of them
in a fur coat and the story took off from there."
The old woman bit her lip in a most unsettling sort of way, then she
said, "Thank you, Jack. You've been a very kind young man. Stay safe."
I always find it slightly patronizing when customers call me "young
man," even though, technically, that's what I am. Young enough that I still
get carded any time I buy alcohol, but old enough that I can't go to a high
school party without looking like a super creep. I was definitely not a kid,
but hardly felt like a proper member of adulthood. Stuck in that awkward
age between two generations that want nothing to do with me, and nowhere
left to go but dead.
As she walked away, I offered her a parting, "You too," before
returning all of my attention to the book.