The number was two-three-eight-one.
He felt guilty that he hadn’t looked down at the water afterwards. He couldn’t. Did he start to cry again? Or had he been crying the whole time?
The number was two-three-eight-one.
It was without question the worst walk of his life. And Colin Tugdale loved to walk.
The number was two-three-eight-one.
JUSTIN
He should have been suspicious when he saw the parking lot.
As he turned off his engine, the last of the pre-dawn darkness lingered over the Chester industrial park. The night shift at the vegetable packing factory that shared the newspaper’s lot had just ended, and the giant freezers were being de-iced by a skeleton crew before the day shift arrived.
But even so, there were far fewer cars than usual.
There was a gentle drizzle at the start of Justin Everly’s last full day in Chester. That seemed about right. When he recalled his life there, the accompanying soundtrack would feature rain hitting the roof of his car as he drove aimlessly, puddles forming on worn road surfaces, and wet paper blown into the doorways of long-shuttered stores and businesses in the ruin of downtown.
While Justin had often imagined both the day and the details precipitating his departure, it was on this particular day that the twin blows came one after the other, with enough impact to force his hand. As a result, by the end of the work day, his mind would be made up. And by the start of the next day, Justin Everly would be leaving town.
The first blow would be delivered face to face, in the foreboding emptiness of the lot, as the rain slicked up the sidewalk outside the offices of the Chester Clarion.
“You could have texted me. To let me know. Let me sleep a little longer.”
“Yeah … well … you know. We just found out about it ourselves. It all happened fast. Last night. There was an emergency staff meeting. The big bosses showed up. That was when they told us.”
“The paper’s going to be closing?”
“Oh no. Not closing. But the print version is done. The daily print edition. Effective immediately, they said. It’ll be online only from now on. Less staff for them to pay. Less overhead. Less production costs.”
“And you sure don’t need me to deliver it anymore.”
It wasn’t a question; he just said it to have the last word.
The news hadn’t been all that surprising. The Clarion was failing because the town was failing. Justin was the oldest driver for the newspaper. The others were all college kids earning some extra money before their morning classes began. They each worked only a couple of the weekday shifts.
But Justin Everly had been the full seven-day man, including the big edition on Sundays, when he had the job all to himself, when delivering it took up most of his morning.
Five minutes later Justin got into his car and started to drive home in the rain.
It was early, and still dark.
Justin lived in an apartment complex halfway between Chester and Lawrence. It was normally a short drive, one that barely gave him long enough to somberly consider that Chester was a world-class toilet of a town.
He had delivered the last print gasps of the once-proud Clarion for the past three years. He’d gotten the job right after his three years of junior college. He had changed his major three times and never gotten any closer to graduation.
By the end of his third year, his grades were finally respectable. His last stated major was Video Game Design, his fellow classmates a collection of mostly directionless slackers. Justin was the star of the class, but by year three his money had run out, and the only scholarships available at Lawrence Community were from long-distance haulage companies looking to hire fresh drivers and insomniacs.
Three majors. Three years of college.
After abandoning college, Justin had cobbled together a sad trio of jobs to keep afloat. He had needed all three to come up with his share of rent and utilities and the cable/internet bill, since the option to move back in with his parents was not worthy of serious consideration.
He now had two roommates, plus himself (there was that three deal happening again), in a decent-sized third-floor place halfway between Lawrence, where the college was, and Chester, where he grew up, where he now worked, and where his methed-out parents partied with their sad-sack neighbors, each taking turns to manufacture and share the homegrown pharmaceutical product that had earned Chester notoriety in a big-city newspaper article (not the Clarion) published just last week. The subject had been the unlikely juxtaposition of dirt-cheap narcotics and serious graft in rural crapholes where civilized Sunday-newspaper-reading folks couldn’t quite bring themselves to believe that big money could be mined. But rural grafters like Larry Charlton, the combination mayor, drug lord, number-one self-serving pimp, and hospital board chair, proved the urbane city slickers wrong, by making his fortune, by avoiding both litigation and publicity, taking the sorry substrata of Chester by their scrawny necks and running them through a wringer that squeezed every last drop of money out of them.
What was rare about this particular newspaper article was that Larry Charlton was specifically identified.
What wasn’t rare was that the reporter managed to include the nicknames of Lawrence (“Larry”) and Chester (“Chet”) that the local folks liked to use, or that what was arguably Larry’s (the person, that is) most audacious piece of scamming wasn’t even mentioned.
It never was. Maybe it was too hard to believe. Because for sheer balls-out audacity, this was far and away his coup de grâce. Larry Charlton sold illegal Genewelds to the towns-people of Chester for a neighborly twenty grand a weld.
It worked like this: The local hospital where Larry served faithfully on the board did regular scans for the regular folks and regular welds for the regular fifty-five-year-olds who passed the regular scan. Nothing remotely shady there. The regulars passed, or they failed, legitimately. They were paid legitimately by the government for the weld. And they lived their twenty more years in the usual medical stasis, and then they quietly up and croaked. Larry made the square root of zero on that avenue of business.
But on the side, Larry offered the weld for his personal clientele base; specifically, for young and wasted losers under fifty-five and long-addicted scan failures over fifty-five, but in truth for anyone desperate, for whom twenty thousand was going to both be a stretch and a final prayer in a life fast running out of prayers.
Larry didn’t bother to offer the option of the scan. There was no need. It didn’t matter if they passed or failed the scan. They would all be welded. As long as they paid Larry cash. And then they were required to keep quiet.
Larry was not the world’s only illegal welder. There were constant media reports of shady weld practices (a favorite name for it was “scan scam”) that ranged from small-time all the way up to government-controlled. In third world countries, Larrys were legion. Most were ultimately exposed. Larry Charlton doubtless would be too. But for now, he operated under a rigid code of silence. It was firmly understood that if he were to be exposed, the toxic underbelly of Chester would lose its last hope.
In Larry’s secret world, there were two forms of addict, and the weld worked either one or two kinds of magic on them. If you were young and your health was good (except for the meth or the opioids or whatever other addiction you had selected), and you might have passed the scan, you scored a double break. Your system got a full detoxing reboot (known as a ScanClense), so that, if you somehow managed to never do any more meth or heroin, or you stopped drinking cheap whisky for breakfast, you bought yourself a sporting chance at twenty years of looking good and feeling fine.
That was the better of the two options, even if you only lived another twenty years.
And then there was the second-best option, the one for post-scan addicts defined as genetically bad, the kind of bad that failed the scan. But there was still the cleansing/detoxing benefit to be had, so that even the most pathetic junkie could still catch a break.
>
For the addict with other health-related issues, the weld still generated a complete detoxification of your system, without the inconvenience of harrowing withdrawal, without pious rituals of repentance, or long nights of sweat-soaked, shuddering agony.
Justin’s parents had used up the last of his college money to pay for their welds. It cost them forty grand they didn’t have, and there was no twofer discount offered. Justin had carefully saved his money, and his grandparents, when they had both been alive, had dutifully chipped in. He could probably have attended the big state college up north for two years or so with his funds. He was pretty smart, and his grades in high school were good enough for some form of partial scholarship.
But his money was long gone.
And, after their respective welds, his folks were still unrepentant junkies.
While it was still early, the sun had grudgingly pulled itself up and over dying downtown Chester as Justin Everly, only son of welded addicts, onetime community college student, and former newspaper delivery boy, maneuvered his small car through an assault course of potholed roadway. Justin had finished making the payments on his car last month. It had taken him three years. He had paid, when you calculated the interest, almost exactly one-third more than the asking price of the car, and his car was currently worth two-thirds of what it was worth when he first drove it off the lot.
While there was no way to make the math work in his favor, he was proud that he owned the car outright, just as he was cognizant of the fact that, since it was now out of warranty, it would commence breaking down any time now.
So, being both cautious and in no real hurry to get anywhere, he drove through Chester without haste.
The Chester Savings Bank and the Chester Public Library buildings each languished on the two diagonal corners of the four-way intersection in the center of town.
The two structures were almost identical, with hunched grey angel sculptures perched aloft on all four corners.
Both were constructed simultaneously, boldly imagined by architect Sebastian Merry, commissioned by the Chester Chamber of Commerce a century ago, back in the days when the industrial heart of the state was still pumping money.
Merry was commissioned to design a number of institutions in the heartland.
A half century after his demise, Sebastian Merry would be declared an architectural icon and a visionary of pre-modernist sensibility, although neither attribute would generate one thin dime for Chester, or for the preservation of the two pigeon-shit-splattered buildings that sulked in the wasteland of downtown Chester.
At the doughnut shop, twin tattooed ladies served Justin his large coffee and Boston creme in a blur of efficiency. As always, he thanked them. As always, they were reluctant to speak. It was the only place in town that was open in the early hours when he started delivering the Clarion.
Back at the apartment everything had changed. Three weeks ago, his two roommates had simultaneously acquired new girlfriends, in a revolutionary development. Both roommates were, much like Justin, bashful creatures possessed of no social skills. They had questionable wardrobes. They played computer games and ate fast food at all hours. Neither could be referred to as a catch. Yet, there they were. Caught.
While neither young lady would stand to win any beauty contest, they were several echelons above the slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging cave trolls that Justin would have expected his gormless roomies to have rustled up. The boys were punching well above their weight.
And Justin was just as baffled as they were.
Both ladies regularly slept over. While they had not previously known each other, they had instantly bonded. Most mornings, they were in the kitchen, boisterous, giggly, the dual creators of elaborate if culinarily pedestrian breakfasts for their two slumbering sweeties.
On most sleepover occasions, Justin was careful to be out of the apartment long before the chefs arose, but on occasional days off, he would lie trapped in his bedroom, groaning deep inside himself.
This morning, Justin was enthusiastically welcomed. He was offered something hot, freshly made.
Thank God he could truthfully say that, after his sizable doughnut, he wasn’t hungry. He muttered a polite demurral and skedaddled to his room, where he hastily shut the thin wood veneer door.
Inside his sanctuary, Justin sought to soothe his troubled mind by playing Trench Warfare on his homemade computer for just as long as it would take the chatty cooks and their pampered menfolk to devour the fruits of the women’s labor.
He could hear vague stirrings from the other two bedrooms. The aroma of freshly cooked vittles had roused the gentlemen.
He tried harder to relax.
Justin’s roomies were likeable enough. And they had always seemed to like Justin just fine. But now they both had girlfriends who were around a lot, and Justin had sensed that an awkward conversation over next year’s apartment lease was forthcoming. Three days ago, he had been asked in a studiedly casual manner if he was still intending to stay next year. He had said that he wasn’t sure. He would let them know. They said okay. That it was cool. They said whatever. All three names were on the lease. Their landlord was easy going.
Justin could see where this was going. In three months, he would need to find another place to live. And now he was down one source of income.
He didn’t blame the boys one bit. He liked his roommates. Their girlfriends were okay. They all had jobs that paid more than Justin made. Splitting the rent four ways would be easy. Obviously the boys would want the girls to move in and Justin to move out. They were lucky. They had partners. He wasn’t lucky. He didn’t.
The relaxing wasn’t going as well as he had hoped.
Justin would need another strategy.
On his hands and knees, Justin pulled a folded piece of paper out from under the bed. He sat on top of the blanket and spread the paper out in front of him.
Justin spent long hours staring at his map. While there was no large body of water or identifying outline of coastline, a multitude of small lakes dotted the landscape. There were no towns and few roads. Dashed lines ran from one lake to the next. The word lake was abbreviated Lk. The dashed lines had numbers attached to them. And the suffix r, which stood for rods. One dashed line connected Glass Lk to Fellowship Lk. It measured 67r. Small black triangles littered the edges of the lakes. Some of the triangles had been filled in with a highlighter. The highlighted triangles were often adorned with a checkmark. Justin had added a number of blue lines linking one lake to another; several lines had also been traced over with red or green highlighter. There was a compass rose near the bottom right corner and, beside it, a scale with a ratio of inches to miles. Two formulas converted rods to feet and rods to miles. Each rod was 16.5 feet. Each mile was 320 rods.
At the very bottom of the map, Justin had added a key to his own modifications.
YELLOW TRIANGLE = stayed there
YELLOW TRIANGLE WITH CHECKMARK = nice site
BLUE LINE = walking trail
GREEN DASHED LINE = easy
RED DASHED LINE = hard
For some people, relaxation took two aspirins or a dry martini, a series of deep breathing exercises, a half hour of yoga, or an episode of a soap opera. Justin sat and studied his map for as long as it took for him to unwind. When he was done, mentally and physically relaxed, only then was he ready to engage the Hun at the First Battle of Ypres in the world of Trench Warfare.
In the real world, the first battle for the Belgian town had been an inconclusive affair resulting in one hundred thousand casualties.
The Germans had unleashed poison gas for the first time at the Second Battle of Ypres, but this was of little concern to Justin; he was still engaged in the first skirmish, and he had earned enough online credits for the mask upgrade.
Ready for battle, General Justin Everly waited expectantly in his muddy trench. He had read several accounts of the real wartime battles. He knew that the period poets spoke of the poignant pause of stillness, a
s the circling birds fell silent, as a collective intake of breath preceded the start of each historic offensive.
Justin made sure his rifle was loaded and his bayonet was attached. He was determined to go over the top with his men. He had arranged for artillery support. There would be shrapnel fire distracting the enemy when he and his soldiers made their push. He had carefully chosen positions for his snipers.
He was ready.
Later in the morning, fresh from battle, Justin Everly arrived at the Tidy Diner for his second job.
The main road south out of Chester was the chosen location for the smattering of businesses determined to crawl clear of the socioeconomic death throes gripping the town center. Two fast-food franchises duked it out for the teenage trade. There was a liquor store with an enviable selection of expensive malt whiskies, a thrift shop affiliated with a local church, and an auto parts company sharing space with a muffler repair shop.
Tidy Diner, owned by the Bob Tidy family, was open six days a week, serving breakfast and lunch on weekdays and breakfast only on Saturdays. During the week, the Tidy catered to local patrons in the early morning hours and to transient trade in the afternoon, from people in cars anxious to eat cheaply and well, and to spend as little time as possible in Chester.
Bob Tidy permanently sat vigil at the register, which was positioned near the front door. Most of his customers swore they’d never seen Bob anyplace else. Bob was a huge bear of a man. He wore massive shorts and equally voluminous T-shirts year-round, with tall white compression socks pulled all the way up to his pale, formless knees. His seat was a high stool, on which he half sat and half leaned, his walker and a walking stick positioned close by.
Bob looked unhealthy. He was perpetually sweaty, and his color fluctuated between beet-red and corpse-white.
Bob Tidy was still six years away from his scan, and he did not expect it to go well. While much of what ailed him was technically treatable, the congenital heart disease inherited from past generations of Tidy men was not. By his own reckoning, Bob would die the natural way, and the amount of money he anticipated spending on keeping his wreck of a carcass intact kept him awake at night as regularly as his acid reflux.
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