Brian Keene - Terminal

And that’s the thing. He really hadn’t meant to offend anybody. He’d genuinely been trying to be friendly. John didn’t have a racist bone in his body. He was just John. Big, simple, stupid John. And he was going to drive the getaway car…

I leaned back in the seat and rubbed my temples. My head was killing me. Well, actually, it was the cancer that was killing me, but the headache was helping it along quite nicely. I sighed, wondering if my friends would beat both the disease and my head to the punch, and do the cancer’s work themselves. At the rate we were going, it was a distinct possibility. We were quiet for a while. John sulked and Sherm smoked and I massaged my head. My eyes grew heavy. It had been a long night and I was exhausted. Daylight was just a few hours away, and Michelle would be wondering where I’d been all night. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell her. After a while, I spoke. “You guys want to hear something weird? Back there in the alley, when things got tense? I felt alive. For a few moments, I forgot all about the disease. I forgot that I was dying.”

“You ask me,” Sherm replied, “and that’s how I’d rather go out. Given a choice between dying in some crummy hospital bed or being gunned down in a blaze of glory—I’d pick the gunfight every time. And I’d pump some slugs in the motherfuckers before I was gone. I’d kill everyone in sight. I’d…”

He kept talking, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Looking back now, I wish I’d stayed awake and listened.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

I was at a funeral. I didn’t know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn’t taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.

That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?

Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn’t make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look. Michelle and T.J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress—

not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you’d see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T.J.’s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle’s mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn’t believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they’d always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive. Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now. But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle’s face, making her look like a raccoon. T.J.’s little Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. The grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle’s mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T.J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.

I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me—through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn’t been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.

None of them seemed to notice me.

That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We’d done it. We’d pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They’d be okay in the long run.

I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.

A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.

I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return,

please hold me until I get back.

I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?

The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O’BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort—and then looked down.

And I screamed.

Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it—that thing wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. There was no way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn’t show it. Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head—were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.

Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they’re growing. Growing at an alarming rate. Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren’t just black—they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.

“Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

“The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.

“I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”

I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.