Brian Keene - Terminal

“Nothing cheaper?”

“Not unless you want to walk over to aisle six and get yourself a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen.”

“Well, I guess that settles that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Look, don’t take it personal, okay? I’m sorry for bothering you. Just been trying to figure out what I’m going to do, and this may have helped me make up my mind. Thanks for your help, Casey.”

“Whatever you say. Hang in there.”

Without another word, I turned and left the counter. I’d promised Michelle that I would get my prescription filled. As far as I was concerned, I’d tried. Now there were no doubts in my mind about what I had to do. The bank robbery was the only way, even if just to pay for my painkillers.

Before I left the store, I remembered that I was down to three cigarettes. I strolled up to the customer service booth and flashed the girl behind the counter my best flirtatious smile, the same one that had finally won Michelle over.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Boy, I really hope so. I put a five-dollar bill in the soda machine outside and not only did it not give me a soda, but it won’t give me my money back either. I think it must be broken or something.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“No it ain’t. Do you have one of those little envelopes that I can fill out for a refund from the vendor?”

She didn’t, of course, and I knew that. The store automatically refunded your money on the spot, then squared up with the vending company later on. But I played stupid.

“I can take care of it for you right now, sir.”

“You can? Awesome! That would be great. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but five bucks is five bucks, you know what I’m saying?”

She nodded in sympathy, filled out a little piece of paper, had me sign it, and gave me a crisp, new five-dollar bill. Easy money, and soon, there’d be more where that came from. I climbed back into the truck, drove across the street to the discount tobacco store, and bought a fresh pack of smokes. I walked out with a buck in change, enough for a soda later on. Then I went to the library, second on my agenda for the day.

The library was only open for limited hours on Sunday, and I had to wait until somebody unlocked the doors. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, balmy spring day, I stood there shivering on the sidewalk. Eventually, I got back in the truck and let the heater run. I rubbed my hands together in front of the dashboard vents, trying to get some circulation in my numb fingers. By the time the librarian showed up, I was almost warm. I gave the librarian my driver’s license, signed in for a computer, and logged onto the net. I typed ALTERNATIVE CANCER TREATMENTS into the search engine, waited a moment, and got seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand matches. The sheer amount of information was pretty daunting. There was information on herbs and supplements and vitamins, some of which were supposed to prevent you from getting cancer (too late for me on that one), and others that were supposed to help combat it, either taken separately or with prescribed medication from a doctor. I clicked on a few links, but the herbs were just as expensive as the painkillers my doctor prescribed. Next was heat therapy, which supposedly killed the cancer cells from the inside out. One week of intensive therapy cost seventeen thousand dollars, and the recommended treatment was a minimum of two weeks. Just a little bit out of my price range. Other cures and treatments involved acupuncture, something called applied kinesiology, emulsified vitamin A, Cesium Chloride, holistic meditation, vitamin E, essiac tea, ellagic acid, mushrooms (that didn’t sound too bad), marijuana ingestion (that didn’t sound too bad either), Aloe Vera extract, Rife technology, infrared treatment, mistletoe pills, hypothermia (which kind of invalidated the heat treatment theory and cost the same amount), peroxide therapy, hyperbaric units, flax oil, high doses of vitamin C, shark cartilage, kelp, harmonic vibration therapy, whale song therapy, and thousands more—each one more whacked and expensive than the last. It was all bullshit. There were doctors and clinics outside the US that I could visit for help, but I couldn’t afford gas money to York, let alone a plane ticket to Argentina or Switzerland. I slammed the keyboard in aggravation and the librarian gave me a stern look of admonishment. A new headache pounded behind my eyes. Frustrated and angrier than ever, I logged off and stormed out of the library. I had two more things on my To Do list for the day.

Okay, so I was definitely going to die. I’d given up all hope of there being any last-minute reprieve. The doctor wasn’t going to call and say that it had all been a mistake, just one of those crazy mix-ups. Traditional medicine wasn’t going to work, and the alternatives were no fucking alternative.

My life was a bitch, then I died. End of story. It was time to shut the fuck up and get on with it. Get on with dealing with it. Get on with dying. And especially time to get on with making plans to cover my ass and my family. The bank job was only part of that insurance policy. Next on my list was the funeral parlor. Stop and think about it for a minute. How many people really get to plan their own funerals? Not as many as you might think. I figured that I’d take advantage of the opportunity.

I’d driven by the Myers Funeral Home a thousand times, but I’d never been inside. I guess it’s that way for most people. A funeral home isn’t the kind of place you go to hang out on a Friday night. You don’t go there unless you have a very specific reason. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, a black hearse and a matching black BMW. I got out of the truck and stared at the building. My mother had been taken care of by the funeral home across town, and this was the first time I’d seen this one up close. It was pretty daunting—cold, gray granite walls and huge weeping willow trees that kept the place hidden in their sprawling shadows. Tall pillars and a stone archway crowned a set of red marble stairs that led up to the main doors.

Swallowing hard, I climbed them. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. After a moment’s pause, I went inside. It was quiet, quieter than the library, and it smelled like a hospital. You know that chemical, antiseptic smell? I don’t know what I expected—flowers maybe, or even formaldehyde—but not that empty air.

An older man with jet-black hair and a matching black suit met me in the lobby and smiled politely. He smelled just like the rest of the place. When he shook my hand, his palm was like dry ice.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Anthony Myers. Welcome to the Myers Funeral Home. I’m pleased to be of service.”

“How you doing,” I mumbled, letting go of his hand. “I’m Tommy. Tommy O’Brien.”

“How do you do, Mr. O’Brien?”

His usage of Mister in front of my last name made me think of the doctor. I shrugged it off.

“How can I be of assistance to you today?” he asked.

“Well,” I struggled, unsure of how to put it, “I need to check into funeral prices and stuff like that.”

He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. “I see. I see. Well, Mr. O’Brien, let me assure you that both of my sons and our entire staff are ready and able to assist you. This is a family-owned and -operated business, so we understand families quite well. We want to ensure that your immediate needs as well as your anticipated needs for the future are fully satisfied.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. It sounded like he was reading off a cue card.

“Normally, we have family counselors on hand to answer your questions, but since this is Sunday, I’ve given them the day off. That’s one of the benefits of being the owner. I will, however, be more than happy to assist you. Curiously enough, do you have fire insurance, Mr. O’Brien?”