Expiration Date by Eric Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

he would have no choice but to offer himself as a sacrifice.
    “Listen, Monde, let’s stay focused on what’s ahead.”
    The black-haired agent tilted his head in agreement. “I’m listening.”
    “Here it is, a list of my most promising contacts. This is where you fit in, with your ability to uncover the human psyche’s frailties. Your job will be to identity their most exploitable faults.”
    “A rewarding task.” Monde perused the list. “Let’s see, this first name here … Mitchell Coates. Is this correct, that he’s sixty-eight years old?”
    “Is that a problem?”
    “A problem? No. A challenge? Certainly. It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it, that the elderly ones often show the least weakness of all.”
    Asgoth smirked. “His wife’s still alive. I’m sure she could play a role.”

    The bin of Molly bolts was depleted. Just his luck. Done with his first week on the job, Clay meant to grab a few supplies at the hardware store on his way home. Rather than compete with his old man for the remote, he’d wall-mount a TV in his old bedroom. A little weekend entertainment. First, he needed the items to secure the set.
    “Can I help you find anything?”
    Clay shook his head.
    The lady in the Ace Hardware uniform informed him the store would be closing in five minutes. “I’ll be able to ring you up at the front register.”
    “Ready to call it a day?”
    “Definitely. My feet’re aching.”
    “I’ll make it quick.”
    Clay turned to scan another row of fasteners, stumbled, and almost ran into a portly man in a buttoned shirt and sagging canvas pants. In an effort to catch himself, he grabbed at the man’s hairy forearm while uttering an apology. Then, as he withdrew his fingers, he felt it again.
    Numbers.
7.2.0.4 …
    Defined and burned into his palm.
    The sensation’s clarity was startling, like a branding iron seared into his nerve endings. He wanted to quiz the man for information, wanted to study the guy’s skin so he could put the questions to rest, but he knew he’d only look like some head case. The numbers were real—he was sure of it—yet invisible, numinous. Beyond proof.
    Proved one thing only, that he was losing his mind.
    “Might wanna watch where you’re going, big fella,” the gentleman said. Above his chest pocket his name was stitched in white thread:
Mitchell Coates
.
    “Should pay better attention,” Clay agreed. “You okay, uh, Mr. Coates?”
    “Think I’ll survive.” The man gave a sage nod. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
    “A couple of Molly bolts, that’s all I need.”
    “Tried goin’ down to Jerry’s yet?”
    “Not yet. Thanks for the suggestion.”
    “Glad to help.”
    Clay rubbed his hand against his shirt and continued browsing. Henudged up to the register a few minutes later, but as he set down brackets and a laminated shelf, he noted that the numbers continued to linger on his skin. He ran a brief self-exam and found nothing obvious to the eye, but they persisted, hardwired directly to his brain.
    7.2.0.4 …
What was their meaning?
    “You find whatcha needed?” The woman was back in her retail rhythm.
    “For now,” Clay said.
    The bell rang over the door. He turned to see Mr. Coates heading out to a van at the curb. The man heaved a yellow container through the side door, swiped his hands against his overalls, then let the rust-pocked vehicle carry him away.

    After dinner Clay nabbed a cold can of Coke and followed his father into the living room. He settled into the couch, glad to take the pressure off his feet. He felt drowsy. His muscles were tight from lifting gravestones, proof that he needed to chisel his body back into shape. Tomorrow he’d take a solo day hike along Alsea Falls.
    “Blomberg says you’re slow.”
    Clay sighed. “Good to see you too, Dad.”
    “You’re unmotivated. Those’re his words.”
    “Since when?” Clay took a gulp.
    “Just relaying the message.”
    Armed with travel mug and remote