Category: Fiction Factor

Reggie heard the loud buzz of the generator more clearly as he trudged up the hill, weary from the climb and aching due to carrying the two large, full gasoline cans. His near-constant, splitting headache wasn’t helping matters, either.

Time was he’d have never paid much attention to the sound; in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard it before. But these days it was like a beacon.

Not only did it break the eerie silence that blanketed this part of the city, but it meant he was about to have breakfast with a friend. Actually, his only friend.

Esther – a middle aged woman who was almost as round as she was tall – opened the door to her bakery and gave Reggie a wry smile.

“Just put the gas next to the generator,” she said. “And then come in and wash up.”

Reggie sighed as he set the cans down, feeling immediate relief as his thin arms were finally free from strain.

Manual labor was hardly his strong suit, and never had been for his thirty something years. To be fair, it was never really required.

Growing up in an old money mansion came with old money perks, meaning much of the “work” that required doing was almost always done by someone else.

He had more cash than he knew what to do with but he often felt invisible, even to his own family. Being wealthy gave Reggie plenty of advantages, but his social awkwardness and C-student intellect hardly made him a favorite son.

Times had changed dramatically, though – and quickly.

Six months earlier the thought of lugging gasoline cans for miles seemed ludicrous. Now he considered it his job.

“So, what’s on the menu this morning, Esther?” Reggie asked.

Esther cracked her neck and then put on an oven mitt.

“Just pulling out a pan of biscuits,” she said. “And I also opened a can of bacon. It’s all yours … I’m so nauseated I can’t even think about eating.”

Reggie winced.

“Is it bacon from a can that makes you nauseated?” he asked. “I can see why. I didn’t know bacon in a can was even a thing.”

“It is,” Bertha said. “I grabbed a bunch of them the last time I was at Durbin’s Supermarket … it’s over there with the potted meat. I could load it all up but going back and forth is about the only exercise I get these days.”

Reggie leaned over and took a whiff of the biscuits, watching as Esther emptied the bacon into a pan and turned on the front eye of the stove top.

“You know I can go to Durbin’s any time that you need me to,” he said, massaging his temples in a losing effort to ease his headache. “I can do more than fetch gas for your generator. I’ve never really done much for anybody, so it feels good to help.”

Esther tossed the empty bacon can into the trash and then grabbed the skillet, taking it to the sink and pouring the excess grease into a pot.

“Nah,” she said, forcefully scratching her cheek with her free hand. “I’ve spent over 40 years cooking, and part of cooking means rounding up food. I mean, it’s not hard. I just grab what I need, put it in a buggy, and leave. It’s not like there’s much else to do.”

Reggie looked out the window and stared at the empty street.

“I know. I just ….”

“Just what?” Esther asked.

“I just sometimes feel bad that it’s all come to this. Every day when I go to the pump and get gas, I find myself looking around to see if anyone is about to catch me stealing. Hell, I still select ‘credit’ at the pump out of habit. Does it ever bother you to just wander into a store, snag whatever you want and walk away?”

Esther reached under the counter and grabbed a plate.

“No,” she said. “The owners are dead. Except for me and you, the customers are dead. We’re scavengers, but dead people don’t care. I’d gladly buy something if there was someone to buy from, but there isn’t.”

Esther put two biscuits and a wad of bacon on the plate and pushed it toward Reggie.

“I’m glad we got to know each other, even if we are scavengers,” he said. “If this hadn’t happened, I doubt we’d have become friends. so, you know … silver lining.

“Still, there have to be other people who survived the bomb … have to be. Maybe we’ll find them … or they’ll find us. Tomorrow might just be the day you’ll have more people to cook for and more people to talk to.”

Esther looked at her left arm and started lightly rubbing the radiation burn that was spreading over the top of her hand. She didn’t have much time left, and she doubted Reggie did, either.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with having a little hope.

“Now, eat your biscuits before they get cold.”

Dr. Artemus Ballimore was not a “real” veterinarian – at least not as far as anyone could tell. There were no diplomas on display in his office, he had no pamphlets promoting products or services … in fact, it wasn’t much of an office at all.

Aside from a standard examining table, its décor consisted of a beige antique settee, two gray folding chairs, a well-used olive-green dog bed and an old gumball machine that was filled with purple and pink stones.

The sign out front read “Ballimore Animal Care,” and it was painted – well, shoe-polished – in stencil. The business was hardly inviting, but it fit right in with the ambiance of the failing, fading strip mall.

And with Bubba’s Bail Bonds, Majestic Massage and Kit’s Cash and Loan occupying three other storefronts – there were four more that were vacant – Ballimore knew when someone showed up at his door, they had exhausted every other option.

Mallory Fallstrom elbowed her way in while cradling Spike in her arms. The black and white mutt was ancient; his face bathed in gray and his eyes, dull and faded.

“You’re the guy that can save him, right?” she said, gently handing Spike over to Ballimore’s waiting arms.

The dog’s breathing was labored, and Ballimore gently laid him on the exam table, which was draped in a red and black flannel blanket.

“I don’t really do anything,” the doctor said. “It’s the animal’s choice … it’s always the animal’s choice.”

The doctor’s work had become something of an internet sensation, with pet owners breathlessly giving their video testimonials about how he was able to extend their animals’ lives by negotiating a “trade” of their own years.

Mallory had seen them all – watching mostly out of curiosity and never putting a penny of stock in the claims. But she had found Spike on the side of the road when he was only a few weeks old, and 12 years later her companion was suffering.

She had taken him to two different vets in the last week, and both said the humane thing was to euthanize him.

She didn’t want to accept that.

So, out of sheer desperation, she drove 60 miles from her home to Ballimore’s office, looking for a miracle.

“I’m here because I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “I’m not gonna lie … I’ve never believed any of those claims I’ve seen online. And this idea that humans can trade in some of their years to add more to their dogs? Make it make sense to me.”

Ballimore walked to the gumball machine, twisted the handle, and snatched a pair of stones – one purple and the other, pink.

He placed them in front of Spike’s snout.

“I can’t explain it,” he said, gently stroking the animal’s head. “And good luck trying to make sense of any of it because I’ve certainly never been able to. I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse, but I’ve been an empath to dogs since I was a little boy.

“I use the stones to form a bridge between the dog’s thoughts and mine, and I tell him that his owner is willing to trade some of their years to give him a few more. It’s entirely up to the dog whether to take the deal … some want to go on, many do not.”

Mallory sighed.

“It all seems a little too New-Agey for me,” she asked. “I mean, how could I even tell if I’d given up any years? Do I give you a number, like, if you can give five more years to Spike do I have to take 10 of mine away? And really, can anyone get into the mind of a dog?

“But I love Spike so much … he’s pulled me through some dark times. I need him, so – I know it’s crazy – but can you heal him?”

Ballimore grimaced.

“No, I can’t heal him. Again … I can’t do anything. All I can do is pass along your wishes and then the dog makes a choice. And whatever the choice is, you have to live with it. I’ve never made any promises.”

Mallory got up and joined Ballimore at the table, where she watched as he twitched his lips while his tightly closed eyelids fluttered. Spike, on the other hand, appeared to be shaking, and the vibrations caused the stones in front of his nose to separate.

Moments later, Ballimore opened his eyes.

Spike’s, however, didn’t close.

“What did you do!” Mallory sobbed. “You killed Spike! Your stupid voodoo killed him!”

Ballimore knew nothing he could say would ease her pain or quell her rage. But he had to tell her the truth.

“I’m sorry, but Spike didn’t want any more years,” he said.
“He had so many problems – a few you knew about but a lot you didn’t – and he wanted to go. That big farm that dogs go to live on … well, in a way, that’s kinda what happens, metaphorically at least. His journey here was done. I told you I couldn’t heal him.”

After a few minutes of silence Mallory was finally able to get her emotions in check. Once she did, she sat down on the settee, dropping her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry I blew up at you,” she said. “I knew it was time – those other vets told me – but I was being selfish. And silly. I never believed any of this stuff anyway, but I would’ve done it … I’d have gladly given him some of my years to save him.

“And now I guess I’m supposed to give you some of my money.”

Ballimore shook his head.

“I don’t want your money,” Ballimore said. “And if it brings you some peace – and I truly hope it does – the reason Spike decided to move on was pretty simple. His last thought before he drifted away was that you’d already given him 12 of your best years.

“He wouldn’t ask for anything more.”

The crow seemed to float toward the smiling old man, its wings fully extended as it gently landed on the bench where he sat. As usual, peanuts and peanut shells were scattered liberally, and the bird dug in, spending half its time eating and the other half staring at his benefactor before abruptly flying away.

“Good to see you again, Stanley,” said Henry, who left the Greenvale Village assisted living facility each morning at 9 a.m. sharp to meet his feathered friends at the nearby park. “Thanks for not hogging it all, buddy … you’ve got friends coming.”

He did, indeed.

The birds had been around Henry for so long – and knew his habits so well – that they always showed up when it was feeding time. And they knew very well who was doing the feeding.

The best Henry could remember, he had been at the facility for less than a week when he decided a daily walk to the park would be his morning exercise. There was always a staff member giving him a loose follow – usually an attendant named Frank – but he was in good physical shape for a 91-year-old man, and able to get away far enough to have  a bit of time to himself.

It was nothing personal … Frank and the rest of the staff had always treated him with kindness and dignity. But sometimes Henry wanted to feel as free as a bird, and sharing his time with Stanley was a way to do that.

Henry figured it was because that first day in the park – his stomach already growling after the 5 a.m. oatmeal had lost its stick – he sat down, leaned back, cracked open a shell and gobbled down the two peanuts.

Once he tossed the shell to the ground the crow swooped down – gave Henry a quick glance – clamped the shell in its bill, and headed toward the trees.

When another crow showed up the next day, Henry said, “Welcome back, Stanley!” and emptied a handful of peanuts on the bench.

He had no idea if it was the same bird – and he couldn’t tell you why he named him Stanley – but those were just small details.

He had found a friend, and a friend needs a name. Besides, he just seemed like a Stanley.

So, it became a routine, day in and day out. Stanley was always the first on the scene, followed shortly by other crows who – wouldn’t you know it? – looked just like Stanley.

After Stanley and the others had picked over all the shells and nutmeat they wanted, they headed for the skies.

And that was Henry’s cue to head back to his room.

On this particular Friday, Henry was moving a bit faster than usual as Frank intercepted him at the walkway leading to the main entrance of Greenvale Village.

“What’s up, Henry?” Frank asked. “You got a date or something?”

Henry smiled.

“I’m gonna go spend some quality time with my friends,” he said in an excited, raspy voice. “When you reach my age, you don’t have a lot to look forward to, but I’m looking forward to this.”

Frank patted him on the back and watched as Henry scooted toward the door and headed inside.

Frank didn’t know the details, but he assumed some old acquaintances had decided to come around for a visit. Henry’s wife had died several years earlier, and the couple had no children. In fact, Frank couldn’t recall at time when he’d ever seen Henry entertain guests – family or otherwise.

Frank’s Saturday shift began at 8:45 a.m., and he looked forward to checking in, escorting Henry to his favorite bench, and getting all the details about his night on the town. When he arrived, however, he was met with somber looks.

“I’ve got some sad news, Frank,” said Martha, who always manned the front desk on weekends. “Henry passed away … died in his sleep. Rex was on duty overnight and when he checked in about 4 a.m., Henry was gone.

“He was a sweet old man … I’m gonna miss him.”

Having been on staff for close to a decade, Frank was used to patients transitioning while being cared for in Greenvale Village. And even though the news hit him hard, he knew that Henry looked happy the last time he saw him. Hopefully he had one last, pleasant get-together before closing his eyes for good.

He never verbalized it for fear of sounding morbid, but Frank thought it was his duty and the duty of everyone who worked there to make sure residents lived comfortably and died peacefully.

For the next several weeks, out of habit, Frank would check the time and expect to see Henry headed for the door with a bag of peanuts in tow.

Eventually, a new resident discovered the joys of birdwatching and bird-feeding, and it always gave Frank a warm feeling when he saw the man tossing shelled nuts on the ground, just as Henry used to do.

Frank had shared pleasantries with him ever since he arrived, but the attendant figured since his bird feeding was apparently going to be a daily practice, he’d start a conversation.

“Those crows are always glad to see you, aren’t they Stanley?” Frank said.

“Well, I think they’re just following Henry, and Henry seems to like me.”

Frank chuckled.

“That’s funny. There used to be a fellow here named Henry who’d go out and feed the birds every day.”

Stanley reached up and gently patted Frank on the cheek.

“Oh, I know, son,” he said. “You should join me on the bench and visit with him sometime. He’d love to see you again.”