IndianSF-Issue-4-Jul-Aug by IndianSF

Author:IndianSF [IndianSF]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: ContactART
Published: 2013-07-01T07:00:00+00:00

Terminal Illness by D. F. Huettner

~ 3060 words

Jackson Keyes wiped the sweat from his face, once again cursing the heat of the southern California desert. He hummed one note, trying to concentrate on the road instead of the pain in his head. The car began to veer off the pavement raising clouds of dust, and Jackson lurched in the seat trying to pull the old auto from the soft shoulder.

Then he saw it, a small town, barely visible on the horizon. Probably no air conditioning, he thought, grabbing his soaked handkerchief to wipe away the sweat.

The town was tiny, a haphazard collection of one story cement block buildings with one central streetlight at the square. He sat through two cycles of red and yellow before a pickup truck behind him blasted its horn. The green signal lamp must have burned out.

"Yeah, all right," Keyes grumbled and wiped his face again.

His stomach cramped and he coughed at the nausea. He had to get to that bank, he thought. The time was near. He pulled over to a young boy on the sidewalk and asked about the bank.

"Down there, mister" the youth said, pointing.

"You mean take a right at the square?" Keyes asked, but the boy was gone, walking, already halfway down the block. Keyes turned back to the wheel of his car. He had to get to that bank soon, or he never would -- the time lag had already started to become noticeable.

Another cramp, and this one worse. Keyes had to wipe the spittle from the corner of his mouth. He started to wipe his face again, but thought better of it, looking at the damp handkerchief and tossing it across the seat.

He forced himself to put the car in gear and slowly drive down the street to the square. Halfway down the block to the right was the bank. Several people were loitering on the sidewalks of the street, and Keyes tried not to attract too much attention as he parked and clambered out of the car and opened the trunk to retrieve his tool case.

Walk a straight line, he thought, crossing the street toward the bank building. His stomach was in knots and sweat poured down his face despite the breeze blowing up the street. He slowed somewhat to step up onto the curb. He was almost there.

Keyes reached for the huge handle of the bank door and missed, losing his balance and falling backwards into a short elderly woman who sported a gigantic handbag and three leashed Pekingese.

"Well! My goodness!" the woman said, flustered, as her three miniature monsters yipped and guff-guffed, dancing around her feet. "Quiet Missy! Hush Sissy! Heel Prissy!" the old woman cried, trying to untangle her feet.

"I'm dreadfully sorry." Keyes managed holding the door open for the woman and her entourage.

Inside the bank it was hot, no air conditioning.

The bank was small, the smallest bank office Keyes had ever seen. And yet there was an elegance that told of a past time in the small town when money flowed and lives were lived.

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