Expiration Date by Eric Wilson Page A

As he tightened the brackets with a screw gun, his mind played over the past few days. Things had turned strange. He tried to shake the sets of numbers from his head.
    1.2.2.5.2.1 … 6.2.1.0.4 … 7.2.0.4
.
    Was there a pattern? A purpose?
    Six numbers, then five, then four. Each set incorporated the numeral 2.
    He connected the TV plug, flopped on the bed, hit the remote. He was midway into his second hour of mindless entertainment when an idea crawled its way out of his vegetating gray matter. It clung there, like a stubborn leech waiting to be recognized.
    Clay snapped alert, suddenly aware of the leech’s presence. His peripherallogic plucked at the idea and examined it. Could this theory be true? Could it explain the pattern behind the numbers?
    Come on, Claymeister, do your math. Okay, this is creepy!
    Counting on his fingers, he confirmed that each set of numbers totaled unlucky thirteen.

6
Dying Breed
    Scritchh, scritchh, scritchh …
    Eve Coates heard the sound in the dead of a Thursday night, and her eyes sprang open. Normally she would’ve been snuggled like a spoon in a drawer with her husband of forty-seven years, but now her body turned stiff beneath the toasty eiderdown. Her fluffy pillows gave little comfort.
    Tonight she was alone. Mr. Coates had traveled north to Silverton.
    Scritchh, scritchh …
    Probably one of them critters
, she told herself. If it weren’t for them in the first place, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
    Rats, field mice, possums … Whatever they were, they’d been messing with the crops, and her husband, Mitchell, was fed up. Couldn’t blame him after the years of attention he’d given this property. Built their family a little slice of heaven here on the edge of Junction City.
    Problem was, he couldn’t rid the place of these pests.
    Aggravated, he’d picked up a container of poison at Ace Hardware a couple of days ago, then spread it around the farm as the label instructed. This morning she’d been at his side while he checked the barn and the fence line, but he’d found nothing. None of the little beasts. No sign that the stuff was doing its job.
    Mitchell said it was the final straw—and when he said it, he meant it. He’d decided to go north to see his brother for some advice, said he’d be back by sundown.
    Three hours ago he had called with the bad news.
    “Eve, I might not make it home tonight,” he told her. “Van’s gone belly up. Could be the fuel injection, could be somethin’ simple. We’ll try to get her fixed up so I can head back soon as possible.”
    “What about supper? You gonna sleep there at Donny’s?”
    “I’ll be just fine, darlin’. Good news is, Donny’s got some chemicals for me to use, swears they’ll do the trick. Mean stuff, downright nasty. When I’m done, those buggers won’t know what hit ’em. Stuff’s so powerful you hafta wear a mask while spraying it.”
    “Sounds dangerous. You be careful, Mitchell.”
    “Don’t you worry. I won’t start glowing in the bedroom or nothin’.”
    At that, she heard Donny’s distinctive hooting in the background. Not a bad guy for a brother-in-law, though he did have his quirks. As for Mitchell, he was a good man. Almost fifty years since their wedding at First Presbyterian on a warm spring day.
    Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Coates …
    She still liked the sound of it. Did that make her a hopeless romantic? Well, why not? Sure, the grandkids puckered their little faces and squirmed when Gramps and Grams got snuggly, but they found reassurance in the farm’s atmosphere, and Eve took pleasure in that. Families didn’t always stay together like they used to. Had to hold on to the old ways.
    A plain fact: she and her man, they were a dying breed.
    “You don’t worry about a thing,” Mitchell had told her before ending the phone call. “I’ll be home before you know it.”
    That was just it, though. She was worried. There was that sound again.
    Scritchh,