He wasn’t particularly worried. He knew the man would open the tin eventually.
Beside the man’s payment was another ten. Except this note was a lot older; Alexander Hamilton was fading and lines streaked the green paper like a cracked mirror. A reminder. As if he needed another one.
Everything was cheaper in those days, Almus thought ruefully.
He had really played up the country hick for the man from Australia. Almus wasn’t what you would call sophisticated, but he wasn’t quite the rube the man thought he was. It was all about the sale, and Almus had known what he needed to do and say to make it, without forcing the man to buy the tin.
Night was in full bloom, and, right on schedule, the creatures started in chorus — wolves howled, foxes barked, owls hooted, crickets chirped.
“I hear you,” Almus bellowed. “Hound me all you want to, I ain’t gonna budge.”
He could tell — they all knew he was leaving tonight.
He also knew that beyond the glow of the lamps, a thousand eyes stared at him, hating him, haunting him.
Wishing they had what he had; or rather, that the man had bought one of their tins instead.
Almus looked up at the hanging carcasses swamped with insects.
The howls and hoots and hisses sounded like a symphony of scorn, but Almus didn’t care anymore; just like the constant pain that ebbed and flowed through his emaciated body, he would be rid of them soon.
The back of his head where he had been shot caused him the most grief, but his body, where the car had run over him, also made it most uncomfortable for him to move without pain shooting through his body. There was nothing he could do or take for the pain; all he could do was what he had been doing for well over thirty years now — he waited.
Craig popped open a can of Coors Light and took a much-needed drink.
The beer was too warm for his tastes, but it helped take the sting out of what Almus had unwittingly dredged up. Besides, after half a dozen more he wouldn’t care if it was tepid.
Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.
Souls for sale.
Christ, Craig thought.
Rachel.
Double Christ.
He belched a combination of jerky, cheese and Snickers (which had been almost completely melted), then drank another can of beer. His tent was up, he had eaten, and as the night had grown cooler, had made a fire in the middle of the small clearing he had happened upon for the night’s camp. There was nothing left to do now but drown his memories and try and sleep.
The night creatures called out to one another, their purpose known only to them. To Craig, their howls and hoots were mocking laughter. Somehow, they knew about Rachel, what she had become, how he had abandoned her. Knew about his stop at Almus’s. The tin he had bought. The sly smile that even now as he gazed into the licking orange flames he could see on that hick’s dog-ugly face.
Thirty bucks! The animals were laughing to each other. The Aussie fool paid thirty smackers for an empty tin. Ha! What was he trying to prove? Who was he really buying it for? Himself? Hardly. What was he thinking? Fool. Ha!
It was the hillbilly’s fault. Asking if he had a wife. Whose business was it of anyone’s but Craig’s? He had just started to get his life back. He was enjoying the open road, no responsibilities, no work, no wife…
Now, that was all gone. All because of Almus.
How was he to know? Craig thought. He didn’t know about Rachel, how she had changed. Didn’t know the kind of person she once was.
Craig choked up, remembering her laughter — a sweet giggle that rolled into a belly of laughter.
He finished the beer and wiped his eyes.
The laughter grew less frequent, while the manic episodes slowly clouded her life. Oh sure, the doctors said she wasn’t manic, nor was she suffering from dementia.
Yet they couldn’t explain her violent, abusive outbursts. Her hateful words, full of bad language she never, ever used to speak.
Her entire outlook on life changed. The people around her, those she loved most, became her enemies — at least in her mind.
Craig received most of her hate.
“I wish I’d never met you” she would shout. “You damn fucking cunt! Our son would never have died if I had never met you!”
Irrational.
Their son had died during labor. It was hard for the both of them in the years that followed, but their love had held them strong like crazy glue.
Until the change.
A change that Craig tried to bear, tried to understand and accept.
But he couldn’t. He just wasn’t that strong.
If the change in her personality had been the early symptoms of brain cancer, he would’ve stayed with her.
She had the tests. No cancer.
Other than her personality transformation, she was in great health.
It was like she was a different person. The Rachel that once was, was dead.
That’s why Craig had left and travelled to America, to get away from it all…away from her. He had needed to get as far away as possible and travelling to another country seemed the best solution, if not the right one.
“I needed to find myself, just like in the movie,” Craig said to the woods.
But he was beginning to think maybe he was searching for something other than freedom.
Like an old tin?
Craig gazed at the Jeep parked ten feet away.
“What the hell,” he said and got to his feet.
He opened the back door and found the beaten old tin snuggled amongst the assorted junk he had accumulated thus far. He was again shocked at its weight, even for a tin of its size, and closing the Jeep’s back door, headed back to the fire.
He sat down on the log and held the tin in his hands, curiously hesitant about opening it.
There’s nothing in there, he told himself. Then why won’t you open it?
He didn’t believe Almus and all his talk about collecting souls from the dead animals, trapping them before they escaped. But there was something unusual about the man — that smile, that knowing look in his eyes — that Craig couldn’t quite figure out.
Would Almus really have sold him an empty tin?
Then he thought: what if there was something inside waiting to lash out with deadly fangs, or crawl out with eight hairy legs, or sting him with a lethal tail?
He was all alone out here, far from the next town, a doctor, or a hospital. The closest thing to civilization that Craig knew of was Almus and his roadside stand.
Not a comforting thought.
Craig didn’t recall seeing a car parked near the stand, or even a bike.
Either the old coot did live close to the stand, or he walked a long way to get to work.
Keeping a firm hold on the lid, Craig shook the tin. Nothing rattled inside.
He let out a nervous breath. Really is empty.
He chuckled.
Set the tin down, reached over and grabbed another can of beer. Opened it, gulped it down, listening to the crackling of the fire and the cries of the animals.
Not laughter anymore, Craig thought; their cries were more intense, beckoning.
They wanted him to open the tin.
This is what you’ve been searching for, they seemed to be saying to him. You paid for it, why not open it? It’s yours. Aren’t you just the least bit curious?
Might give you some answers. You want to put Rachel behind you, don’t you?
Open it and find out.
“Ah fuck it,” Craig muttered and exchanging the can of beer for the tin, pulled off the lid.