From award-winning author Brian Keene comes a darkly suspenseful tale of crime and the common man–with a surprising jolt of the supernatural…Tommy O'Brien once hoped to leave his run-down industrial hometown. But marriage and fatherhood have kept him running in place, working a job that doesn't even pay the bills. And now he seems fated to stay for the rest of his life. Tommy's just learned he's going to die young–and soon. But he refuses to leave his family with less than nothing–especially now that he has nothing to lose. Over a couple of beers with his best friends, John and Sherm, Tommy launches a bold scheme to provide for his family's future. And though his plan will spin shockingly out of control, it will throw him together with a child whose touch can heal–and whose ultimate lesson is that there are far worse things than dying.
Terminal
Brian Keene
For Geoff Cooper, Michael T. Huyck Jr., and Michael Oliveri.
We are ka-tet. All for one and one for all . . .
— FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
— ECCLESIASTES 11:9
— BABY FACE NELSON TO JOHN DILLINGER
— JOHN DILLINGER TO BABY FACE NELSON
— JOHN MILTON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Cassandra; Sam, who came along at just the right time; Anne Groell for the French Sushi; Josh Pasternak; Rich SanFilippo, for the bat and the murder ballads; Ed Gorman; Larry Roberts; Alan M. Clark; Duane Swierczynski, my partner in crime; Cullen Bunn; Judi Rohrig; Officer Tom O’Brien (no relation to the main character); Maria Cotto, for the swearing lessons; Carl, for help with the drugs; Matt Warner (drop and give me 1,000); Gina Mitchell; Mark Lancaster, for once again being my eyes and ears; Adam Pepper, who read this on the back of scrap paper; John Urbancik, for reading this during the carnival instead of going to Heaven by answering three easy questions; and finally, to the memory of the foundry sage Robert Fitro, whose wisdom is not forgotten.
Author’s Note: Though Hanover, York, and many of the locations in this novel are real, I have taken fictional liberties with them. If you live there, don’t look for your bank. You probably won’t find it.
ONE
Life’s a bitch, then you die. That’s my philosophy in a nutshell, and it was reinforced that morning.
“Mr. O’Brien, perhaps you’d better sit down.”
That didn’t sound good. Neither did the fact that we were doing this in his office, instead of the examination room.
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I can stand.”
A fancy degree in an expensive-looking frame hung on the wall. I focused on it, wondering how much it cost him to go to medical school. How much money did he make? I bet it was more than I made working at the foundry.
He cleared his throat, glanced down at the desk, and looked back up at me.
“Mr. O’Brien—”
Here it comes. My cholesterol is too high. I need to quit smoking and drinking and eating rare steaks and baked potatoes with a shitload of butter and sour cream or I’ll be dead before I’m thirty.
“— you have cancer.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t say anything, even if I’d known what to say. There was a big lump in my throat, and it grew as he continued. My ears felt hot and began to ring. Something moved around deep down inside my stomach, a sloshing that made me queasy and afraid at the same time. The doctor seemed to shrink and swell in front of my eyes, and his voice echoed around the office. Everything started to spin and my head grew light, like I’d stood up too quick or something.
“I’ve conferred with several associates of mine, all of who specialize in this. The diagnosis is certain. The cancer is spreading throughout your throat, particularly the esophagus, as well as your jaw, chest, and lungs. It’s gotten into your lymph nodes. Those are the lumps beneath your armpits. Worse, the disease is spreading at an alarming rate. It’s what we term Grade Four—extremely serious and very, very aggressive.”
I stared at him, then decided to sit down after all. If I hadn’t, I think I would have collapsed. My legs felt like spaghetti. Outside, I heard the clackety-clack-clack as the receptionist banged away on her keyboard. The keys seemed very loud in the silence.
“Cancer. Well shit.”
“Yes.”
“That ain’t good.”
“No.”
He folded his hands, sighed, and waited for me to speak.
I was having trouble doing that. Fear kicked in, thrumming in my gut like a subwoofer.
“So— am I going to have to get one of those holes in my neck? You know, those tracheotomy things? A voice box like that guy Ned on South Park?”
“Mr. O’Brien. Tommy. I know this is a shock, but I need to make sure that you understand.”
He removed his glasses, rubbed his forehead, and sighed again. Then he put the glasses back on, folded his hands neatly on the desk, and looked at me. I knew that look. It was a look that said I’m not fucking around here.
