Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation (12 page)

“
I’ll keep that in mind.”

Roger turned the key in the ignition and listened as the engine rumbled to life. That was an inside joke between him and Mary Anne. Once when he’d been a new driver, he’d accidentally run over the Barton’s dog. That had been back in 1972.

Gosh, time flies when you’re having fun.

Roger threw the car into gear and eased onto the street. The picture on the front page was another image of the new mayor, this time flashing his signature smile at the camera. He wasn’t too fond of the picture, but the headline above it was a different story. It read
Savior or Sinner?
in bold red letters. A nice touch, considering he’d put it together in under twenty minutes.

The story about the caffeine-addicted editor would have to wait until tomorrow.

Roger piloted the vehicle across town, making all his normal stops. He went past Lucky Lou’s Corner Store, Hanson’s Hardware, and the Thrifty Shopper Shopping Mart—complete with all the decorations from Halloween last year. That was the great thing about Stone Creek. There were no giant corporate chain stores, just friendly little stores that catered to the individual.

Roger tried imagining what it would be like without all those shops. He tried imagining what it would look like with six-story buildings soaring above him, blotting out the sun, filling the sky with their huge glass-and-metal bulk, but he couldn’t. He had lived in little down-home Stone Creek for so long that he couldn’t imagine anything different. And if that good-for-nothing big city mayor got his way, there would be more Burger Blasters and meat packing plants than you could shake a stick at.

Bob Freeman waved at him from the side of the road. He wore his casual pink cowboy hat and spotted leather chaps. Paired with his stylish yellow aviator sunglasses, he looked like a cowpoke from the Groovy Dynasty—amazing, considering he was almost ninety years old.

“
Hey there, Roger! How is business these days?”

“
Good. Good. How is your wife?”

Bob shrugged. “She’s ok. Told me to go out this morning and get some exercise because I was getting fat. Can you believe that?” The old man caressed his generous gut.

“
You look well. Spry, like a cat.”

Bob laughed. “I always liked you, Roger. You have a way with words.”

“
That’s why I became a journalist, Bob. So I could make you smile.”

Roger cranked the wheel and accelerated onto Willow Spring Drive. The road was surrounded by nice little townhouses spaced far enough apart so you could see the rolling hills behind them, and not a fence in sight. That was the beauty of the untamed Colorado countryside. You could see for miles and miles, and not have to worry about skyscrapers interrupting your view. There were just cornfields stretching as far as the eye could see.

“
How goes the delivery business today, Roger?”

Mrs. Finch and several of her book-club buddies gathered in her front yard, glancing over their newest literary fodder. This month it was
The Town That Forgot How to Breathe
, by Kenneth J. Harvey. A book about—who would have guessed?—a town that forgot how to breathe. An odd choice, in Roger’s opinion, but they seemed to be enjoying it.

“
It’s ok, Mrs. Finch. How are you today?”

“
You know me,” the woman called with a melodic laugh. “Just admiring God’s good creation. Like the song says: everything bright and beautiful.”

Roger nodded and accelerated past the giggling housewives. He couldn’t stand that group of old goats. Beneath their happy, carefree, self-righteous attitudes, they were a bunch of snarling jackals. Especially Mrs. Finch. That whole spiel about God and his good creation was just a bunch of horse shit meant to make her look good. Everybody knew that she was getting it on with the gardener. Everyone but her husband, that is.

As Roger finished his rounds and turned back onto Main Street, he couldn’t help but smirk. Everything about Stone Creek was only skin deep. The government, the community, even the little Baptist church was on the verge of falling into hopeless moral despair. The only thing holding them together was the hope that one day a savior would arrive, a savior who could deliver them from their hidden transgressions and restore the town to its former glory. But they had made a mistake. Ignacio Salvador was not that savior. He was a money hungry predator, and not even Roger could imagine what he had in store for them.

Chapter 5

If looks could kill…

Ignacio sat at the head of a long oak table, admiring his reflection in a nearby camera lens. He’d spent the past two hours in the motel bathroom preparing himself for this precise moment, shaving his face and waxing his hair until he shone like a human firefly.

The man behind the camera was a different story. He wore raggedy jeans and a faded t-shirt that had
duckin frunk
printed across the chest.

If there was one thing Ignacio couldn’t stand, it was poor personal image. Ever since the age of five, he’d been obsessed with his image. He would not set foot in public with torn jeans or messy hair. Everything had to be absolutely perfect, from his polished oxblood English loafers to his spotless blue sports jacket.

That wasn’t to say he had a
perfect
fashion sense. Hell, if he did, he would’ve been a designer, flaunting the latest fashions in Paris and New York. Not some overstressed, under-exercised politician in Stone Creek, Colorado.

Ignacio suppressed a yawn and leaned back in his chair. Everything had gone according to plan. Just two days ago he’d sat in the same chair, looked across the same table, and seen the same pale faces. Except this time he wasn’t asking them to let Wonderworld Industries build a factory in their precious little town. This time he was announcing that Wonderworld Industries
would
be building a factory in their precious little town.

It had been almost too easy. All he did was make a little speech, show a few slides, answer a few questions, and the deal had been done. The town council members were pathetic, a bunch of old meat sacks with more faith than brains. They’d taken his bait, hook line and sinker. He was like a shepherd, leading his flock of blind sheep.

Now he knew how Jesus must have felt.

The thought brought a subconscious smile to his lips. He wasn’t aware that the camera crews were rolling until one of the town council members cleared his throat. And it wasn’t a subtle gesture, either. It was a
you don’t know what the hell is going on so I’m going to wake you up
type of throat clearing.

Ignacio flashed his poster-boy smile and folded his hands. It was a sign of power, a gesture that he was in control of the situation. Also, he never brought notes to public engagements, so he needed something to do with his hands. He couldn’t very well stick them down the front of his pants, now could he? That would be very un-mayorish.

“
I have a very important announcement to make,” he said in his richest voice, “but first I would like to thank all my friends on the City Council who made this day possible.”

Ignacio gestured toward the festering old meat sacks with outstretched arms and acknowledged the camera flashes with practiced ease. The room was filled with journalists and camera crews. There were so many of them, in fact, that some reporters had to stand in the doorway because there wasn’t enough room inside. The fact they were all from out-of-town didn’t upset him. Media coverage was media coverage, plain and simple.

When the camera flashes died down, he continued. “As all of you know, I have not been in office for a long time, but that doesn’t matter. I want to make the most of my time as your mayor. That’s why I’m here today: to announce the opening of a factory in Stone Creek.”

Ignacio paused for dramatic effect and, almost on cue, a flurry of questions darted across the table. Some were spoken, some were shouted, and some were yelled, but they were all painfully audible.

“
What is the company called?”

“
Can you tell us more about the factory?”

“
When will construction begin?”

Ignacio waited a moment for the chaos to die down, and then lifted his hands to calm the remaining voices. If he wasn’t mistaken, Moses had done the same thing in the book of Exodus, except he’d been parting the Red Sea, not calming a crowd of rabid journalists. Although the latter
did
take a miracle of equal magnitude.

“
Easy. Easy. One question at a time.”

The cameraman wearing the faded
duckin frunk
t-shirt panned across the crowd. He stopped on a diminutive-looking journalist with large round glasses and unnaturally pale skin. If not for the laminated press pass that hung around his neck, Ignacio would have thought he was a character from a wacky vampire novel. He was sure creepy enough.

“
Mr. Mayor, what are you hoping to accomplish by bringing this factory into Stone Creek?”

The man’s words were spoken softly, with a very light stutter. He was a young little prick, probably fresh from College with nothing but a fancy diploma to testify to his journalistic capabilities. His hands were shaking like leaves in autumn.

“
That’s a good question,” Ignacio mused. He’d prepared a long time for this question. “You see, Stone Creek has gone through some hard times—crop failures, droughts, and the like. What this factory will do is attract jobs, and help jump start a dead economy so that, when the next crop failure takes place, the community will not be devastated like it was before.”

A light murmur brushed through the room.

Jackpot.
They were playing right into his hands
.

“
When can we expect construction to begin?”

This time the question came from a man with silver hair and sharp blue eyes. He was the exact opposite of the vampire-like youth beside him: cool, collected, confident in his abilities. He bore all the marks of a seasoned journalist, and those were the ones Ignacio hated most. They never knew when to put down their pen and stop meddling. They always seemed to stick their noses into unwelcome territory, like the curious cat that got his head lopped off by a meat cleaver.

Well, that was Ignacio’s favorite version of the story at least.

“
Good question. Construction is scheduled to begin as soon as possible. The company is sending employees to stake out the site this afternoon, actually, so we should expect to see significant progress within the next two to three weeks.”

A volley of voices rose up in response, but Silver Hair wasn’t done. His crisp voice lifted above the rest and caused everyone else to stop and listen.

“
What is the company called?”

Ignacio leaned forward, gazing into those sharp, intelligent blue eyes. “The company is called Wonderworld Industries,” he said quietly. “And they employ the most brilliant scientific minds known to man.”

His tactic worked. The room grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Ignacio could hear his own heartbeat. He’d been waiting all night for this moment. This was his time to shine, his grand crescendo. If he played it right, he would be the subject of newspaper headlines for weeks, maybe even months. So he was very careful when he opened his mouth to speak.

“
Gentlemen,” he said. “Wonderworld Industries is the future of pharmaceuticals in North America. As we speak, they are working on a cure for the common cold. Imagine a world free of diseases. Free of sickness and frailty, and even cancer. With this new factory, one day that dream will become a reality.”

~*~

Across town, Roger watched the press conference with ephemeral concern. He wasn’t impressed with the new factory. Nor was he impressed with Ignacio’s heartfelt address. He’d lived long enough to see through many flimsy exteriors, and he had no doubt he would penetrate Ignacio’s soon enough.

Salvador was a politician, for God’s sake. As far as Roger knew, politicians didn’t care about creating miracle drugs or eliminating pain or suffering. All they cared about was money—money and power. Salvador would probably sell his own grandmother for a hundred bucks.

“
Hey, Roger. Still watching this shit?”

The bartender, Dewey, stood across the counter sponging out a filthy shot glass. His black and white speckled hair fell across his forehead, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. Roger took comfort in the fact that no matter what happened, Dewey would always be there, pouring alcohol and looming over his ancient mahogany bar.

“
I see you haven’t altered your drinking habits.”

Roger considered the can of Spiffy Cola in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking the stuff, but he couldn’t help it. It was his security blanket, something he turned to when the going got rough. Some people turned to alcohol, some to religion, but Roger would always have his can of soda.

“
I decided to take it back up, for my health.”

“
Says the smoker with chronic lung cancer.”

Roger shrugged. “Better now than in five years. God knows what this town will be like by then.”