An old, weathered grandfather clock stands tall and majestic beside the front counter of the neatly organized but dusty mercantile store. Bags of various grains and animal feed lay stacked up the middle of the well-worn floor. Barrels of dry goods hedging in the display on either end. The shop-keep was momentarily absent, leaving only the stock boy to mind the business.
Linder Strom, 34, sweeps the creaky boards underfoot with a fatigued broom and watchful eye. An immigrant from Frankfurt, West Germany with a Swedish name and accent, he found his way across the big waters to the land of opportunity - meandering from the eastern shores to this small town perched upon the great lakes.
The aged timekeeper rings out its message of high noon. Linder freezes and directs his gaze to the grand wooden spectacle. Every day the sound announces itself loudly and every day the young man stops to stare, if only for a moment, before returning to his menial tasks.
Through the front door comes the shop-keep, fresh from the barber’s chair. Shave and a trim - must be Wednesday. The older man finds his way to the stool behind the counter.
Balding with just a few grey remnants - the tough, wiry senior glares spitefully at his younger assistant. An arrangement of pure necessity, padded on all sides with utter contempt. He summons Linder with a grunt and nod of his head.
“Help with these barrels and you can go for the day.”
They lid and roll the large vessels one at a time, Linder taking the heavier of the lot. The old man, preoccupied with his scorn, runs afoul of a sharp edge on one of the barrel’s metal rings.
“Goddamn son of a bitch!”
Linder turns quickly, the man’s finger dripping blood.
“Get me a cloth, ya shiftless oaf!”
He scrambles behind the counter and back, passing the bitter old codger a handkerchief. The elder’s hands were unsteady, struggling to wrap the wound. Linder attempts to help.
“I’m not a child! Get your goddamn hands away! Go home!”
Linder stands in sheepish embarrassment before walking to the store room to retrieve his coat and lunch pail. Upon entry, he reaches for his things and notices a thick coating of the old man’s blood on his right index finger. The deep, crimson sheen is glossy, hypnotic. His eyes are lost in the sight.
Closer, he brings the finger. First a smell. The iron-rich fluid further intoxicates. He is carried away in billows of rapture - an instant of unfounded ecstasy. Into his mouth, the unsettling now becomes a strange but welcome comfort.
Removing the finger, clean of the elixir, he bursts at the seams. Something had been awakened. Something primitive, destructive - yet completely enmeshed in his soul.
He was alive now.
