The16th
2004-03-21 - 9:49 p.m.

Slade O’Brien was an old man. He came to realize this fact on a cloudy day in late March. He ran an old country store that sat not ten yards from the last drive-in in central Indiana. Sometimes the young people would walk over during the slow parts in the movies or their dates, but most of the time, the store was empty except for Slade and Chieftan, his blue-tick hound.

Two weeks ago today, Slade had found Chieftan dead in a bowl of Ol’ Roy. The first thing to cross Slade’s mind upon discovery was that it was too bad he’d just bought a brand new fifty-pound bag. The second was that he’d lost his last friend, and Slade had cried for the first time since his bride had passed on twenty-six years back.

Today was day ten that Slade had sat in the store alone. He didn’t work on Saturday, because that was his day off, and he didn’t work on Sunday because the good Lord told him not to, and he was inclined to listen to the good Lord.

Slade had fought in Vietnam with six other boys from Kenton, and, because he hadn’t died, no one remembered. Four of the other boys had been killed in that damned war. One was a barber in Frankfort until he passed on. All he got was an obituary. Slade was the last remaining member of the 16th battalion, and he always felt that he’d fight again, if there were ever a need.

There would never be a need for him in the military. The armed forces had no use for a seventy-six year old man who could hardly see, much less fight. Society in general seemed to have left him behind as well, but that didn’t bother him too much.

Slade was about to die, and he knew it. He wasn’t sick, so far as he could tell, and his heart and liver seemed to be working just fine, but somehow, he just knew. He’d started to put his things in order, but then realized that there was nothing much to do. The only way to make it easier would be to buy a nice casket and lay in it until Death dropped by, and there was no way would he do that.

Last week, he’d been cleaning out the stockroom, where there was pitifully little to clean these days, and he’d heard a sound like a door opening. He thought it was Cheiftan until he remembered. He’d shuffled out to the counter, and the door had been open. No one had been around. Slade told himself it had been the wind, but he really thought it had probably been Death, staking out the place before moving in. He had walked back to the stockroom.

The next day, he was lying on the floor behind the counter, his hand at his heart. His body felt molten, as if it should be running red hot over the floorboards, burning down the old store. In his mind’s eye, he could see Death twisting the scythe and laughing. Slade did not find it funny.

He did not die that day. Death was evidently feeling a little unsure of this particular job. Slade almost smiled to himself. Seventy-six years, and he still scared Death more than Death scared him.

The next day, Slade died. Death came through the front door and shot him down in cold blood. He also emptied the cash register.

He had red hair and was missing two teeth. When he was caught, he was sentenced to two years for robbery, a different robbery. Somewhere, Death was smirking.

They found Slade two days later, during a late night showing of The Night of the Living Dead. The manager of the theater identified the body and shut off the neon “OPEN” sign for the last time.

The neon’s glow faded, and everyone forgot about Slade O’Brien, the last survivor of the 16th battalion.