1998 - The Common Era

8. Wanted Dead or Alive


"How've ya' been doing, kid?" Roger asks while Ricky is elbows deep in a Ford engine.

"You really asking two hours before I get off?" He answers with no real heat, resting his forearms on the edge of the bench, mindful not to wipe sweat off his forehead with grease-streaked hands. "I've been fine."

"You skipped bowling last night."

"I was tired. Plus, I knew Paul was gonna be there and after the whole thing with his wife, I wasn't up to dealing with him griping about it."

Roger pulls up a folding chair and sits next to the defunct car, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. "Want one?" Ricky shakes his head. "Suit yourself. He left early. Paul. Had to go pick up his kids 'cause Jolene dropped 'em off at their nan's place without saying nothing. We had a good three, fours hours without him."

"I'll be there next Thursday."

"You could've used the healthy competition on the lane." He lights up and takes a slow drag. "Was it them classes you've been taking? Don't look at me like that. You keep leaving your damn notepad on the desk."

Ricky sniffs, the smell of nicotine scratching the back of his throat, and goes back to working on the crankshaft. "I'm not taking any classes. It's just how I doodle when I'm bored."

"Doodling with numbers. That some kind of new age shit?"

"Sure is, Roger. Trying to crack the secrets of the universe so that I can blow this joint once and for all."

Roger laughs deep and hardy, lungs unimpaired by his occasional smoke. "You're a fucking riot, kid." His bald head glistens in the sunlight. "You've been looking pale. Them bags under your eyes." Very rarely does he sober up like this, looking off into the distance to give Ricky room to think. "Something's eating you up."

"Don't worry about me," Ricky says as he finishes up, wiping his hands with the rag that hangs halfway out of his pocket. He drops the hood and makes for the office to get the car ready for final inspection and yard delivery.

"Someone has to," Roger says, but Ricky pretends not to hear him.

The leftovers of company lunch are still on the desk, glass dishes with sweet potato casserole haphazardly covered with tin foil being used as a makeshift paperweight until the day's end. Snatching up a disposable fork, Ricky stabs the top layer of broiled marshmallow that bends and drags rather than snap and crunch. It's cold, and some things are not meant to be eaten cold, but this isn't one of those things.

But he can't necessarily vouch for that now, can he? He's a freak who likes cold food but he can at least recognize it. Food just tastes more flavorful that way.

He also likes his soda at room temperature, but that's because cold carbonation tends to hurt on the way down.

The clipboard that hangs from the corkboard has all of the Ford's information but none of its owner's, for the exception of a phone number with the local area code. One by one, he checks off the maintenance list and wonders if it was designated scrap by mistake. The car is by no means new, and it has some wear and tear, but its engine is now running. It'll be cheaper to get it road-worthy than to buy a new one.

He picks up the phone and dials the number, but all he gets for his troubles is a voice machine. He leaves a time sensitive message. If the car isn't off the lot by 5pm, the scrapyard is getting a new chew toy.

Jenny knocks on the door frame as he hangs up. "Anything I can take over?" she says, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. "There's someone here to see you."

"I just got done. Someone I know?"

She shrugs. "Some guy who looks like he got lost on the way to pick up his grandkids."

It takes a moment before Ricky nods his head, fight or flight scuffling each other for dominance before settling into a neutral state. Not the cop then. If only all law enforcement were this efficient when it came to their jobs.

His response is to grab the biggest box wrench he can carry one-handed, Jenny looking at him as if she can tell what he's about to do.

"I've got a Smith and Wesson in the backseat of my truck if you need backup," she says.

"I got this." He does not got this.

He knew this day would come, that this weirdo would find him in the end. The biggest surprise is that it took him this long, and all because Ricky got complacent. He grew attached to an ugly ass car that didn't even require discarding, just a paint job, but he couldn't even commit to that.

The days are growing longer. Sunlight still paints the day a vibrant, cloudless blue. Each footstep kicks up dust, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots as satisfying as the weight of the tool in his hand. He stops in the middle of the lot and offers Steve Raglan a two-finger salute.

"You following me, old man?"

Raglan has the audacity to look confused by the statement. "Nothing so sentimental. You stole my car."

"My bad."

"Back in my day," he says, taking a casual step forward, "it was considered rude to dine-and-dash. And without even a goodbye. I thought your parents would've raised you better."

Ricky's grip tightens on the wrench, but he can feel eyes on his back. Not here, he tells himself. Not in broad daylight, where everyone can see. "Some of us just don't grow up right."

Raglan takes another step, and then another before coming to a stop. He appraises Ricky, hands hooked in his pockets before settling his attention back on his face with squinty eyes. "Huh. You've got whiskers now."

Deep breaths. Ricky gives him a tight smile. "Can I get you anything, Mr. R? We're pretty busy today."

"I'm just here for my car."

Ricky opens his mouth before Roger interrupts off to his side. "You got a ticket?"

"I sure do," Raglan says, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a blue stub. He hands it to Roger who looks it over, the serial number checking out because he turns and whistles, one of the other guys jogging out to take it.

"Anything else I can do ya' for?" Roger says, "Or do I need to get the authorities involved?"

Ricky glances at Roger, confusion veering into deeper confusion but for a different reason. He's speaking in his best customer service voice, the fake kind that promises swift retribution and a prompt blacklisting from all further services. But the Chevy shouldn't have any form of ticket. And there is no way for Roger to know anything about Raglan.

Raglan offers a faux-bewildered laugh. "If you deem it necessary, I won't stop you," he says, "but heck knows I'm only here to pick up the car I've already paid to get serviced and I'm a tad confused by the hostility."

Roger closes the distance between them, and the sight is a terrible thing. Raglan straightens up. It's an afterthought of a motion, as if perking up to listen, but Raglan is tall in a way that is striking, that intimidates. Roger, on the other hand, is short and stout. If he goes for the knees, he might have a fighting chance.

"I bet you are," Roger says. "I'm gonna hand you your keys and you're gonna get off my lot and if I ever see you again? We're gonna have ourselves a knuckle tango."

Raglan considers him but does not respond.

Dean jogs back out with the same set of keys Ricky just had in his hands, the same ones he left a voice message for. He hands them off to Roger who in turn hands them to Raglan, and the absence of personal information now makes sense.

No car is checked in without a name, which means someone on the lot fucked up, or—there's no possible way he could have slipped it into the docket without anyone noticing, right?

Raglan graciously tilts his head to the side, and before returning to his Ford, stops beside Ricky. "I don't care about the car," he says, and he does not mean the one he is here to pick up. "But I have to ask if my belongings are still inside. If so, I would like them back."

The hairs on Ricky's arm stand on end. "I dumped everything on my way out of Colorado."

Sunlight reflects off the frame of Raglan's glasses like the glint of a sharpened knife. His jaw clenches as tightly as Ricky grips the wrench.

"I ain't asking again," Roger says, looming behind them like a shadow.

Raglan focuses his sights on something beyond Ricky's shoulder, then gets in his car without another word. His expression is placid as he waves his farewell, rolling out through the chain link gates like the whole exchange had been perfectly average.

The air leaves Ricky's lungs in a rush, hands shaking from the adrenaline.

"That monster's got balls of steel showing his face around these parts again," Roger says as he rubs his brow, looking mighty tired for someone who was about to square up with a man a whole foot taller than him.

"You know him?"

Roger scoffs. "Yeah. Yeah, took me a moment to recognize him. It's been a whole decade since he was all over the news, but there ain't no mistaking that ugly mug of his."

"He wouldn't be the first tasteless celeb we've made repairs for," Jenny says as she materializes behind Ricky, making him jump right out of his skin. "Sorry! Sorry."

Roger fishes for another cigarette, and that's two more than usual. It takes him about a year to go through a single pack. "You know that pizza joint a couple towns over?"

"...Freddy's," Ricky answers.

"Hm. That's one of the co-owners. The one that was a suspect in the missing kids case."

Ricky's lungs stick together, air denying his body oxygen.

—bikes tied to the posts, Ricky ruffles Jeremy's hair and he's shoved away with a huff and a "I'm not a kid anymore!" He recovers too late, tripping over untied shoelaces, his hip hitting the bumper of a magenta car parked in a reserved space—

A magenta 1975 Chevrolet Impala.

"You ever been?"

"Four years after Freddy Fazbear's Pizza found itself at the center of a national manhunt for four missing children, it seems like the lovable mascot has finally performed his final act. Following multiple lawsuits citing poor sanitation and child endangerment, the death of a seven year old boy last Friday may finally put an end to this circus of horrors. We now go to Walter Rubinstein on the scene."

Ricky had seen his face before. On the news. But not just the news. He had been there that night, and he had been there too. He had seen him. Clean shaven, younger, better dressed, but it was him. It was him.

"Ricky?"

That man held his personal files. Hell, Ricky held him inside of himself.

"Afton!" Roger snaps, smacking his hip when it comes to him. "William Afton's the sonuvabitch's name. Never got anything on him, but sometimes you can just tell with this kind of thing."

William Afton. Not Steve Raglan. Not Mr. R.

"You alright there, son?"

Ricky never should have come back. He should have kept driving, right off the edge of one of the Carolinas and into the Atlantic, where nightmares and monsters could never find him.




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