Prologue

 

On the western outskirts of a small northern Canadian town, an evil hunger broods, waiting in silence within the weathered shell of an abandoned Confederate-era railcar. Step through its doors and there will be no going back.

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Over decades, the revenant Levin Mack has ensnared the desperate, the reckless, or the unlucky who have wandered just a bit too close to its web. Many are devoured in a single night of horror. Though a select few have been drawn in, their humanity slowly hollowed out, forced to bring the beast sacrifices for his unholy deity, in hopes of gaining what was promised: eternal life and freedom from the railcar that imprisons him.

​

Lately an unexpected visitor has entered his web, a young man: Jon Mills. Through him, Levin Mack seeks to break the bond that binds him to the railcar; he will merge with Jon, wear him, and walk free.

Jon Mills was eight years old when he learned monsters don’t just hide under beds. They sit at kitchen tables. They stumble home drunk. They leave bruises where no one sees.

​

His father’s absence and his mother Jillian’s cruel indifference carved his world into something cold and unforgiving, until one night, a violent assault ripped away even the thin veil of safety he counted upon. He will soon discover there is still warmth and love to be found.

Meanwhile, across town, strangers drift in and out of the Crow Bar lounge, chasing warmth, drink, or merely someone to take home for the night. Sometimes they meet something unexpected.

​

Among those living within the town, lives and lines begin to converge. Felix Baker, an ordinary man ensnared by an extraordinary horror. Frank Mills, a man with a dark checkered past, whose hunting ground is now paved in asphalt and lies. Jillian Mills, a calloused mother clawing at a bottomless void with sex, booze, and the supernatural. And the boy who already understands the cost of surviving monsters.

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One by one, people continue to disappear. Danger lurks beneath the quiet borders of town, and along the graveled shoulders of a nearby highway. Few will realize the town borders a ravenous predator’s territory, and fewer still will live to tell of it.

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Can you feel the threads tightening?    The web awaits.   The railcar endures.

​

Chapter 1

1976:  Car Trouble in Duren Point

 

The shiny new Mercury wagon coasted up to the gas pumps at the Duren Point Texaco station, where a small, rundown greasy spoon sat beside the service station. Today was a scorcher, and Felix Baker had rolled down all the windows in a futile attempt to beat the heat. Behind the wheel, the thoroughly annoyed thirty-something man killed the engine with a frustrated sigh. “Might as well glance at the car’s manual while I wait,” he thought.

Leaning over, he reached for the glove compartment pressing down on the button without result. After a half dozen attempts, the box was still refusing to open. Cursing under his breath, Felix pounded the top of the dashboard with his fist, still nothing.

“Damn, was anything working in this gas pig?” Felix Baker asked himself. Sitting back in his seat, Felix retrieved a damp handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopping the small beads of sweat forming on his brow. He had been driving his “new ride” beneath a blazing, cloudless sky, without the benefit of air conditioning, the deal-clinching feature that grinning son of a bitching salesman had spewed at the dealership. After passing Prince George and riding west, the car had transformed itself into a mobile furnace. The A/C blew nothing but hot air, and to make matters worse, the climate control knobs wouldn’t stop the fans. Meanwhile the car’s temperature gauge soared, indicating a badly overheated engine forcing him to stop frequently to let the car cool down. What should have been a one-hour journey stretched into nearly three hours of blistering agony.

Felix suddenly realized he had been sitting at the pumps for several minutes. Another half minute or so later, with still no one approaching his car, Baker’s head swiveled toward the station trying to spy an attendant. The station’s overhead garage doors were up and open while a gigantic ghetto blaster sat on a back counter cranking out an Aerosmith tune, Steven Tyler’s Sweet Emotion was shakin’ the walls. “Some sweet hog mama with a face like a gent, said my get up and go must've got up and went”…

Sitting at the pumps, Felix continued to fume, his fingers impatiently drumming on the steering wheel. It had been a shit day and from the looks of things around this dump it wasn’t about to get better any time soon. Another verse blared forth from the work bays… “Well I got good news, she's a real good liar, cause the backstage boogie set your pants on fire”. Noticing his fingers were unintentionally keeping time to the music, he immediately cursed, laying on the horn saying “Ok assholes, show me this high quality of service you guys are always bragging about!”

Looking inside the work bay, Felix spotted the grease-stained ass of a mechanic leaning under the front hood of a Buick. “Son of a bitch!” This time the driver hit the horn for a good ten seconds.

Hearing the blaring horn, the mechanic suddenly looked up and sent Felix a quick salute, or maybe threw him the bird, Nick couldn’t be sure. The mechanic yelled out. “For Christ’s sake, Niles, pull your head out of your ass! We got a customer!”

Moments later, a young, pimple-faced pump jockey dressed in filthy blue coveralls and a 'smiley face' ball cap casually strolled out toward the customer. With a single glance the kid’s smile faded, the driver appeared nearly as overheated as the man’s ride, despite the car’s engine being off for nearly five minutes. Niles thought he saw small puffs of steam rising up from beneath the car’s hood.

Figuring it was probably time to put on his best cheery facade, the kid grinned broadly. “Howdy Sir. And how are we today?”

Baker wasn’t impressed, not by a fuckin’ long shot. “So whatever happened to ‘we jump to the pumps!’?”

The boy scowled. Sensing this guy’s attitude wasn’t going to improve anytime soon, the kid, working for his uncle at minimum wage, didn’t feel inclined to take any bullshit. “Nah man, that’s Domo.” The kid snarked. “So what will it be… regular or extra?” Noticing Felix’s look of exasperation the kid grinned, “Or maybe a new car, eh pal?”

Felix was incensed, “Okay, funny man. Is there another garage in town? You probably noticed I got an A/C problem.”

“Yup.  Andy Jakes’ place… the Golden Wrench, down the next block.” The kid flicked his thumb down the road.

“Thanks for nothing chum,” His hand reached for the ignition key.

“But you won’t have much luck there.” The kid smirked.

“Why the hell not?”

“He ain’t open today… at his sister’s wedding.” The music blaring out of the garage door suddenly went silent, causing the kid to glance toward the station’s overhead door apprehensively. His uncle stood scowling toward him at the entrance with one hand on a hip, a wrench in the other. The two had already had a conversation about his shitty attitude earlier that morning and given the stern look on his uncle’s face the boy decided he’d better smarten up. He gushed apologetically, “Hey look mister, I had a bad day, I’m sorry you had to wait. I can talk to the boss, I’m sure he can fix you up in a jiffy.”

Felix considered this while turning the key and starting the wagon, immediately what should have been cool streams of comfortable air once again rapidly became a heated torrent. He killed the engine. “Guess I haven’t got much choice do I.” Felix forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to cool his frustration. He said in a quiet voice. “It’s I bought this car yesterday, and nothin’ friggin works…,” he muttered.

“Sorry to hear that, must be one of those Monday or Friday cars, where the guys on Monday are hung-over and the Friday dudes can’t wait to hit the bar.” He shook his head. “Hey, if you want, pull your wagon over there in that stall and the boss will have a look at it. Probably just a loose hose or somethin’.” The kid did his best to manage a sincere smile.

“I dunno. I gotta be somewhere tonight.” Nick rubbed his forehead, his hand came away wet with perspiration.

A man’s voice sounded nearby. “What’s the problem mister?” The station’s mechanic had come out to the pumps to see what was going on.

“Damn A/C is blowing nothing but hot air, can’t even turn it off.” Nick complained.

“Yeah, I hear this year’s model has got a few bugs in that department.” The mechanic nodded. “Why don’t you pull it up to the shop doors, I can tell you now I won’t be able to fix it, you’ll need parts. . . there’s a dealer in Terrace, but they’re probably not going to help much right away.”

Niles interrupted. “Look, at least let me sell you a couple of jugs of coolant, just in case you have a boil over.” The kid bent low looking beneath the front of the car. “I don’t see any rad leaks.”

“No you wouldn’t Niles. Cause that ain’t the problem. Why don’t you go inside and push the broom like I asked you to do an hour ago.” The mechanic shook his head watching the kid walk toward the shop, explaining. “My sister’s kid, he tries, but he’s dumber than a sack full of shit.”

The shop owner rubbed his chin in thought. “Only thing I can do is disconnect the climate control. Take about fifteen minutes or so. You can go over to the cafe, grab a brew or a bite, or just grab a bottle of Coke in the shop and wait.” After a moment, Felix nodded resignedly, turned on the ignition switch and drove the car toward the shop’s overhead door.

Half-hour later, fueled up, windows down, Felix Baker was back on the highway headed towards Prince Rupert. Just as a precaution, he’d bought a couple of jugs of rad coolant and a couple of liters of motor oil. If he were lucky he’d cover the three hundred kilometers making the Prince in a little over four hours. Maybe he’d even have time to stop and grab a bite for dinner.

Or maybe not.

​

Chapter 2

1983: Frank Mills, I’m a workin’ on the railroad

 

He removed his ball cap shielding his eyes from the brilliant late August sun. Frank Mills raised his eyes from the black creosote wooden tie that lay embedded in the rail bed’s broken granite. “Hells bells!” he muttered; it was only mid-morning and the day was already shaping up to be another scorcher! Looking ahead, his eyes scanned the narrow expanse of clear blue sky rising above the razor straight rails splitting a dense band of forest and brush. Would he find any hint of cloud that might signal potential relief? Not one damn wisp; Frank lowered his gaze. Staring down at his worn, scuffed boots, he worked his tongue against his teeth, hoping to coax enough moisture to spit.

Frank allowed his eyes to follow the gleaming rails. The parallel bands of steel ran due north until they merged into a single strand about five kilometers away. Using the sleeve of his checkered shirt, Frank wiped the sweat from his brow before it could run into his eyes and sting. He removed a small canteen from his belt and unscrewed the top. The lid hung loose by a narrow metal chain. Turning about and looking southward, he watched the long stretch of rails he’d already walked veer east toward Duren Point and disappear. He slowly raised the canteen to his mouth, taking a long swig before lowering it and screwing the lid tight before returning it to his belt.

For a moment, he struggled to recall the term his eighth-grade teacher had used. . . what was that? Oh yeah, perspective. Once more turning his body toward the north, Frank estimated the length of rail he still had to walk, appraising its condition while clearing the rail bed of branches and debris. He shook his head. It had to be at least another seven kilometers. He worked that distance into time. Frank quickly arrived at about four long, hot, sweaty hours. “Fuckin’ railroad!” he cursed under his breath.

Well before dawn, Frank and nine other men had climbed into the rear box of a large maintenance truck. Not a man jack had been looking forward to the grueling five-day trip and each of them was leaving behind a wife, a sweetheart or both. Leaving the rail yard behind, the crew began the maintenance tour that would see them covering a distance of three hundred and fifty kilometers beginning from Duren Point and ending at the port of Prince Rupert, British Columbia; the Pacific west coast. Over the days, each man would be dropped at regular ten-kilometer intervals. From there, they’d walk the line raking and clearing light debris while tossing any fallen branches clear of the rails and along the tree line. It was a lonely existence and the days often seemed longer than they actually were. It left a man a lot of time to think and contemplate their life. Where was it going, or had it already left them behind?

No one knew who had come up with the initial design of these maintenance trucks, but whoever had done so was one smart son-of-a-bitch. The vehicle the men traveled in had both rubber tires and smaller steel drive wheels, similar to those of a train. This allowed the truck to ride smoothly along the rail tracks or when required, to take to the highway, but far more often atop deeply rutted and bumpy roads that never failed to jostle the men and equipment about in the back of the vehicle.

Sometimes when the air was still and breathless, the exhaust from the truck’s powerful diesel engine combined with the granite or limestone dust churned up from the rail bed to become a choking fume. The men seated within the truck’s passenger and equipment box would often cough or gag. Attempting to relieve their discomfort, Frank and the other men bound handkerchiefs across their mouths and noses. Closing their eyes into tight slits they’d do their best to see their way forward. Finally dismounting the truck and standing atop the rail bed, they’d enjoy a welcome, though all too brief reprieve. Then they’d pick up their rakes and shovels, continuing the long trek toward the next pick-up point. Each man would find himself repeating the entire ordeal until the sun drew low in the western sky.

Just after dawn, the maintenance truck departed the rail yard, following a paved road that would soon give way to gravel. It was headed toward a level crossing located about ten kilometers west of Duren Point. Upon arrival, the crew boss would check in with operations to confirm that the track would remain clear of both freight and passenger trains for the next several hours. Once they received the go-ahead, the crew would begin “riding the rail” until it was time to leave the main line. At that point, the truck could either pull onto a parallel siding or drive onto a roadway, yielding to any scheduled trains.

Frank’s crew was fortunate compared to those in previous years; their maintenance truck was equipped with modern radio communications, at least in areas where the railroad had installed repeater stations.

In decades past, radio communication along the rail lines was often marginal at best. It wasn't until the late 1960s that reliable and affordable radios were to see widespread adoption. This advancement was, in part, a result of NASA's demand for lightweight, high-performance communication and computer systems for its planned moon missions. Older radios, which relied on vacuum tubes, could not withstand the intense vibrations and endurance required by railway operations. Before this technological shift, oncoming trains and maintenance crews frequently found themselves stranded on sidings for hours, waiting for scheduled trains to pass.

Frank advanced another half kilometer before coming upon a large branch that the brush cutter crew had either overlooked or deliberately ignored. He grunted heaving the 60-kilogram obstacle off toward the tree line. “Dirty, no-good, lazy bastards!” he exclaimed, “There’s no reason I should have to deal with this shit!”

The brush cutter, commonly referred to as the “beast,” had passed through several weeks earlier. It was equipped with a massive rotary saw mounted on a long arm that could extend twenty feet or more to the side of the tracks, efficiently cutting through small trees and dense brush. Frank’s crew often believed that the operators of the beast had an easy job; the saw handled 90% of the work, requiring the crew to dismount only to clear away larger branches or trunks. As a result, available positions on the brush cutter were scarce and seldom appeared.

Nearly exhausted, Frank sat on a large stump in the shade of a towering fir near the forest's edge, taking a long swig from his canteen. It was a scorching day; he had already consumed three-quarters of his first canteen, and it wasn’t even noon. Grateful for the shade, Frank rested, lighting a cigarette and reflecting on the day, which had felt strange from the very beginning. The sun had risen through clouds of fine smoke from a distant forest fire, appearing as a bloody red globe on the eastern horizon before transforming into a burnished bronze by mid-morning.

Looking ahead, he nearly moaned aloud. The rail bed felt like a crucible; heat waves shimmered above the granite, and the steel rails glistened under the relentless August sun. The last seven kilometers would be grueling. It was then that he first noticed the brilliant white peaks of an approaching cloud bank far to the northwest. A cold front was moving southward from the Alaskan coast, colliding with the overheated air and forming a line of towering cumulonimbus clouds, commonly known as thunderheads. Frank immediately recognized the signs of impending bad weather and trusted that the crew boss would as well; it wouldn’t be wise to be caught in the open when the storm broke. He crushed out his cigarette butt and resumed his walk along the tracks.

In the meantime, Frank’s boss and the rest of his crew sat idling on a short siding twenty kilometers to the west, each man staring up at the troubling, quickly darkening sky. For the past two hours, they had been stranded, waiting for the scheduled freight to pass. Despite the boss’s repeated attempts to contact the Duren Point operations center, the crackling static of the radio provided no indication of how long they would remain there. As he had done many times before, the foreman filled out the necessary paperwork to report the lack of communication in the area. Likely, as had happened in the past, the company would simply ignore the report. Either way, something would have to happen soon.

Taking another appraisal of the ominous sky, the foreman ordered the crew to erect a canvas tarp over the crew and equipment box. It would offer some protection against all but the wildest weather, but faced with what was likely coming their way, every man knew that a severe wind could just as easily tear the tarp from its frame. If that happened, they would all scramble beneath the truck itself to wait out the storm.

Marching up the still sweltering tracks, Frank's mind wandered back to hours earlier. He had been the first to dismount from the truck, dropped at the first mile marker on a section of track about twenty kilometers west of Duren Point. As he walked the track, he carried a small saw, a short rake, a shovel, and a roll of red tape, which he used to mark branches of trees where he spotted issues with the rail, the ties, or the granite bed on which the creosote ties rested.

A light pack rested on his shoulders, containing an old oilcloth slicker bundled in a plastic bag for potential rain. Frank disliked wearing it; while the oilcloth had some water-resistant properties, it was not entirely rainproof. Stiff and crinkly, it also had a terrible odor. Along with the slicker, he carried a change of clothes and a second full canteen in case the one on his belt ran dry. Although there were plenty of small creeks along the way, drinking from them was risky, even if the water appeared crystal clear. Doing so could lead to what the locals called “beaver fever,” a nasty intestinal illness caused by a microscopic parasite.

Frank stopped, examining a hundred-meter section of debris-covered track. Placing his hands on his hips, he arched his back for a welcome stretch. “Well, might as well get back to it,” he muttered, beginning to work along the rail bed, clearing branches and fallen leaves from the steel tracks. Bending low, Frank ran his shovel across the surface of the rails, scraping and peeling off a coating of leaves that had become tightly pasted to the metal. Over time, the leaves had accumulated, pressed flat by passing train wheels, and refused to budge with just the rake. “Slippery rail” or “leaves on the line,” as railroaders referred to it, could significantly reduce friction between the locomotive's driving wheels and the rails. This was especially dangerous on stretches of track with steep grades, where an engineer might find his train suddenly unable to climb a hill or effectively brake on a downhill section. Most people were unaware of this condition, as was Frank when he first started, but he certainly understood it now. After a week of mindlessly bending and scraping, he felt as though he’d never walk upright again.

A half hour later, having completed the miserable task, Frank looked up and down the tracks, checking for either an approaching train or, if he was lucky, the maintenance truck. Overhead, the approaching thunderheads appeared almost motionless, though Frank knew from experience that it was simply an optical illusion given the vast scope of the weather front. The impending storm would be a severe one. Taking one last hopeful look down the northern section of track, a familiar need for comfort seized him. Scanning the area for a fallen trunk or a stump to sit upon; Frank loudly proclaimed, “Time for a smoke!”

Frank came across the fallen log of a long-dead fir, thinking it would do the trick. He first took the time to examine the bark for any ants before settling onto the wooden perch. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be beset upon by an army of pesky insects, he relaxed and lit a cigarette, taking a deep lungful and holding it for a moment before blowing a series of smoke rings into the still air. He watched the smoke rings slowly dissipate, losing their shape and blending into the surrounding atmosphere until they vanished completely. Frank wondered if his future held anything in common with the smoke. Would he simply blow away and vanish?

​

Chapter 10

Party Night in the Crowbar

 

It was Thursday night in the Crowbar tavern, and “Ladies Night” had the boys in the mood to party. Fresh off a weeklong maintenance tour traveling the rails, Frank and his crew were ready to enjoy a few well-deserved beers and whiskies. The dimly lit bar was a classic example of small-town taverns in western Canada.

As they entered, visitors found themselves in familiar territory. The sharp odor of drifting cigarette smoke hit them first, followed by the mingled scents of stale beer, popcorn, and fryer oil lingered in the air. The layout and low end decor fit the men’s expectations fine. The yellow tinged, low-hanging lights hanging above the worn polished mahogany bar right down to the cracked red vinyl seats. The holiday atmosphere buzzed with laughter and conversation conveying a welcome and familiar atmosphere.

Frank took a deep breath, savoring the mix of aromas defined his local bar, but this was much more than a bar. After the long days they spent on the road, this was a spot where he and his pals could swap a few stories, tell a few lies and spill a little whiskey.

Glancing around, one would notice the dim yellow light spilling from low-hanging swags and wall sconces. This soft illumination obscured the cheap wall paneling and the half-hidden alcoves lined one side of the tavern. Shiny vinyl seats, typically in shades of beige or burgundy, contributed to the establishment's worn charm. The subdued lighting created a quasi-romantic atmosphere, offering an illusion of privacy, until a match was struck, revealing the faces of patrons as they lit their cigarettes.

In one corner of the tavern, the obligatory pool tables sat beneath three green shades suspended from a single brass bar. The small 3 x 7 foot playing surfaces featured generously sized pockets, designed to help even mediocre players clear the table quickly, thus speeding up games and maximizing profits. Scattered throughout the room were traditional small round tables paired with hardwood chairs. Each tabletop was covered in form-fitted terry cloth of various colors, while the legs rested on a red, threadbare carpet led visitors up the main aisle toward the bar, revealing a variety of stains, some recent, others more than a decade old.

The length of the bar varied with the size of the tavern, but each featured a serving counter marked by elbow-worn splotches on its polished surface. Below, a boot-scratched brass foot rail ran along the base. Tall wooden stools, stained in various shades, lined the bar. Some bore the marks of replacement, while others showed signs of repair, evidence of damage from drunken brawls.

Rising behind the counter, out of reach of eager customers, several beer spigots stood ready, their heads advertising the more popular brews. On the back wall, a second thin wooden counter displayed jars of olives, containers of sliced limes and lemons, rock salt, and coarse pepper, alongside tin shakers, spoons, and strainers of various sizes. Above, a backlit series of glass shelves rose for several rows, the lowest shelf showcasing the cheaper, more popular bar brands, while the upper shelves held the pricier, seldom-poured liquors.

Waitresses navigated an obstacle course through the crowd, one hand balancing a tray of highballs and drafts, the other poised to fend off the occasional grope or pat on the backside. The rooms buzzed with noise, a discordant choir of bass, baritone, and soprano, each voice struggling to rise above the general melee. Patrons leaned in close to converse; otherwise, their words would dissolve into gibberish, especially once the three-piece band struck up.

Frank and his friends arrived after seven o’clock in the evening, precisely when the tavern reopened its doors after a brief closure at five. The earlier closing had ushered out patrons, urging them to return home to their suppers, wives, and children. This was a customary practice, if not an unwritten law, in many blue-collar communities.

The small group settled at the end of the bar, a coveted spot known as the “runway” or “strut,” thanks to its proximity to the women’s washroom. The men’s high-backed stools formed an irregular semi-circle, intentionally arranged to allow each gent a clear view of the passing “merchandise.” Even with his back turned, the bartender could always sense when a particularly “juicy piece of fruit” caught the men’s attention; the banter and laughter would fall silent until the pretty woman passed out of sight. Low voices would quickly discuss opinions and ratings on a scale of 1 to 10, knowing full well these scores would be revised after her second appearance.

Every so often, one of the girls, usually a 6 or lower on the scale, would stop, hands on hips, berating the men as being sexist or juvenile (well what did they expect?). Yet, as soon as she returned to her friends at the table, she would pick up where they left off, assessing the men on the dance floor in a similar manner.

“Here they come, boys,” Biff announced to the group. Well-liked by all, Mike, aka “The Biff,” aka “Biffy,” among other variations, elbowed Frank gently in the ribs while nodding toward a group of rather rotund women making their way to a distant corner table.

“Yeah, time for the ol’ round-up,” Frank smirked.

All heads in Frank’s group turned in unison, watching the ladies seat themselves at the table, their chair backs positioned against the wall as if preparing to fend off an attack. The women claimed particular table as their exclusive territory every Friday and Saturday night; woe betide anyone who failed to yield upon their arrival. Unbeknownst to them, the men in the bar had long ago dubbed them “the Cows in the Corner,” or simply “Cn’C” for short.

Later on, as last call approached, if any of Frank’s crew could still see straight, they’d watch one or two desperate guys approach one of the cows for a dance. These fellows were humorously dubbed the “princes of whales,” and small bets were often placed to see if one of the girls might actually leave with them. Occasionally, one of Frank’s buddies would muster the courage to stroll nonchalantly up to the table, engaging in small talk and suggesting they meet up later. All the while the guy would be glancing over his shoulder, checking to see if his friends were watching and hoping they were otherwise occupied. But fat chance of that.

For the third time in half an hour, a shapely redhead in a miniskirt cruised by on the strut, and right on cue, the men admired her. Enjoying the attention, she allowed a furtive, self-satisfied smile to cross her face, prompting Frank to quip loudly, “Hey boys, it’s one of those new jet skirts!” At the sound of his voice, the woman turned her head slightly, her ear catching the comment, while the men exchanged knowing smiles, anticipating what would come next. “Yeah, right there! You can see the cockpit!” Frank and the boys erupted in laughter, their amusement growing as the girl’s face flushed a bright scarlet, her high heels clicking urgently toward the women’s bathroom.

An hour passed. The band was taking another “fifteen-minute” break, which would inevitably stretch into a good half hour. Not anyone in the room cared much; most folks were already well on their way to being drunk, and besides, the band stunk. Frank checked his watch; it was nearing ten o’clock. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the time if he wanted to catch Jillian when she got off shift at Oh Henry’s.

At that moment, Biff ran up and plopped down hard on his stool, draining the last of his Labatt’s Blue before breathlessly announcing, “Boys, you won’t believe it!” All heads turned toward their friend. “Some chick’s giving a guy a blow job in one of the bathroom stalls!”

“Yeah, right. Nice try, Barfy…” one of the guys shot back snidely, referencing the last outing when they watched Biff heave his guts out against the Crowbar’s exterior walls.

“Look, asshole, I’ve asked you not to use bad language.” Biff shot the guy the bird and continued, “Honest to fuck, I’m telling you the truth! Go see for yourself!” Frank and a couple of the other guys noticed several men suddenly hurrying toward the men’s room. With Mike likely telling the truth, the entire group sprang from their chairs, except for Frank, who remained seated, taking a shot of rye whiskey straight up, praying to God he wouldn’t know the girl in the stall. Jillian was a good-time gal, was for sure. She could perform more tricks on six inches of cock than a monkey on six feet of rope. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Please, no…” he whispered to himself, recalling a particular Tuesday a couple of weeks prior. Frank had slipped the barman a fin to overlook Jillian’s underage status. The proprietor had assured him it wouldn’t be a problem. Aside from a cheating couple hiding in a dark booth and several regulars already drunk with their heads in the pail, the place had been stone dead. Later that evening, when he’d gone for a leak, Jillian had shown up and pushed him into a stall.

A kerfuffle erupted outside the men’s washroom, causing Frank to crane his neck for a better look. A burly doorman held a guy and a girl by their upper arms, leading them through a throng of laughing bystanders toward the tavern’s exit. The fellow, knowing he’d made local barroom history, waved to the crowd with his free hand, grinning proudly. In contrast, the girl twisted her head toward the bouncer, doing her best to shield her face from the onlookers. Her efforts were futile; worse yet, she was a regular, well-known to all. You could pretty much guarantee she wouldn’t be hitting the Crowbar anytime soon. A single glance told Frank all he needed to know… it wasn’t Jillian.

Frank watched the boys make their way back to their bar stools, laughing and joking about what had taken place. Biff was already tuning up his rendition, claiming it would be a “blow-by-blow” commentary. Frank glanced at his wristwatch; it was nearly ten-thirty. Jillian would be over at Oh Henry’s and should be off shift in half an hour. The band had finally started up again, and Frank felt the vibration of the overly loud bass guitar thumping in his chest, forcing him to yell out his goodbyes to the others before heading toward the door.

He stepped out into the parking lot, relieved to leave the music, noise, and smoke behind. The cool night air hit him, and he noticed the back and sides of his shirt clinging to his body. He hadn’t realized how hot and humid the tavern had become. Lighting a cigarette, he scanned the jumble of parked cars and trucks. Aside from a couple making out against a tavern wall, the lot was deserted. That would all change half an hour after last call when the parking lot would turn into one big traffic jam.

Frank walked in the general direction of his truck, grabbing the keys from his pocket and dangling them from his fingers. Now, where had he parked? Still walking and gawking, he suddenly tripped. Quickly recovering, he looked back at the smooth, bare pavement, unable to see anything might have caused him to stumble. How much had he drunk that night? His memory failed him after five beers and three highballs.

Only a few feet from the driver’s door of his Chevy, Frank realized he felt a pressing need to “drain the lizard.” Stepping away from the door, he faced the truck’s rear tire. He fumbled with the buttons of his new jeans. Not yet broken in, the buttons were stiff and unyielding. If he didn’t hurry, he began to worry he might piss himself!

Feeling relief as a small puddle formed at his feet, Frank held the cigarette in his mouth, turning his face away from the nagging thread of smoke stung his eyes. He spat the butt onto the pavement and tidied himself up. As he walked back toward the driver’s door, he caught a slight movement from another car in the parking lot, initially dismissing it as another couple having a little fun. But then, a passing car’s headlights illuminated the roof of the vehicle, revealing the red and blue emergency light bar of an RCMP cruiser.

“Shit!” Frank muttered to himself. Instead of stopping at the Chevy’s door, he casually walked past it toward the cruiser. “Nearly had me, didn’t you, bucko?” he grinned as he approached the driver’s side.

Inside, the stern-faced officer rolled down his window, sizing up the young man approaching him. It wasn’t anyone he recognized, and the guy hardly looked like the dangerous type. Merely a local who’d had a few that evening. As Frank passed close, he recognized the copper as the same guy who gave him the up and down last time he cruised the school ground. “Shit!” He gave the officer a small wave slurring politely, “How are you tonight, sir?” Saying nothing the cop dismissed him with a curt nod, returning his attention to the parking lot, where the couple who had been making out near the tavern was now heading over to a black and yellow El Camino.

The walk to Oh Henry’s wasn’t far, and Frank reached the restaurant’s front door. The small neon “Open” sign in the window was lit, as were the interior lights. He tugged lightly on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Quickly checking his watch, he saw it read 11: 05. “Shit, I’m late!” He took a long look inside and spotted the uniformed back of a waitress working behind the counter. Relief washed over him; until she turned around. It was Shirley Tows; Jillian was nowhere to be seen.

Exiting five minutes later, Shirley walked out the front door while Henry locked up. Recognizing Frank standing nearby, she approached him, her mind racing to concoct a quick lie. “Hey Frank, how you doing?”

“Pretty good. Figured I’d see Jillian here?” Frank asked.

“Nah, our girl called in sick at the last minute. Henry called me in to cover for her, and on a Friday night, no less. Can you believe that shit?” Seeing Frank was in the mood to chat, she called out to Henry. “How about that ride?” The older man paused, standing by his car, looking a little puzzled. “You know, getting me down to the Crowbar?” Henry nodded and climbed behind the wheel.

“Hey Frank, I gotta go. Don’t want to miss last call, eh?”

“Okay, sure.” Frank pulled a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. “Have a good one, right?” Shirley skipped her way to Henry’s car, disappearing inside. Frank lit a cigarette, watching the car leave the lot, thinking, “So much for getting laid tonight.”

As he passed by the Crowbar on his way home, he noticed the cop car still parked in the lot. “And so much for driving too…” The half-hour walk back had cleared his head. Reaching the side door leading to his basement suite, he slid the key into the lock and noticed something fall to his feet. Frank opened the door, flicked on the inside light, and glanced at the threshold. His hand reached for a small, unaddressed envelope, and he immediately wondered if his landlord was reminding him he was a day late with the rent.

Unconcerned, he stepped into his flat, tossing the envelope atop the kitchen table before walking over to the fridge to grab a beer. Returning to the table, Frank sat and stared at the calendar hanging on the nearby wall. The small stars and shift times he’d jotted down in red ink reminded him he’d be back to work in three days, but at least then he’d be working in the yard and not out of town. Taking a couple of swigs from the bottle, Frank set it down and picked up the envelope. Upon opening it, he immediately recognized Jillian’s handwriting.

Dear Frank,

I mentioned before you headed off to work I haven’t been feeling great, so I decided to see a doctor. To cut to the chase, I’m pregnant. Frank, this is my issue, not yours, so please don’t stress about it. My dad kicked me out, so I’m crashing at Shirley’s for the time being. I’m unsure about my next steps. Shirley thinks I could consider an abortion, but I’d need to find the right doctor. I guess some perform them, and others don’t. If I choose to keep the baby, I’ll probably leave town and stay with a relative, but I’m not sure who would be. After the baby arrives, I’ll probably put it up for adoption; I might return to Duren Point after that, or maybe not. There’s nothing for me here anymore.

Frank, if you don’t want to see me again, I completely understand. No need for goodbyes; as I said, this is my issue, not yours.

J

Completely at a loss for what to do, Frank had only one option left, to grab another beer. This was definitely a two or maybe even a three-beer problem, after all. Two hours later, he was still slumped at the table, stewing over the tough situation. A million questions raced through his mind, swirling and crashing around in his head without offering any clear answers.

Should he pay for the abortion? Did he even want her to go through with it? After all, the kid was his. At least probably, maybe he should ask for a blood test. How would Jillian react to that? If she gave the baby up for adoption, who’s to say the kid’s stepdad wouldn’t turn out to be a total creep? Was he ready to be a father? Did he even love Jillian? Should she move in with him? What was the right thing to do? Frank’s head spun, a dull headache pounding at the back of his skull.

That’s when he suddenly remembered riding the maintenance truck a month ago, listening to a conversation between two of his crew members, Larry and Jay. Larry, the older guy, was telling Jay about how he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant years back. When she found out, she planned to move to Vancouver with her family. Larry had to make a choice; he wasn’t sure he loved her much at the time, but he decided to take the leap and marry her anyway. Now, ten years and three kids later, they had a solid marriage.

“Hell,” Frank thought, “if it worked for Larry and his girl, maybe it could work for him and Jillian.”

A loud click pulled Frank’s attention to the wall clock; the hour hand had snapped to 3 am. Five empty brown bottles still stood at attention before him. It was time for him to hit the hay. In the bedroom, Frank fumbled with the alarm clock, setting it for nine o’clock, then stripped off his shirt, pants, and socks before collapsing onto the bed without bothering to pull down the sheets. As he sprawled across the bedspread, Frank did something he hadn’t done in years, not since his mother had passed. He said a prayer.  

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Chapter 64

Wednesday October 31: Evil vs. Evil

 

Cst. Cook and Alison stood at the bottom of the coach steps. Suddenly, Alison felt Esmeralda squeeze past her and climb the stairs to the platform landing. Gary, hearing rapid footsteps on the stairs, turned and saw the woman. Esmeralda’s face was animated, her voice loud and shrill. “He is coming! He is coming!”

Now at the top of the platform, Esmeralda stood beside Gary and pointed into the gloomy railcar. Gary’s jaw must have dropped as, unbelievably, he saw the lanterns hanging on either side of the railcar aisles begin to glow. The light, at first feeble and flickering, quickly grew brighter and took on a ruddy hue. Gary raised and pointed his gun into the railcar’s interior.

“Your gun won’t be of much use, my dear.” Esmeralda reached into her pocket. “You can’t kill something that’s already dead.” At that precise moment a jet-black mist appeared near the far end of the coach. The couple watched as, ever so slowly, a figure rose up through the floorboards and took shape before them. A disgusting stench quickly enveloped them: decaying, rotting flesh and bad dreams.

Gary stood within the car, only a few feet from the doorway. He was frozen in his tracks. Part of him wanted to flee: to jump, not just climb, down the nearby stairs; yet a more valiant part was not prepared to let a woman face whatever was coming alone. For her part, Esmeralda simply waited, the expression on her face unreadable yet somehow confident.

For the first time that Halloween night, Levin Mack made his appearance. Until now the night had not fully taken hold, and the creature had lacked its full strength, unable to reincorporate its body. Levin had managed to summon the bum to the car, and the derelict swung his club and disabled one of the troublemakers. Unaware of Jon Mills’ change of loyalty, Levin mistakenly counted on him and Frank Mills to manage the others. Then, when Jon killed his father, the odds reversed in a split second. Seeing Jon and the girl leave the railcar, the creature became enraged. The human vehicle he sought to possess and the sacrificial human he planned to offer his malevolent Overlord had both removed themselves from his control. Once again, it seemed Levin Mack would remain jailed within the walls of his dilapidated prison.

Moments earlier, as night enveloped the earth, Levin Mack had felt empowered and renewed. Now fully assembled, he sensed that Gary and another woman stood within his grasp and began to move forward. As he approached the couple, the ruddy glow of each lantern sparked brighter as he passed, gleaming an unhealthy bone white. In the monster’s breast, Levin Mack’s desire and hunger to visit pain and death on these intruders defied description.

Gary and Esmeralda saw a thin figure wearing a Confederate jacket and cap approach. As it moved closer, Gary could make out its enraged expression, a face dressed in an almost unworldly hate. Without warning, he fired two shots into its body. Both Gary and Esmeralda watched the heavy bullets strike the breast of the gray Confederate jacket and pass through harmlessly. The creature continued his slow advance. The small holes Gary’s bullets had punched into the jacket vanished, leaving only faint trails of white smoke to mark the bullets’ passage, which quickly evaporated.

The creature was only a few meters away. Esmeralda swept her left arm across Gary’s chest, pushing him back while stepping forward, placing herself between the man and the monster. Gary thought to restrain the woman, but fear had completely taken him; he was unable to speak, let alone move.

Gary watched Esmeralda remove a large silver medal with a gold inscription from her pocket. Letting it dangle from its brass chain, she held her hand chest high before her. Gary suddenly noticed that the loud, boisterous conversations of Alison, James Cook, and the two young people faded into utter silence. Within the car, as he looked toward the creature, Gary’s vision spiraled into a tunnel. Outside his narrow cone of vision was nothing but the deepest black imaginable. At that desperate moment, he caught a faint radiance as a pure light began to glow from the medal Esmeralda held before her. If Gary had been able to describe it, he might have likened it to the loving sparkle within a woman’s diamond engagement ring, the rays spreading outward from where the woman stood. Where the brilliance struck the black shroud pressing in from every angle, the light held and prevented the darkness from approaching, holding the creature at bay, at least for the moment.

Now Esmeralda began a chant. Gary could not understand the words or even what language she spoke, but the words themselves elicited an unusual response within the medal; the brilliance shone forth with renewed vigor. Levin Mack struggled to maintain his unrelenting approach, but Esmeralda’s words seemed to constrict and restrain any further advance. Gary would later swear that her voice lowered at least a full register, taking on an almost masculine resonance and adopting an unusual accent and cadence. The inlaid gold inscription began to gleam while the silver metal surrounding the lettering grew almost dark in comparison. Esmeralda’s words boomed and echoed, as if a violent storm or battle were roaring within the chamber. Finding himself finally able to move, Gary placed his hands over his ears, dulling the thunderous din around him.

Levin Mack suddenly halted in his tracks. The creature’s expression changed from absolute, resolved anger to confusion. To Gary, it seemed Esmeralda’s every syllable struck the figure with a violence his bullets had failed to achieve. Each subsequent phrase pierced and tore at the apparition. Soon the revenant’s uniform hung in tattered ruin about his skeletal form; the flesh of his face and body fled, giving his skull a death’s-head appearance.

Her chant finally ended. Her own voice returned, and she added, “Levin Mack… you’re a failure, now and forever. I order you back to your dark master, back into hell where you belong.” Her voice and words were as sharp and final as an executioner’s bullet tearing through the flesh of a victim standing before a firing squad. Mack’s image wavered, then became semitransparent. The black shroud that had enveloped the two a minute before was pushed back, unable to stand before the radiance emitted from Esmeralda’s dazzling medal. A moment later the monster’s image wavered, lost all form, and sank once again into the floor’s dark planking. The two watched as the more natural darkness of night returned and the stench in the air cleared and dissipated, leaving nothing but the smell of the forest wafting through the open door.

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