The Beast on the Tracks

by Amy Cross

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “One beer. Why?”

  “You need to get here right now! It's an emergency!”

  “What's wrong?” I ask. “Are you at the gas station?”

  “Dude, hurry!” he hisses. “I'm serious, I need you to come here right now or... or you're fired?”

  “Huh?”

  I wait for him to explain, but he's already cut the call. I consider trying to phone him back, but then I realize that I'm only about twenty minutes from the gas station and it'd almost be easier to swing by and see what's wrong. It's not as if I can just ignore a call from my boss, and I don't have anything better to be doing right now. So, when I get to the next junction, I turn left and start making my way along another dark, empty road. At least this time, I don't have that creepy forest to keep looking at.

  ***

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  I'm not even halfway across the forecourt before Vince comes running out of the station like a madman.

  “You're a lifesaver, Ricky!” he continues, still insisting on calling me Ricky despite all the times I've hinted that I hate that version of my name. “Juliet's on at six, so you just have to hold the fort until then!”

  “Hold the fort?” I reply, as he hurries past me and heads over toward his car. “Wait, I thought you said there's an emergency?”

  “There is!” he says, opening his car door and turning to me. “Luna keeps calling me, she wants me to go over, and you know that only means one thing. I'm back in her good books!”

  “You're gonna go and get laid?” I reply as he climbs into the car. “Seriously? That's the emergency?”

  “You're a goddamn legend, Ricky!” With that, he slams the door shut and starts the engine, and I'm left to watch as he drives away.

  Bathed in the light, I listen to the sound of Vince's car speeding away into the distance. Finally I can no longer hear him, and it's only then that I fully appreciate the fact that I've been tricked into doing another night shift. This was supposed to be my one night off this week, it was supposed to be my time to relax and decompress, and instead Vince and his blue balls have had to rush off across town. I want to say that I'm surprised, but in my time here in Sobolton I've already come to understand that my boss is completely crazy.

  It's not like I can refuse, though. I desperately need this job, so shutting the place for the night isn't an option, even if I have every right.

  I turn and head inside. Vince has left everything switched on and running, so at least I don't have to do any set-up. All the shelves are properly stocked, which suggests that there haven't been any customers tonight. I honestly don't know how Vince keeps the place going, since there are some nights when literally nobody comes by, but I guess there's some kind of system that works. Sometimes I wonder whether this whole place is just a front for some kind of dodgy operation.

  Settling onto the seat behind the counter, I look out the window and immediately spot the cemetery on the other side of the road. I can't count how many nights I've sat here staring at the cemetery. I told Milly earlier that nothing spooky has ever happened, which isn't strictly true, but I must admit that I wouldn't mind spotting the occasional ghost. At least that'd give me something to think about. Then again, that meth guy a few weeks back looked like a zombie, and he stank like one too. Or he stank the way I'd expect a zombie to stink, at least.

  Rotten.

  For the next hour, I sit and play games on my phone. Sure, Vince told me to be alert at all times when I'm working, but Vince is off getting laid and I highly doubt that he's gonna check back through the security footage. Even if he does, it's not like he'll care.

  Eventually, after playing until my eyes feel sore, I glance out the window, and that's when I spot a figure wandering along the other side of the road, right past the cemetery wall. I watch for a moment, surprised that anyone's out and about this late, and deep down I'm starting to worry that maybe another drug addict is going to come and cause me some grief. As the figure stops, however, I feel a flicker of doubt as I realize that most drug addicts out here are drawn straight toward the light of the gas station.

  This person is simply standing there now, looking toward the gates of the cemetery.

  I turn back to my phone, but then I realize that the figure seems slightly familiar. I look out again, and I squint slightly to get a better view. I tell myself that I have to be wrong, that there's no way a coincidence this huge could have occurred, but at the same time I'm more and more certain that I recognize her. I slowly get to my feet, and already I'm certain that I'm right.

  It's the girl from the party.

  It's Milly.

  Somehow, by some miracle, she's shown up again, and I'm certain there has to be a reason. Maybe by saying 'no' to her earlier, I was somehow going against destiny or against what the beast on the tracks wants. So he's rearranged everything to give me another chance, and this time I'm going to make sure that I don't make a mistake.

  Stepping around the counter, I head toward the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Richard

  Five years ago...

  I can hear him coming through from the study, stumbling slightly. Mom went to bed about an hour ago, and Dad's been steadily drinking more and more wine at his desk, and now he's come through to fetch another bottle.

  He's in the hallway, and it sounds as if he can barely even walk.

  Finally he appears in the doorway, and then he stops as he sees me.

  “Richard?” he says, slurring his words slightly. “What are you doing up?”

  “Cleaning one of your guns,” I tell him, as I run a cloth along the side of the rifle's barrel. “You once complained that I never do enough work around the house, so I figured I'd help out. Or have I done it all wrong again?”

  He stares at me, as if he doesn't quite understand, and then he wanders over to the drinks cabinet. I've talked to Dad when he's drunk before, and I know full well that he tends not to follow conversations too well. I guess years and years of alcoholism will do that to a man, and sure enough his hands are shaking slightly as he starts opening another bottle of red. Not for the first time, I don't know whether to pity or despise him.

  Both, maybe.

  “I never took you for a gun enthusiast,” he mutters.

  “A gun's a gun,” I reply, forcing myself to stay calm. “It's just metal. I don't like it or dislike it. I have the same emotional reaction to a gun that I have to a fork or a spoon.”

  “You're trying to prove a point,” he says darkly. “Whatever. Do you think I care?”

  “I'm only -”

  “It's not loaded, by the way,” he adds. “You don't think I'd be so stupid as to leave a loaded gun sitting around the house, do you? The ammunition's upstairs, but I doubt you'd even know how to load it. And if you did, you wouldn't be able to remove the safety.”

  “Because I'm not enough of a man?”

  “Because you're not enough of an anything.”

  “I'm not going to be a lawyer,” I tell him.

  Damn, where did that even come from? Sure, I've been thinking about my future all evening, but I had no idea I was going to blurt something like that out. Still, it's too late now, and I do stand behind my decision.

  “I'll be talking to some people at the weekend,” he replies, as he finally finishes pouring himself a fresh glass of wine. “I'm going to get you into my old school, Richard, and then -”

  “No.”

  “Then I'll make sure you work your socks off.”

  “No!” I say firmly, getting to my feet. Still holding the rifle, I step toward him. “You never listen to me, do you? I'm not going to be a lawyer. I actually wouldn't mind being one, in normal circumstances, but the thought of turning out like you makes my stomach churn. So you're the reason I won't be going down that particular path.”

  He gives me the side-eye, but he actually looks slightly amused.

  “And you won't be hitting m
e with that cane again,” I add, despite the fear in my chest. “No way. I'm eighteen years old and those days are over.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  “You can't even hold the damn thing properly,” I add as he starts to turn away. “Your hands shake so much, it barely even hurts.”

  He turns and swings at me. I pull out of the way, but I'm not quite quick enough and his fist brushes the side of my face as I fall back against the bookshelf.

  “Is that the best you've got?” I sneer. “You're no -”

  He lunges at me again. This time I raise the butt of the rifle and swing it at his face. The next few seconds are a blur, but he drops his glass and misses me, and I manage to smack his cheek hard. Harder than I'd intended, in fact. He lets out a gasp of pain and steps back, and I immediately see that there's blood on the side of his face.

  “You little scrap of shit!” he snarls, clenching his fist again. “Why you -”

  Before I can really stop myself, I raise the rifle again and hit him in the forehead, harder than before. He stumbles back, with an expression of pure shock on his face, and I realize in an instant that I've come too far to back down now. This man has beaten me time and time again over the years, and it's about time that I visited all that pain and misery right back on him. Even as he bumps against the drinks cabinet, then, I hold the rifle up and I bring it crashing down against his head.

  He lets out a cry and falls to the side, and then he rushes at me again. This time I hit him square in the middle of his face, and I hear his nose crunch as he falls back and drops to his knees. Then, knowing that I need to get this done before I risk losing my nerve, I slam the rifle's butt against his temple with such force that I swear I hear and feel more bones breaking.

  And that's when I lose it.

  I hit him again and again, hammering both sides of his face with the rifle's butt. I lose count of the number of blows that land, but blood's already spattering against the side of the chair as I raise the rifle and bring it crashing down against the top of his head. I can't hold back, it's as if all the years of barbarity have finally come rushing back out, and I tell myself that I'm hitting him once for every blow of the cane that I've received over the years. Even then, I just keep hitting him until finally my arms ache too much, and only then do I take a step back.

  Dad stared at me for a moment, and then he topples to one side and lands hard on the carpet, with his eyes wide open.

  I stare down at him.

  He's not blinking.

  His eyes are just staring straight ahead, toward the legs of the armchair. A moment later, a trickle of blood runs from his lips.

  I take several deep breaths as I try to calm down, and slowly the red mist starts to fade. I'm still holding the rifle, and when I look down at the butt I see that there's blood smeared on its lower edge. I meant to hit Dad, but maybe not quite this hard, and a moment later I look back down at his face and see that he hasn't moved at all.

  My mind is blank as I step over and reach down to check his pulse. I feel around his pudgy throat, but there's nothing. I try his wrists, and I still can't find any hint of a heartbeat.

  He's dead.

  I stand up straight and take a step back.

  I killed my father.

  For a moment, I can only stand in stunned silence. I killed my father and there's no way back from that. I always swore that one day I'd get away from him, that I'd put him in the past, that I'd forget he even existed. Now I know, in an instant, that none of that will ever happen, that instead he's going to define the rest of my life. I hated him, I despised him with every ounce of my soul, but I never once contemplated killing him. Not really. I just thought that one day I'd leave him behind, the way millions of people leave their shitty parents behind every year.

  I never meant for this to happen.

  “I'll help you bury the body.”

  Startled at the sound of Mom's voice, I spin around. As I do so, however, the rifle falls from my right hand and lands awkwardly on a stool. Dad must have been wrong about the gun not being loaded, because somehow it fires once, and I watch in horror as Mom's head is blasted clean away from her body.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Richard

  Today...

  “Hey!” I call out, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk and looking toward the other side of the road. “Milly? Is that you?”

  She doesn't respond, not at first. She's just standing there in the moonlight, staring straight ahead as if she's in some kind of trance. I want to call out again, but then it occurs to me that maybe she's sleepwalking. Isn't it supposed to be dangerous to wake someone when they're sleepwalking? The last thing I want is to upset her, so I look both ways along the road and then I start cautiously making my way over.

  “Hey,” I say again, just in case she's awake and she didn't hear me the first time, “are you -”

  “What?”

  She turns to me, and I see a strangely blank expression in her eyes before she seems to snap out of this weird state.

  “Oh,” she says, seemingly confused, “hey. What... What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” I reply, stopping as I reach the sidewalk. “Over there, I mean. In the gas station.”

  “Right,” she replies. “I remember you saying.”

  “I got called in for a night shift after I left the party,” I explain. “To be honest, I didn't want to do it. The boss was begging me, he was literally on his knees with his hands together.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. So I told him I'd only do it if I got double time, plus I want all of next weekend off.”

  “Did he give in?”

  “Hell, yeah,” I lie. “He couldn't afford not to. He knows I'm, like, the only good person he's got working for him. Without me, he'd be totally screwed.”

  “That's cool,” she replies. “I respect someone who knows their worth.”

  “So what are you doing out here?” I ask. “I thought you said you lived in Eden Hills.”

  “I do.”

  “So... did you take a wrong turn?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There's nothing out this way,” I point out, “except the gas station and...”

  I wait for her to realize what I mean, and then slowly she turns and looks up at the high wall that runs along the edge of the cemetery.

  “Oh, right,” she says cautiously, “of course. To be honest, I don't even know what I'm doing out here. Some nights, I just go for long walks and I never really know where I'll end up.” She pauses. “I wasn't stalking you, I promise,” she adds. “I didn't even know that I was going to end up in this part of town until, well, until you showed up. I guess that makes me sound pretty crazy, huh?”

  “Not at all,” I reply, and then I realize that I'm smiling. That almost never happens unless it's on purpose, and for a moment I'm a little taken aback.

  “I'm sorry,” she says, “you're supposed to be working. I don't want to distract you and cause trouble.”

  “No, it's fine,” I tell her. “It's not like anyone ever comes out here, anyway. I mean, I could die of boredom sitting behind that desk.”

  “So what's it like in there?” she asks, peering past me. “It looks pretty brightly lit. Doesn't that kinda drive you crazy?”

  “I -”

  “I wanna see inside,” she adds. “Can you give me a grand tour?”

  “It's really kinda boring,” I tell her.

  “Not to me,” she says. “I've never -”

  “Hey, did you see something in there?” I ask, looking toward the cemetery gates.

  She looks over her shoulder.

  “I saw a figure in the shadows,” I continue. “I swear, come on.”

  I grab her arm and lead her over to the gate. I know I must sound totally nuts, but the last thing I need right now is for her to come over to the gas station where there are so many cameras. I peer between the bars in the gate and see a few gravestones nearby, although the vast
majority of the cemetery is shrouded in darkness. There's no sign of movement, of course, but the scene looks pretty scary and – as Milly stops next to me – I figure that I only need to grab her attention for a few more seconds.

  “I don't see anything,” she says.

  “Over there, by that mausoleum,” I reply, taking a half step back and reaching into my pocket.

  “Do you want to go in and take a look?” she asks, turning to me with a smile. “I'm always up for a late-night wander around a cemetery.”

  “Sure,” I reply, as she turns and starts opening the gate, and as I slip the spray from my pocket. “Why not?”

  She fumbles for a moment with the handle, while I carefully turn the spray around so that the nozzle is facing the right way.

  The gate creaks loudly as Milly pulls it open.

  “Okay,” she says, turning to me again, “how about -”

  Before she can finish, I spray her right in the face. She gasps and steps back, banging hard against the gate, and then I spray her a second time for good measure. She starts spluttering as she stumbles past me, and then she stops and sways a little as if she's on the verge of falling backward.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “What the...”

  Her voice trails off, but she already sounds weak.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  She turns to me, and I can see that her pupils are already huge. That means she's going to pass out at any moment.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  “Hey,” she murmurs, “you...”

  And then she leans to the side and topples over, landing hard on the sidewalk.

  Eight seconds, that was impressive. I mix this spray myself, using a mixture of pre-bought items and a few special ingredients. I think the record before was seven seconds, although this time I used to squirts. Given that, eight seconds is actually pretty phenomenal and – as I put the canister back into my pocket – I have to admit that I'm mighty impressed by Milly's resilience.

  Not that it'll do her much good, of course.