Station

by Jarrett Brandon Early

  STATION

  JARRETT BRANDON EARLY

  Copyright © 2019 by Jarrett Brandon Early

  Registration Number: TXu 2-168-544

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  www.jarrettbrandonearly.com

  www.stationthenovel.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Book Cover by Particular

  Map by Jarrett Brandon Early

  Station / Jarrett Brandon Early – SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ISBN: 978-1-7342314-1-0 (eBook)

  Dedicated to:

  My father, Timothy Jon Early, who taught me that the dreamer doesn’t have to wake, but he has to get his shit done.

  My mother, Maureen Brearton Early, who keeps the dreamer from flying off into space.

  To the Reader

  First and foremost, thanks so much for taking the time to give Station a chance. I tried to create a different reading experience; hence, Station is a very specific book that will appeal to a very specific audience. Understanding this, I am even more appreciative of your valuable time.

  Music played a significant role in the creation of Station, from envisioning the world and story to crafting the mood to, ultimately, putting the actual text on the page. As much as music affected the writing, I would also like it to enrich your reading experience. Therefore, I have carefully put together a novel “soundtrack” to accompany the text. This soundtrack not only represents the music I was listening to when I wrote Station, but also creates an atmospheric backdrop to accentuate certain sections and chapters. You can listen to the songs prior to reading, as you read the book, or even after you finish a scene.

  On my website (found below), you will find the Station soundtrack and those of future books in the series. For those who use Spotify, there is a Spotify playlist to facilitate listening. For those who don’t want to sign up for Spotify, I have also included YouTube links to each song, organized by chapter and chapter section. I hope you enjoy listening and reading. Thanks again!

  www.jarrettbrandonearly.com/station-soundtrack

  Table of Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  PART ONE: A City Called Station

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART TWO: A Desire Called Revenge

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART THREE: An Inevitability Called the Fall

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  The melancholy sounds of Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve" began to fade into the background as alcohol and pills, finishing their seductive dance, took giant steps forward. Consciousness gave ground as both breathing and heart rate commenced with inevitable declines. Fear receded as a calm acceptance took hold.

  Minutes later, he felt as if he could fit a symphony between heartbeats. Each slow breath contained a complete requiem. The music was beautiful and intoxicating. And then both pieces fell silent.

  And Marlin Hadder died.

  Upon his death, Hadder felt a light fall over him, lifting him through and above the encroaching darkness. Up he went, surrounded by the warmth of a thousand familiar hugs, coming to rest on a soft canvas that caressed his feet like a lover's touch.

  An iridescent figure approached, tall and powerful, and painfully beautiful. It looked down at Hadder and presented an honest smile before offering its hand. Hadder looked down at the perfect hand and wanted nothing more than to take it, to kiss it and hold it tightly, begging it to lead him on and promising to follow. These are the things that Hadder wanted to do.

  But he found he could not, not with the Rage that remained, buried deep within him, bubbling to the surface at this most inopportune time. Instead, inexplicably and reflexively, Hadder punched out at the entity, catching it in the neck. Its hand fell slowly as smile faded into frown, confusion and sadness falling over it like a shroud. The two stood motionless and stared at each other, the guilt of one reflecting the sorrow of the other. And may have remained like that for eternity.

  A cackling laughter cut into the moment, however, emanating from all around, echoing in Hadder's soul. All went red. And Hadder fell back to earth, a silent scream marking his descent, ending in heartbeats and deep inhalations.

  PART ONE:

  A City Called Station

  CHAPTER 1

  The bar called Station was a shit hole. To call it unremarkable would be a misuse of the word, as one would certainly offer remarks upon visiting the place. Dirt and grime caked the few windows of the small building, forcing one to view the establishment through the filter of a brown lens. Wooden tables and chairs littered the room in varying degrees of disrepair, many serving no use other than as an instrument to bludgeon your fellow man.

  The neighborhood bar and grill it was not. Instead of kitsch posters and antiques, torn pages of Barely Legal littered the walls, girls' eyes poked out alongside hand-drawn dialogue bubbles that presented the reader with a myriad of sinister requests.

  The actual bar at which Hadder sat was an island of angrily carved words and phrases, a sanctuary for splinters lying in wait for an unwary hand. Every move elicited a wooden moan accompanied by the odor of rot. The beer that had been given to Hadder was warm and lonely, with no condensation to keep it company and no mouth in a rush to welcome it.

  In short, there was plenty to remark about in the bar called Station. Marlin Hadder, however, paid attention to none of these details, any one of which would have been rich fodder for later conversations.

  Instead, Hadder was entirely focused on the knifepoint dancing dangerously close to his left eye. The blade was being brandished by the white-bearded barkeep whose gas station shirt identified his name as Shirley and whose trucker hat identified him as a fan of Dr. Hook.

  Uncomfortable seconds passed as the two held eyes across the desecrated wooden divider. Finally, silence hanging heavy and taut, threatening to suffocate, Hadder decided that he must give voice to his concern.

  "What are you about?" Hadder managed through gritted teeth, afraid that even the slightest jaw movement could spring whatever dark trap into which he had wandered. His full effort was put forth in refusing his body the shaking that it so wanted to perform.

  "How did you find your way here, you little shit?" Shirley asked, his tone a strange mix of anger and fear tickled with notes of bewildered curiosity. "And don't you dare fucking lie to me. Lies begat eyes here. You give me one, I take the other."

  Hadder's mind began to spin. How could he explain to this hillbilly interrogator the bizarre series of events, both imagined and bafflingly real, that brought him to this place? A place that seemed suitable only for horror
movie villains and failed backyard wrestlers. How many sentences would he get in before that shaky blade pierced his eye and plunged deep into his brain? What did Shirley want or need to hear?

  Pieces of responses, starts and stops, tore through Hadder's head like tornadoes of razor wire, faster and faster, turning his thoughts to mush until there was nothing, just an empty whiteness that blanketed the world. It was then that Hadder spoke without thinking, words that were not his own.

  "I had a dream where I met God. He reached in to shake my hand, and I punched him in the throat. For this betrayal, he showed me a door. That door led here."

  When the white blanket tore free, revealing reality once more, there was no longer a knife swaying dangerously before Hadder's face. Instead, it was buried deep into the damaged bar, just a few precious inches from Hadder's suddenly delicate left hand.

  Shirley had pulled back a bit but was still wearing his scowl like a boa. Slowly, he let it slide off his shoulders, turned his head, and sent a foul-looking brown substance spinning towards the dirty floor. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hairy arm, the smirk of a hunter who had just bagged his quarry lit up Shirley's weathered countenance. It was enough to make Hadder lean back slightly; he hoped imperceptibly.

  "Well, shit, that wasn't quite a dream now, was it, boy? Decisions were made, and now consequences need to be dealt with."

  "I don't understand," Hadder said truthfully.

  "Yes, you do. You just don’t know that you do." Shirley began to limp back towards Hadder, his face brandishing a smile that was surprisingly more imposing than the knife he held moments before. "You were given a path, and you rejected it." Shirley's dirty finger was now acting as the blade's proxy, so close that Hadder could smell that morning's Marlboros radiating from it. "You were then presented with another path, and you rejected that, as well." Shirley's pointing finger transformed into an upheld palm that flashed more than a few pale scars. "Now you've been gifted one more. A last one. Show it to me." Desperation curled up at the corners of his words.

  Hadder almost asked. Almost played dumb. Almost invoked the wrath of this relic of Americana. But they both knew what Shirley wanted to see. And they both knew that it laid at the center of this burgeoning relationship. So Hadder did the only thing he could; he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved it.

  Hadder's right fist came up to hover over Shirley's palm. He hesitated for just a moment before painfully opening his hand, letting the object drop into Shirley's possession, away from him for the first time since it came into his being. Shirley looked down but was unfazed by what he saw there, expecting it to appear no less than he would expect another cigarette to grace his lips in the coming minutes.

  Shirley limped over and held his hand under one of the few working lights, studying that which he now held - a small key. He ran his fingers over the dark, pitted metal. Brought it to his nose for a deep inhale. Traced the crude etchings that adorned one side. Tongued the key's rudimentary teeth.

  Slowly, Shirley turned back towards Hadder, the light causing deep shadows to dance across his ragged face, falling into the ravine of a wide smile. "This is the real thing, son." His voice had softened noticeably. "Please, tell me how it came to you."

  Disturbing memories rose to the surface. An ache in Hadder's stomach like he subsisted on a diet of glass. A fountain of bile pours from his mouth, the toilet only partially catching the spray. A lump carried on the foul river lodges itself in his throat, cutting off his access to sweet oxygen. A panic. A desperate act. He slams his sternum into the corner of the sink repeatedly, bruising some ribs and cracking others. A release. A grotesque ball of blackish, brownish, yellowish biomaterial swan dives into the empty sink, rolls around like a salted slug before coming to rest. Hadder leans in, horrorstricken, to get a closer look. He pokes at the ball with a trembling finger. It surrenders a sickening sound, like a bullet being torn from meaty flesh, as a rapid meltdown commences. An acrid smell of sulfurous vomit crashes into Hadder, sending him back on his heels. He raises his hand to defend himself against the specter, foreign gases bending the light in front of him. It dissipates quickly. Hadder inches forward again, hesitantly peers into the sink, where he sees it for the first time.

  There is nothing special about the key, except for its biological origins. It's small and aged like it endured a thousand thunderstorms. It's not fanciful, could very well come from a 1982 Civic or someone's backyard shed lock. Hadder picks it up for further inspection, emotions flashing too quickly to register, from revulsion to curiosity to disappointment. He raises the key closer to the lone bathroom light, turning it slowly in an attempt to unveil all possible mysteries. None appear, save six crudely hewn numerals, one set of three atop the other.

  Shock wearing off, Hadder begins to shiver, dropping the key to the tiled floor. He turns on the sink's hot water, and steam quickly fills the bathroom. Hadder forces his hands under the scalding water, cupping hands to splash his head, face, and neck in an attempt to cleanse himself of recent events. He rinses out his mouth and takes giant gulps, convinced that the liquid fire will consume any alien residuals.

  Several minutes pass, and Hadder is spent. Head still buried in the sink, he turns off the water, collects himself. Hands holding onto opposite edges of the sink, Hadder ventures to look up for the first time, fearful that the mirror will reveal further, perhaps more visible, changes. He looks up, but a curtain of steam prevents him from observing his reflection. Hadder hits the fan switch, and steam rushes towards the ceiling like a choreographed flock moving south, giving Hadder an unencumbered view ahead. Completely fogged over, a single word has been clearly drawn on the bathroom mirror with an oily finger, waiting for the heat to reveal its secret. Hadder stares blankly at the reflective canvas, at a loss once again, a recurring theme. He traces each letter over and over in his mind, feels the word burrowing into his soul. What did it mean? Who had written it? Why him? What was it? Station.

  "Son, you in there?" Shirley's words were like ice water thrown over the hot embers of memory. Hadder sat upright in a jolt. Maybe the simplest form of narrative would do best.

  "I puked it up. That's how the key came to me." It rang ridiculously in his ears. Another knife was sure to make an appearance.

  But a second blade did not appear. A shadow of empathy touched Shirley's words. "That must have really sucked."

  "It did."

  Shirley chuckled. "Still, you should count your blessings. It could've been much worse. The last person who came in with one of these, a pretty girl, had to carve it from her forehead. Poor girl had a goddam key-shaped lump sitting atop her eyes for days before she worked up the nerve. Cut was still fresh when I seen her. Still lovely, though. Lady before that, well, let's just say Brad fucking Pitt himself couldn't have gotten her pants off anytime soon after that ordeal."

  Hadder's stool became unstable as he fought to process this new information. "You mean, there are others? Others with keys like this? That came here?"

  Shirley placed the key on the bar between himself and Hadder. Hadder felt strangely relieved that it was out of another's possession. Shirley reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, took out a Marlboro Red, and lit it. "Well, of course, there are others." A judgmental eye was sent Hadder's way. "Did you think you were special? Did I hurt your feelings?"

  "I didn't know what to think. I don't even know what's real anymore."

  Another laugh escaped Shirley, this one lasting longer, uncomfortably so. "You might want to get used to that feeling. And don't worry, you are special. Just not that special. There are others, to be sure, but not that many. And none have entered this hallowed ground in quite some time. To be honest, I believed no more would. But here you are, as sad and confused and resigned as all that came before you. Unsure if this is an end or a beginning."

  "And which is it?

  "That's entirely up to you, son."

  "So, what now?"

  Shirley bent down and began to rum
mage behind the bar. Hadder heard clinking as he shuffled through bottles of booze. Rising back up, Shirley held an indeterminate bottle of caramel liquid. He placed two relatively clean glasses between Hadder and himself and filled them both with two fingers of the swirling fluid. "Now, we drink."

  "I still have my beer."

  "That ain't drinking. I make this myself. Cheers. To close calls." Each took long sips. Although it was remarkably smooth, Hadder felt its effects almost immediately, tickling the inside of this skull. Shirley let out a long breath, took one last moment to admire his creation, and set down his glass. "Now I have to render a decision. Your key checks out. Your hangdog expression and overall shit stain demeanor check out. And your responses, even though you don't even know what the fuck you're saying, check out. That means that YOU check out. And since YOU check out, it's time for you to discover why you're here."

  "I'm here because I Google Mapped the coordinates on that vile key. This is the only building in the vicinity."

  "That's HOW you got here. It ain't WHY you're here."

  "Mister, I haven't understood shit in my life for the past few years." A flash of a woman's bloodied face and a child's unmoving hand amidst twisted steel and gore-covered concrete assaulted Hadder. His hands went reflexively to his face, rubbing hard as if he could physically remove the painful image, the annihilation of a once-beautiful life. "Please help me. Either with explanations or with that knife of yours. I didn't come all this way for homemade whiskey and secondhand smoke."

  "Very well, son." A sense of seriousness draped itself over Shirley. He straightened, ran his hands down his shirt in an attempt to look more presentable, and breathed in deeply. "Stay calm, son. It gets a little strange from here on out."