Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) by Miller Jason Jack

Author:Miller, Jason Jack [Miller, Jason Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Raw Dog Screaming Press
Published: 2014-01-20T05:00:00+00:00

Even though I could say nothing else, I took comfort in this kindred spirit and his turtle-like effort to carry his home with him wherever he went. He reminded me that as long as I had Alex, I’d lost nothing.

And as long as Billy Lewis was free, I didn’t really have Alex.

EIGHT

Daybreak found us scrambling through the greenbrier patches and laurel brakes that draped the steep banks of the Shavers Fork. Salamanders shrank back into the moist confines of their decaying retreats whenever we kicked dead logs and small rocks loose. All of our smoke from last night sank to the lowest part of the valley, filling it as if it were a solid, becoming the fog that hid our movement from the real world.

Fortunately, dawn’s early light was creeping down the western valley slope at nearly the same rate we were. Our descent was marked by perpetual transition from sun in our eyes to shadowed, cool pockets of morning. Wiry brambles cut the shit out of my bare legs. I left more blood on the mountain than sweat.

Upon arriving at the tracks we walked upstream to a bend where the train would slow so we could board. Just before seven I heard a whistle and woke Ben and Greg up. It took a little longer for the old Shay to catch up to its chug-chug and Ben slept until the locomotive was within a hundred yards. White steam flew above the dense forest while small coal cinders rose like dying angels in the black soot. The smell of old smoke, like that from a coal-burning stove, met my nose with the punch of sulfur. Greg said to take cover while the engineer passed. We rushed into the thick rhododendron that lined the tracks. We had to lower our heads and shield our eyes to keep the ash out.

The old engine came past us, barely wheezing. The Shays were like mules, easily manipulating the hairpin curves that snaked in and out of the narrow stream valleys. But the tracks they crawled on were never meant to last. Derailments were frequent, so the little engines had to be sturdier than the ones that plied the flatlands below. I’d never seen one in operation.

We waited for an empty bed beyond the engineer’s line of sight. Ben and I were old pros at hopping trains by now. Greg needed less encouragement than I would’ve imagined for a man of his size. He passed us his large walking stick and fully loaded pack before struggling to pull himself aboard. The train accelerated and for a second I thought we’d have to jump off and try again later, but the old bear kicked it into overdrive and plopped himself down beside us, no more out of breath than we were. He promptly produced some vittles for breakfast and played harmonica while we stuffed our faces with ham, pickles and stinky cheese.

“You’re pretty good,” I said. “Play anything else?”

“I do a little picking. Guitar. Five-string banjo,” Greg said in a tone just shy of boasting.

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