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  THE LUMBERJACK

  Copyright © 2018 Erik Martin Willén

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Open Window

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2017952308

  Print edition ISBN:

  978-1-946848-98-7

  Visit the publisher:

  www.bhcpress.com

  Also available in softcover

  NASTRAGULL

  Book 1:

  Pirates

  Book 2:

  Hunted

  Book 3:

  Dawn Sets in Hell

  Book 4:

  Section Twenty-one

  Death…

  The Final Frontier.

  ~ Erik Martin Willén ~

  There is a pleasure in pathless woods,

  There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

  There is society where none intrudes,

  By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

  I love not Man less, but Nature more,

  From these our interviews, in which I steal

  From all I may be, or have been before,

  To mingle with the Universe, and Feel

  What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

  Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!

  Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

  Man marks the earth with ruin—his control

  Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain

  The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain

  A shadow of man’s ravage, save own,

  When for moment, like drop of rain,

  He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,

  Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

  His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields

  Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise

  And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields

  For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,

  Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,

  And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray

  And howling, to his gods, where haply lies

  His petty hope in some near port or bay,

  And dashest him again to earth:—there let him lay.

  George Gordon Lord Byron

  1788–1824

  The truck came to a stop at the head of the hill, on the landing zone. Paul Harris parked it near the cable yarder, ignoring the safety regulations; after all, this was his site. He was the foreman, the man in charge. He looked over the situation, and saw that the spider web, with its guidelines made of thick steel cables, was intact. They should have removed the 90-foot-long steel tower, but the storm had hit them too fast. He was happy to see that nothing major had been damaged yet.

  He got out of the truck and walked to the edge of the road to look down into the valley. The morning fog was thick, impenetrable to his eyes more than 20 feet out; all he could see were the two wires attached to the yarder coming up from the fog in two dark lines. It looked unnatural, wrong, somehow. He cursed when he realized that his crew had forgotten to secure the skidder at the top—that the darn thing was still at the bottom of the hill. That’s when he really noticed the faint hum of the diesel engine; he’d gotten so used to it that he hadn’t paid any attention to it when he arrived. He looked around, but he couldn’t see any other trucks parked in the parking area. He cursed; if the morons on his crew had left the engine for the cable yarder on all night, there would be hell to pay…and apparently the idiots had.

  Sighing, Paul got into the cab of the cable yarder and turned it on. He prayed that the choker setters had fixed the wires and not left them attached to a log. If they had, then he would have to climb down and get them lose. All he wanted to do was to secure the stupid thing and get back home before the storm picked up again. According to the weatherman, they were in the eye of the storm, and it would return in its fury within the hour. He had to be quick.

  The old diesel engine thundered away, tugging against some sort of resistance; the wires seemed to be stuck. Paul kept his calm and eased on the throttle, and again he forced the engine to max, pulling at the thick wires. Finally, it gave way, and Paul let out a sigh as he went for the cigarette package in his left breast pocket. He stuck a Marlboro between his lips and then he looked for his lighter. He found it in his right jeans pocket. “Darn it to hell,” he cursed as he dropped the lighter on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and was just about to light his first cigarette of the day when his mouth went wide; for a second, the cigarette hung from his bottom lip before it fell to the deck of the cab, and soon the lighter followed.

  A sudden fear struck Paul like an electric shock, and his skin tingled into goose bumps. Emerging slowly through the thick dense fog came the skidder carriage, and hanging upside down from one of the wires was what looked like a dead body.

  FORTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

  She held back her tears and swallowed hard. There had been tears enough in her last relationship, and she had finally learned to know when it was time to walk away; and so she had, from the one man who had meant everything to her. She thought back on her life, re-evaluating it, wondering what had gone wrong.

  A voice from the intercom interrupted her thoughts as the pilot warned about the final approach before landing, and asked for everyone to fasten the seatbelts. For the first time since she had gotten on the plane, she looked out the window. It was a sunny, beautiful day; and below, on the ground, were giant, glistening white fangs challenging heaven. The dark green of thick, old-growth forest cloaked the lower slopes of the snow-capped peaks, and filled in the landscape between them. For a moment she forgot her misery, instead observing and enjoying the beauty as the plane hurtled downward, the ground rushing towards her with surprising speed. The wind caught the wings of the plane and shook it violently for a few seconds. This was the part she hated most about flying, along with the take-off: the landing. Without noticing, she held her breath until the plane touched the ground, followed by a brief jolt. She started to breathe normally again; and a sudden and childlike expectation rushed through her, just as it always did whenever she traveled to a new place.

  As she waited for everyone to get off before her, she grabbed the small backpack that she used as a carry-on and dug through it for her standard disguise: a pair of large round sunglasses, definitely not a fashion statement by any means, and her old baseball cap. She braided her long hair sloppily and tied it up in knot. So far, she didn’t think anyone on the plane had recognized her. Then again, it was mostly old people onboard, and the only crew were the pilot and co-pilot.

  Finally, everyone was off but her. She flashed the crew a smile before exiting the plane, then stopped for a moment at the top of the ramp to view the surroundings. The air was fresh and clean, despite the jet-fuel smell of the hot engines. She saw that they had landed in a valley surrounded by large mountains. Everything looked very different than it had from above. She liked what she saw, but then she looked in the direction from which she had flown; and in the far distance, on the horizon, she noticed thick, dark gray clouds girding for battle. A chill went down her spine when she realized the cloud formation was moving swiftly towards her location.

  She noted that t
here were several hangars with smaller private planes stretched out on both sides of the small airport—or perhaps “airfield” was the proper description. A building further down had large red letters on the roof that stood out: Skull Creek Sightseeing & Rescue. There was something morbidly humorous about the name that made her shake her head. She saw one helicopter on a helipad, and another that took off heading towards one of the mountain ranges.

  A sudden gust of wind made her grab her cap. Not much for flight regulations here, she thought as a plane flew very close over the departing passengers, very near the plane she had arrived on. She could see the pilot smiling and waving behind a pair of typical black sunglasses—Ray Bans, she guessed. She turned around and saw the crew of her plane waving back, laughing.

  Suddenly, she felt someone lightly pushing on her shoulder while clearing her throat; and to her surprise, she looked down at a tiny old lady. She would have bet that she had been the last of the passengers to leave, but apparently, she was wrong. The little old woman nodded her head forward, and she wasn’t smiling. Christina whispered “Sorry,” but before she had a chance to move forward, the old woman pushed her aside and moved swiftly down the stairway. Christina was completely taken back as she observed the old lady, who by now was cursing the world, as she hurried towards an old man who was waiting for her, holding his hat and looking scared. She couldn’t help heaving a short sigh while shaking her head.

  “Don’t mind that old bat,” a confident voice said behind her.

  She looked back into a perfect set of brilliant white teeth on one of the crew, possibly the co-pilot. She gave him a dry smile and nod, then hurried down the stair, heading toward the small terminal building, trying not to smile when she passed the old hag lecturing the waiting man while she swung her index finger in the air like a sword.

  For once, it only took a few minutes of waiting to gather her luggage. No one seemed to recognize her, thank goodness; in fact, no one seemed to pay her any attention at all, and that was always good. Then again, there were fewer than a dozen people at the airport, most of them very old, and all of them seemed to be in a hurry to get away from the place. Plus, her outfit didn’t stand out; she was wearing plain denim jeans and a dark T-shirt with a pair of comfortable sandals; definitely not a fashion statement, but practical whenever one had to get through airline security nowadays. Perhaps she wasn’t as famous as she thought she was, she thought dryly.

  She grabbed her suitcase and backpack and headed outside, taking in a deep breath; and again she noticed how fresh and clean the air was. For a moment she felt confused; normally there was someone there to meet her and pick her up, like her agent, a production assistant, or in the best and rarest scenario, her boyfriend. Well, now her ex.

  The thought of him immediately put her back in a somber mood.

  She watched as the last pickup truck in the lot took off, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. But there was supposed to be someone here to pick her up; what was his name again? She checked her pants pocket for the note, found it, and crumpled it open. Not her agent but her private attorney, Mr. Thom Welles Billing—whom she trusted more than anyone else these days—had made the arrangements for her secret get-away. He would never call and bother her unless there was a family emergency, unlike her agent, whom she suspected had a crush on her. If that ever proved to be right, then she would fire him. Never mix business with pleasure or personal life; that was something her parents had taught her and her brothers as they grew up.

  A Mr. Hancock was supposed to be here to pick her up, according to the note. There was a number next to the name, and Christina went for her cell phone in her purse. She called twice, but only got a voice-mailbox for something called Hancock Tool Supply. She searched for a cab company in the area—and of course, that’s when her phone’s battery died. Christina sighed and put it away.

  A sudden cold breath of wind swept over her, making her skin prickle with goose bumps. She peered into the far distance, following the road as it bent past a few hills, and at the very edge of her vision she could make out what looked like the beginning of a town hidden among the tree-covered bluffs. It was the church tower that gave it away.

  Christina considered the long walk ahead and then looked down at her naked feet in her comfortable and ugly sandals. Definitely not the right footwear for a long hike. She thought of the sneakers packed in her suitcase, and decided against unpacking them. She looked around for a cab but saw none. She thought of going back to the terminal and asking someone about a shuttle or cab, but decided against it. Instead, she began the long walk towards town; she was in good shape and didn’t mind some extra exercise. The only bad part was that she had her old suitcase that didn’t draw attention. Its biggest drawback was that it didn’t come with any wheels, so she had to carry it, changing it from the right to the left hand every so often. She smiled as she thought, If only my fans could see me now.

  Christina put in her earplugs and turned on some music. That would make the long walk easier, she thought; and then she realized again that the smartphone’s battery had died. Sighing, she rolled up her earplugs and placed them, along with her useless phone, in her carry-on. She walked on the left side on the road towards traffic, not too concerned about any cars coming from the rear. It would be a cold day in hell before she would hitchhike.

  The wind was picking up, though, so she increased her speed. She looked towards the sky and noticed the thick, dark clouds in the distance, fighting for dominance against the blue as they approached the valley; with them came a cold wind from the north. A helicopter flew by in the distance, towards the airport, and a truck came up fast towards her. She stepped to the side, by the ditch, hoping it was her ride. It wasn’t; the truck flew by, leaving her coughing in a dust cloud. Redneck bastard! Now she wished that she’d gotten some water to take with her, as she tasted the gritty dust in her mouth and try to spit it out. Sighing, she grabbed her suitcase and started to walk again; now the darn thing felt heavier. Maybe she needed to get back to a gym and do some heavy lifting?

  A flash and sudden explosion from above, followed by another flicker of lightning in the far distance, made her stop. She was surrounded by fields and bluffs; definitely not a good place to be when there was a thunderstorm approaching. She took a firmer grip on her suitcase and began hurrying her steps—only to have the handle snap off. Cursing, she realized that she couldn’t fix the darn thing here, so she picked up the suitcase and hugged it while walking. After a short distance, having had to make several stops to rest, she had to stop to swallow her tears. She bit down and refused to give up, pushing forward, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the rain would come.

  Just as she finished that thought, Mother Nature dropped all her rain at once, in a deluge that instantly converted the dust of the poorly-maintained road to mud. Tempting fate, she muttered, “What else can go wrong?” The strong wind hit her hard, and the rain was icy-cold, but Christina decided to go on—and that’s when she slipped, falling face-down into the muddy ditch. “That’s it!” she shouted out loud, sitting in a mud puddle, staring at a broken sandal. Shit—that was her favorite pair!

  She gave it a quick inspection and realized that it could probably be fixed if she could find a cobbler. She wasn’t going to toss them away; she was too fond of them. She removed her other sandal and tucked them both in her backpack with her sunglasses; no need for them now. She looked down at her naked feet, giving them a wry smile. So much for that last-minute pedicure the day before I left, she thought, knowing full well her feet were as soft as a baby’s butt and definitely not made for walking on a gravelly dirt road. But by now Christina saw this ordeal as a challenge, and giving up was something she had never done, so she pushed on.

  She soon reached an intersection with four stop signs, though she didn’t see any of the cars or trucks passing through the intersection actually stop. She was surprised by how busy the intersection was. Most of the trucks that came from town or from the opposit
e side of the intersection turned into a road leading away from town, heading through a thick forest. Many were loaded down with huge logs.

  The closer she got to town, the darker it became, and the more the storm intensified. She guessed she’d been walking for an hour, but her watch was in her backpack, and she couldn’t care less what time it was. No one had bothered to stop for her; so much for small-town friendliness. By now Christina was very close to town, but she was exhausted; not so much from walking, but from having to carry her suitcase. She paused briefly and closed her eyes while stretching her back. Several cars or trucks honked their horns, and she thought it was at her. Instinct told her to open her eyes, and when she did, she was showered by muddy water as a red convertible with the top down swirled by her on the wrong side of the road as it passed a large eighteen-wheeler, turning back to the right side of the road in the nick of time, almost colliding with oncoming traffic. The soaked driver just honked his horn and gave everyone the bird.

  A second wave of muddy water hit Christina when the oncoming traffic—another large truck—hit the same stupid puddle. Several trucks and cars passed her, some honking their horns, while some guys wolf-whistled. Many large trucks hauling timber flew by her, and no one seemed to care about the speed limit. More than once mud showered her, but by then she didn’t care. She held her suitcase hard towards her chest, ignoring all the disgusting offers and cheeky remarks as the traffic slowed down nearer to town. Too bad her hands were tied up carrying the luggage or she would have gladly waved back to all of them; and to a few, she would have waved with both middle fingers.

  When she reached the city limits, she paused at the city sign: Welcome to Skull Creek—home to 4,021 hardy souls. Some comedian had drawn a poorly made picture of a human skull next to the text. Yuk, yuk. Not too far from where she stood was a large gas station. She finally reached the station and walked inside, where she found several people congregated, most dressed like typical rednecks or loggers; all of them stank of dirt, diesel, and sweat. The scent of real men, she thought sarcastically. The moment she entered the building, everyone stopped what they were doing, and silence reigned.