The Revenant Road

by Michael Boatman

  But finally, my determination to make sense of my father’s life demanded that I continue. As we took off, refueled and bound for Seattle/Tacoma, I picked up where I’d left off:

  “But the Echelon bear a flame that drives back the Darkness. They are empowered by the Sleepers, called by men the Nolane, who are to the Hallowed Ones as a Huntsman to the Wolf. They are the Third and deepest Mystery.

  “The members of the Echelon are the hounds of the Nolane. It is their unhappy task to dispatch the human vessels stolen by the Hallowed Ones, for a mortal, once stolen, is lost, condemned beyond redeeming to that Darkness from whence crawled its temptation. Once the mortal form has been shriven, the Power of the Nolane may enact upon the Hallowed spirit, dispatching it back to that Realm from which it came.

  “As to the hunters. Theirs is a road fraught with grieving, solitude and untimely Death. The Nolane are harsh and unyielding in their exigency, offering little reward for so stern a duty. But their knowledge is vast, and by their Power they give aid and succor to their servants, even smoothing rough seas should they bar a hunter’s way.

  “In this manner, the Nolane ease the worldly burdens of their weary agents ‘til that day when each must fall, trodden ‘neath the heel of the one Hallowed who proves his master. For as light is to shadow, so Hallowed is to Hound: Bound in Eternity. And when they meet, so must that hunter fall, yea, even he who reads these words. For the day of your end and even the bringer of your Doom are known, and marked in the Book of the Nolane.”

  “Mr. Grudge?”

  The flight attendant I’d kicked earlier stood at a wary distance from my feet. She winced as our eyes met and took a step backward.

  “We’re landing, sir,” she said.

  “Alright,” I replied.

  “Would you wake up your friend?” the flight attendant said. “I didn’t have the heart to disturb him.”

  Kowalski’s mouth hung open. I smelled the faint tinge of the minty airline mouthwash he’d gargled with during the refueling stop.

  “Poor guy looks exhausted,” the flight attendant said.

  For the day of your end and even the bringer of your Doom is known, and marked in the Book of the Nolane.

  July 25th, O-dog. Then it’s lights out for Kowalski.

  “He’s under a great deal of pressure,” I said, finally.

  The flight attendant made sympathy noises.

  “Tell me about it,” she clucked.

  I stared out my window at the night sky. Dark clouds swept past me like barely glimpsed islands of shadow. The plane began to buck, and a red light came on over my head.

  “We’re experiencing a little turbulence, folks,” the pilot announced. “Please fasten your seatbelts. The ride’s about to get a little bumpy.”

  The plane bucked again, harder this time. Chloe the wary flight attendant took her seat and strapped herself in.

  Behind me, the drunk who looked like Doctor Phil woke up and said, “What the Hell am I doin’ here?”

  I waited as long as I could before waking Kowalski.

  31

  “Contestant 11.789.747

  ..... Come On Down!”

  We took the Thrifty rent-a-car bus to the depot where a nondescript four-door sedan awaited us.

  “I’ll drive,” Kowalski grunted.

  As we drove away from the airport, I took in the interior of the rent-a-car—a chintzy mish-mash of fake chrome and coffee-stained fabrics—and grimaced. The forces Kowalski served purportedly provided for a hunter’s needs.

  “How are we supposed to make a quick getaway in this bucket?” I said.

  Kowalski grunted again. My father’s partner had been unusually quiet since waking up on the runway. He’d barely uttered two words since leaving the airport.

  “It’ll do,” he grunted.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I said.

  Kowalski glared out at the night.

  “Kowalski…”

  “Open the glove compartment,” he snapped.

  “If you won’t tell me why we’re here the least you can do is be...”

  “Open the goddamn glove compartment!”

  I opened it. Inside was a folded eight-by-ten-inch manila envelope.

  “Open it,” Kowalski said.

  Despite my newfound compassion I struggled with the urge to punch him in the neck.

  Inside the envelope was a sheaf of papers, about twenty pages of small print. I squinted in the dark and turned on the dome light.

  “Some of this is in Chinese,” I said.

  “Chinese, huh?” Kowalski said.

  I squinted at the English words at the top of the first page. “The Yeren?”

  Kowalski slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The rented car swerved off the highway and slalomed across the shoulder for a hundred yards before Kowalski maneuvered us back onto the road.

  “I must be gettin’ old in my old age,” he snarled.

  “What’s a Yeren?” I said.

  “Son-of-a bitch,” Kowalski said. “I saw the signs and missed every goddamn one of ‘em. Son-of-a bitch!”

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  “What?” Kowalski fired back.

  “You can have your pity party later,” I said. “Tell me what this means.”

  Kowalski reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette. Then he popped his Zippo.

  “You’re not going to do that here?” I said.

  Kowalski glared at me, and then he laughed.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those goddamn ‘second-hand smoke’ shitheads.”

  “Kowalski, in case you hadn’t heard, second-hand smoke kills. Jesus, where have you been since 1980?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look,” I began. “You eat like a maniac and you smoke like a chimney. You don’t take care of yourself.”

  “I kill monsters for a living, asshole,” Kowalski snarled. “I think my long-term health concerns are a tad more immediate: say not getting my head bitten off on a nightly goddamn basis!”

  I folded my arms, fuming.

  “Besides, I quit drinkin,” Kowalski said. “Don’t I get credit for that, Dr. Phil?”

  “Why do you do that?” I said. “Why must you insult me?”

  Kowalski lit his cigarette. He actually seemed to consider the question. When he spoke it was with the air of someone pondering a deep mystery.

  “Actually I don’t know,” he said. “Your old man and I went at it that way for thirty years. I guess you remind me of him.”

  “I’m not my father,” I said.

  “Trust me,” Kowalski said. “That much we’ve established. Chinese folklore.”

  “What?”

  “The Yeren. Sometimes we catch a break and the referral service gets an ID tag on the squatter before we intercept. Tonight’s specialty hails from the rural and mountainous regions of China. He’s the Oriental equivalent of our Sasquatch, or Wendigo.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “‘Sasquatch?’ You mean Bigfoot? You’re telling me we’re going in search of a Chinese Bigfoot?”

  I couldn’t feature it. After seeing Juno and Trocious in action, what Kowalski was suggesting seemed almost as ridiculous as his use of the term “Orientals.”

  “The Orientals have their own legends of a wildman,” he continued. “Most cultures share similar monsters, hence the global popularity of creatures like vampires, werewolves and the squatter we’re gonna kill tonight.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “We’re going after this Yeren thing tonight? Now?”

  “That’s right,” Kowlaski said. “This squatter’s responsible for a string of unsolved murders in and around Seattle. Pearl’s tagged him and targeted him for removal.

  That envelope contains details of its origins and current whereabouts. Saves us the ass-ache of trackin’ ‘em down.”

  “How does the Service know where the killer is?” I said.

  “It’s what they do,” Kowalski answered. �
�Smoothin’ over rough seas should they bar a hunter’s way, remember?”

  Kowalksi swirled his finger around his temple and whistled the theme from The Twilight Zone. He laughed. Then he lit another cigarette.

  “Read on, Macduff,” he said.

  “That’s bad luck,” I said.

  “What now?”

  “Quoting from the ‘Scottish Play.’”

  “You mean Macbeth?”

  I winced. Black shapes seemed to rise out of the darkness around us. I locked the passenger door.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Kowalski said. “I only said ‘Macbeth.’”

  “Stop saying that,” I hissed. “Never say that name.”

  “Why the Christ not?”

  “Because I spent five years as a theater history minor, that’s why,” I snapped. “There’s an ancient theatrical tradition that says it’s bad luck to quote from or mention the name of that play.”

  “Macbeth?”

  “Jesus.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “You have to call it ‘the Scottish Play’.”

  Kowalski shot a look filled with doubt toward my side of the car.

  “I would appreciate it if you would respect my wishes,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need all the good luck we can get.”

  Kowalski considered this information for a long moment.

  Then he puffed out a huge smoke ring.

  “Superstitious horsebrownies,” he said.

  We drove on.

  32

  Squire

  We pulled up to the curb in a darkened residential area. The clock on the dashboard read two-thirty-eight in the morning. Overhead, the moon shone through the clouds like the baleful eye of a hungry God and I had to pee.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “It says here that this thing is ‘partially spiritual in nature and can only be returned to the spirit realm by a holy man, or a monk who humbly walks the earth having removed from himself all fear, anger, desire and attachment to fleshly concerns.’”

  Kowalski threw the car into park.

  “I look like a monk to you?”

  “Well, now that you mention it...”

  “Funny guy.”

  We got out of the car. Kowalski went around to the back and opened the trunk.

  “How the hell do you...?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Kowalski growled. “This squatter can hear us a mile away. It can be all over us so fast we’d be torn apart before you can irrigate your shorts again.”

  Around us, darkened homes nestled cozily on both sides of the street, their occupants unaware of the madness crouched in their midst. If what I’d read about the Yeren was true, the people of Seattle had a great deal to fear.

  The quiet street seemed alive with shadows. Half-hidden shapes thronged in the spaces between the houses. Pale forms beckoned from every storm drain. A cold wind crept along the sidewalk, sweeping a solitary piece of newspaper along like an albino tumbleweed.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” I whispered.

  “And tell ‘em what?” Kowalski said. “That an ancient Chinese forest spirit that walks like a man and devours human beings only to vanish mysteriously, leaving behind a skunk-like stench and a haunting scream is stalking an abandoned Lutheran church in Northwest Seattle?”

  Kowalski offered a black-hearted chuckle. “Tell you what, I’ll dial for you and you make the call.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Excellent.”

  Kowalski removed his silver automatic from his overnight bag and slid it into a shoulder holster. Then he took a second automatic out of the bag, put it into a holster on his hip and tossed the bag in the trunk.

  “But how are we going to...ahhh...?”

  “Kill it, Grudge,” he said. “We’re here to kill the fucker. Get it straight, ‘cause we’re only gonna get one chance.”

  “Alright,” I said.

  “If you fuck up we’re deader than Dick’s hatband.”

  “I get it,” I snapped.

  Seemingly without transition the wind temperature dropped ten degrees. The hairs on my arms stood at attention as Kowalski continued.

  “When dealing with a squatter it’s best to keep three things about you,” Kowalski said. “First and most obvious is your wits. The second is this.”

  He lifted a large silver golf bag out of the trunk.

  “You’re gonna ask it to play nine holes?”

  Kowalski hoisted a long wooden object out of the silver golf bag. He performed some arcane maneuver that I couldn’t quite follow and two long arms flipped up, forming a T.

  It was a crossbow, similar to the one he’d used on Trocious but larger. This weapon was nearly five feet long and resembled a hunting rifle.

  After a moment, I said: “Are you insane?”

  “Damn it, Pearl,” he growled. “I prefer a Colby. Better control in a running, crouching, ambush scenario. This one’s a Seward. She’s awkward, but powerful enough. Here.” He lifted the crossbow/rifle. “This one’s yours.”

  Kowalski tossed the crossbow to me. I caught it... barely. Then I looked up at the crusty prophet.

  “Holy God Almighty-”

  “-is not payin’ attention,” Kowalski snapped. “So you’d damn well better.”

  The Seward was lighter than it looked, made from aluminum or something like it, from what I could tell. It looked decidedly lethal.

  “Bolts are in the bag,” Kowalski said.

  He lifted a second, more traditional-looking golf bag out of the trunk, and inspected its contents.

  “Ahhh,” he said. “Pearl, I knew you wouldn’t bone me.”

  He produced the Colby: It was a sleek, black compact crossbow, more like a pistol, with a “quiver” of glittering shafts secured to the stock.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Silver arrows?”

  “Not fer this. Silver is good for most of yer undead; yer shape-shifters and some of the modern creature phenotypes. But there are older things, things outside your-Judeo-Christian philosophies, dig? Unless I miss my guess, the Yeren is a forest spirit, more akin to a malignant sprite or a goblin: That’s faerie breed, nasty and damn near immortal. Fer them, cold iron’s what’s needed.”

  Kowalski struck the tips of two bolts together and sparks flew. He nodded and replaced the bolts in the quiver. Then he pulled a box of ammo out of his overnight bag and began to load the guns he carried, twin Sig Sauer Model automatics, each one capable of delivering fifteen rounds of rancorous double-action desecration.

  “Teflon-coated, high-velocity shells with iron shavings packed inside,” Kowalski said. “Bastards explode on contact. Nasty little fuckers.”

  He finished loading the guns and slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Where’s my gun?”

  Kowalski snorted. “The day I let you handle a firearm around me again’ll be the day Hell tap-dances out of my ass. Stick with the crossbow.”

  We walked up the street and turned right, heading away from the glare of the streetlamps.

  The abandoned church sat at the far end of a large empty lot that at one time must have served as the church parking lot. Behind the church, a closed freeway overpass formed the closed end of a kind of cul-de sac.

  As we walked toward the church, the silence became oppressive. The air grew thicker, difficult to drag into the lungs. A high, ringing tone trembled in my ears, and a light sweat prickled across the surface of my skin.

  “Why is it that whenever I’m in the presence of something weird I feel like twenty pounds of shit in a five-pound sack?”

  “Allergic reaction,” Kowalski grunted.

  “What?”

  “Some talents manifest physically as symptoms. Sometimes the symptoms resemble an allergic reaction. It’s a survival mechanism.”

  “Survival mechanism,” I said.

  “Yep,” Kowalski said. “It’s your brain’s way of warning you: Wh
en you start to feel like crap, duck, cause some squatter’s fixin’ to jump out and carve you a new bunghole.”

  “Thanks,” I snapped. “You said there were three things I’d need to get out of this alive. What’s the third?”

  Kowalski sighed and readjusted the black golf bag on his shoulder.

  “Passion,” he said. “It’s the foundation of all belief. Ferget those old horror flicks where the hero waves a crucifix at some hacked-off blood-drinker and burns it down to a bad fart and empty formalwear: It’s not the religious icon that wields the power. It’s the belief of the wielder.”

  “But I’m an agnostic.”

  “Not fer long.”

  Kowalski scratched the silver whiskers adorning his cheeks: The sandpaper rasping this action produced did nothing to soothe my jangled nerves.

  “But you don’t have to believe in God to take down a squatter. More important is the belief that what you’re doing is right on a deeply philosophical, cosmic level.”

  “What,” I said. “Like some sort of quest?”

  “Yeah,” Kowalski said. “One usually backed by a fanatical conviction, or some deep, personal loss: a loss which binds a hunter to his path and sets his feet to the Road.”

  Comprehension spread, slowly, like Dawn’s glow across the dark firmament of my consciousness. “You’re talking about my father.”

  Kowalski stopped. “Marcus and I were in Seattle three months ago. We were tracking a killer the police couldn’t even categorize. When I told you your old man was good, I wasn’t blowin’ smoke up your Hershey Highway. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Marcus tracked the thing. We found it close to the place where it had dumped its last victim’s remains. But Marcus was too good. The squatter was still in the area.”

  In the darkness, Kowalski was barely visible. He spoke softly, his voice drifting toward me from out of the night. “Fucker got the jump on us.”

  Kowalski lit a cigarette, his hands cupped around the Zippo to shield its flame from watchful eyes. “It came out of the trees. Bastard tore into us like a fat man on a bean burrito. I only caught a glimpse of it: big sucker, yellow eyes, hairy all over. It hit me, put my lights out. While I was unconscious...the squatter butchered Marcus.”