The Revenants

  The Revenants

  By Jack Castle

  Dedications

  This book is dedicated to firefighter Greg Wahlman, and those like him, who put their lives on the line for the rest of us every day.

  Acknowledgements

  This book also would not be possible without the continued support and encouragement of my wife and muse Tracy, my best friends Chad Bryant and GregWahlman, my good friends and awesome beta-readers: Ryan Chidester, Meredith Johnson, Wil Cartwright, Sue Sablan and Joe Butler. I would also like to thank editor extraordinaire Ansley Blackstock, Darrin Geisinger for his spectacular cover design, and fellow author Toby Neighbors for introducing me to a whole new world of possibilities.

  Definition of Revenants: visible ghosts or animated corpses believed to have returned from the grave to terrorize the living.

  “Hotel rooms are just naturally creepy places, don’t you think?”

  -Stephen King

  "And forces shall profane the sanctuary and take away the continual burnt-offering, and they shall set up the abomination that maketh desolate."

  Daniel 11:31

  Chapter 1

  Becca

  Paradise Lost Motel

  Damned if I know exactly where.

  Somewhere near the Badlands of South Dakota…I think.

  Life sucks and then you die.

  In a darkened motel room, former Air Force Sgt. Rebecca Chaffee sat in a hard-backed chair in front of the TV, the lip of her last cold bottle of beer pressed against her forehead. Since the ‘accident’, it was always more comfortable on her back sitting on one chair with her bare feet propped on another than sitting on the cushy bed.

  Most people in her situation would ask, ‘How the hell did I end up here?’ But Becca knew the exact moment, no, the exact second her life took a downward turn and went from simply being perfect to barely living one day to the next.

  Pssstttt… I’m right here.

  (Ignore that voice. It’s not important. Who am I? You needn’t worry about that for now. There’s plenty of time for that later. No. For right now, it’s time for a little writing 101, or as editors like to call it… Intro-spec-tion. You know, sort of gets you in touch with the protagonist of this little tale. In this case, it’s a broken puppet named Becca. Let’s listen in, shall we?)

  Less than a year ago Becca’s life had been perfect and she had never been happier. In fact, the very morning her life had spiraled down the drain, Becca had been certain she was about to enter a whole new level of bliss.

  The morning shift at the security checkpoint of Elmendorf Air Force base had started like a thousand others. No, that wasn’t quite true. Her boyfriend, Mike, had said he wanted to ask her something after work. Something important. She had a pretty good idea what that something was.

  But instead, everything changed in the amount of time it took most people to blink. Her bomb-sniffing K-9 unit, Champ, had barked a split-second warning too late, and acting on pure instinct, Staff Sgt. Michael Sloane stepped in front of her, shielding her from the brunt of the explosion. In that single second it took the I.E.D. to detonate, the two beings she loved most had been ripped from this world.

  Even with Mike and Champ blocking the way, the concussion still flung her burning body clear across the security checkpoint like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July.

  When she regained consciousness three days later the docs discovered she had lost all hearing in her left ear and twenty percent in her right. And thanks to that single, teeny-tiny moment in time, for the next nine months she’d have to endure an existence of unimaginable pain balanced with the drunken stupor provided by oversized pain pills.

  During her hospital incarceration, her comrades in arms, and sis from back home, had all visited… once. Her brother had sent a get-well card from him and his family back in New Hampshire. And ever since Dad died while Becca was away at college, Mom’s permanent residence had been in a bottle. Becca doubted her mom even knew she had nearly been killed in combat. Combat… That was a laugh. Two tours in Afghanistan working K-9s at security checkpoints and her unit’s biggest dilemma had been whether or not they had enough coffee to get them through the day. Ironically the bomb that had blown Mike and Champ to Kingdom Come didn’t go off overseas. Nope. It went off right here in good ole’ U.S.A. at a frozen little Air Force Base in Anchorage, Alaska. Just some misguided college kid who had pledged his allegiance to a radical group of Islamists. Thanks a lot, kid. You killed a great dog, an even greater guy, and got what’s left of my sorry ass booted out of the military. And for what? A political statement that nobody understood or would remember five minutes later?

  Yeah… what a first-rate jerk. I’m glad he’s dead.

  Mike’s mother, Mrs. Sloane, was the only one who visited more than once. Not really having much of a mom growing up, Becca absolutely adored Carolyn. That’s why it hurt all the more when she had flown back home at the end of the week and never looked back. At least she had left a nice going-away present: the engagement ring found amongst Mike’s remains. (Ain’t that a kick in the pants?) She and Carolyn hadn’t spoken much after that. Becca had thought about calling Carolyn a dozen times or so, but it was just too painful… for both of them.

  Hey, I’m still here for you.

  “Knock it off.”

  (Seriously, do not listen to him; he’s little more than a pissant. Not like us, anyway. We’re a bit more cultured and with a sense of taste. Now, where were we? Oh yes, intro-spec-tion.)

  Eventually the back and neck brace came off, they eased her off the dope (golly gee, I bet that was fun) and the medieval torturers, a.k.a. physical therapists, got her walking again. After her release from the hospital the military granted her a Medical Discharge, which she took as, ‘Sorry, ma’am, but you be all kinds of broken. Military ain’t got much use for you no more, so here’s a few bucks, and the rest, well now, kiddo, that’s up to you.’

  That… is… awful. You should probably give up right now. Seriously, I’m literally right here on the nightstand.

  “Shut up.”

  Oh, c’mon, girl, one teensy pull of the trigger is all it takes and you can have that sweet blessed sleep you’ve been praying for.

  “I said… Shut. It!”

  Yep. Becca heard voices in her head–she supposed everyone did, although usually they were Mike or her perfect little brother back east. This particular voice was different than the others in that he was a bit pushier somehow, as though he seemed to have his own agenda. And, as if sensing these thoughts and not liking the direction they were taking, the Voice spoke again, only this time in a more soothing, comforting tone.

  I mean, that’s all you really want now, isn’t it? A good night’s sleep?

  Becca pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut hoping it might make the pushy voice go to hell. Without warning, a loud commercial break (you know the one… the big, beefy-bearded fellow with the loud booming voice selling laundry detergent) came blaring over the television’s blown-out speakers and motivated Becca to grab the antiquated remote on the windowsill nearby. Lowering the volume she flipped through the channels only to end back on the same late night talk show. It was her favorite, Donnie O’Donnell. “Top of the Evening to ya!” Donnie the fighting Irishman, who was the only real man in her life these days, one she had come to know all too well during her stay at Club Hospital Hell.

  While in the hospital she had been super careful not to end up hooked on any of those giant-sized horse pills they’d been doping her with, and after her release, a couple Advil, and special seat cushion, made her back pain almost manageable. Her hearing in her left ear was gone, and according to the docs, that was never, never-ever, coming back, but the hearing in her right ear had returned enough so she was able to
follow most of what people were saying, provided there wasn’t a significant amount of background noise and their mouths were facing her when they talked. To add insult to injury her sweet New Hampshire accent had been replaced by the accent of the hearing impaired, although even she had to admit, speech therapy had been helping on that score.

  (Yay for speech therapy! Whoot! Whoot!)

  After taking a couple months off and feeling sorry for herself, she answered a Want Ad with a private security firm based out of Seattle, Washington. The job was her only remaining passion, training German Shepherds for government agencies. In the military it had been a job she had been good at--no, exceptional at--for nearly ten years. But try as she might, she found it hard connecting with the new dogs. It was kind of difficult when you knew you were going to have to turn the mutts over to another handler after only a few weeks of training. Champ had been with her for how long? Nearly seven years.

  Oh, Champ…

  This time the voice in her head was her own. She quickly told herself, Knock it off! You know where that path leads.

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye onto the back of her wrist, sniffed loudly, and sat up a little straighter in the seat to ease the growing knot in her back.

  At least the new job paid well enough, and according to her boss, they were very happy with her work. Most of the time she was on the road going from agency to agency, base to base, dropping off trained dogs, training the handlers how to work with them, and then moving on to the next assignment. The few men who had shown any interest in her were either repulsed by her hearing-impaired lisp, or by the fact she was a no-nonsense witch with a capital ‘B’, probably the latter.

  On the TV, Donnie O’Donnell came back on, this time wearing a Christmas hat. Was it nearly Christmas already? Did it matter? On Christmas Day her sis would grace her with a phone call, and even she didn’t know where to tell her brother to send his sickening homemade Christmas card, accompanied by the traditional family newsletter. ‘You’ll never guess what little Levi has been up to this year!’

  That… is… so sad. And to think, I’m all that’s left to you now. C’mon, lass, give us a go.

  Funny, she hadn’t realized it until this moment but the voice of her gun sounded a lot like her best friend in the whole world, Donnie O’Donnell.

  “Okay, fine, you win.”

  Becca got up out of the chair as fast as her stiff back and locked knees would allow and moved over to the nightstand. She sat on the bed next to the sleek weapon with its silver-gun-metal finish. The 1911 pistol had a four-inch barrel, the WW II officer’s model, the Commander model, thank you very much. This iconic piece of art got our boys through the Big One, Korea, and Vietnam. This time it was Mike’s voice narrating in her head. It was Mike who had first told her about the 1911’s history. She could almost imagine him pacing back-and-forth in the corner of the hotel room, still wearing his perfectly pressed combat fatigues, gesturing wildly with his hands as he talked about his favorite subject. Mike, please continue. Imaginary Mike gave her a crisp nod and continued. During the Philippines-U.S. War the fierce-fighting Moro warriors would take drugs to deaden their sense of pain and could continue fighting even when mortally wounded. The .45 caliber knock-down-stopping power of the 1911 was almost an immediate solution.

  Becca couldn’t help but smile. Even when he was alive Mike was always so eager to talk about his guns. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  Becca finished her beer, put the bottle down on the nightstand, and picked up the iconic pistol Mike had given her. She removed the pistol from its sleek black-leather sheath and cradled it in her hands. It was kind of poetic in a way; the gift from the only man she ever loved would transport her from this life to the next.

  Wait a minute, what about the German shepherd she was currently training? What was his name? Oh yeah, Bart. What a stupid name for a dog. Regardless, she couldn’t just leave Bart all alone.

  As though sensing she was thinking about him, the shepherd lying near the window lifted his wooly head. His ears rotated toward her and his eyebrows lifted in a questioning glance.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know what it’s been like the last year. Besides, by this time tomorrow you’ll have a brand new owner anyway.”

  But on the other hand, what was one more day? She could drop off the stupid mutt with its new owner and take care of her ‘personal matter’ at the next motel. One motel was just as good as the next. She was about to holster the pistol again when…

  You can leave a note there, lass. Becca noted the gun’s voice had a more urgent quality to it now. I’m certain the first responders will take care of what’s-his-name.

  Even as her 1911 pistol suggested the idea (or Donnie if you prefer) she was already typing a quick text on her phone telling the paramedics where to drop off the dumb dog.

  Conveniently, the hammer of the 1911 was already in the cocked back position. That’s how you carried the sweet 1911. Always ready. Cocked and Locked. The last remembrance of him. Mike even had it engraved. To Becca, From Mike. Okay, so yeah, Mike wasn’t exactly a poet. Incidentally, that’s how they had met, on a gun range. Her shooting scores had been dismal but with his instruction she started scoring in the top five percentile. He was a great teacher.

  Thanks again, Unabomber. You suck.

  She lifted the barrel of the fine weapon to her face. Most experts on the matter would agree the barrel either under the chin and up or in the mouth was the way to go. She just didn’t like the image. This last small detail was at least something she could control. Instead, she placed the barrel to her forehead. The coolness of the metal always surprised her. Yeah, this wasn’t her first time. So what? Sue me.

  That’s my girl. I… am… so… flipping proud of you, lass. We’re really gonna do it this time. So exciting!

  On the television the real Donnie O’Donnell was wrapping up his show with his normal closing monologue. “And with that said, I tip my hat off to you, sweet viewers, and to all of you, a very good night.”

  Her finger tensed on the trigger. From years of putting thousands of rounds through the weapon for qualifications and contests, Becca knew it would be a firm but smooth pull. The bullet would rumble through her brain and she would finally sleep without pain. Wouldn’t that be nice? According to her religion she would be damned, but she’d stopped believing in that nonsense long ago. Mike was nothing more than a piece of rotting meat below ground. And soon she would be too, that is, if her siblings didn’t opt for the cheaper way to go, at the good ole’ crematorium; that way they could keep what was left of her on the mantel. At least they’d have a great story to tell their dinner guests. Hey, who knows, she might even make next year’s newsletter?

  Get on with it!

  “Right. Here we go.”

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  The loud thumping on her hotel room door startled her so badly she nearly dropped the pistol.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  Even though she was prepared for this second knocking she still nearly jumped out of her skin. “Gee-zuz!” Any harder and Mr. Midnight Knocker was going to knock the damn door right off the hinges. In fact, she was surprised he hadn’t already.

  Who would be calling at this hour anyway?

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  Okay, buddy, you don’t know it yet, but you picked the wrong girl to mess with tonight. She didn’t recall any creepazoids when she had first checked into the motel. The clerk behind the desk was a bored college kid. And in the jam-packed parking lot there was a fat, sweaty guy in a cheap suit dragging his enormous luggage out of the trunk of a late model Buick. Neither of them had given her so much as a passing glance.

  Wearing only cargo pants and a white tank-top, she moved toward the door.

  Sensing something was up, Bart began a low guttural growl. She extended a level hand toward him and per his training he calmed down. Good boy. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.

  Becca was surpris
ed to see there was no peephole in the door.

  That’s odd, I’m almost positive they have to have one by law.

  She kept the 1911 in her right hand, down by her side and behind her thigh. She undid the deadbolt and clasped the doorknob in her hand. Part of her hoped it really was a dirtbag; someone she could really unload her frustrations on. Pun intended. Even if she didn’t get the poor bastard with the 1911, Bart would surely take a big chunk out of his hide.

  “Who is it?” she asked in her most commanding voice, one she had refined over the last decade at numerous security checkpoints all over the world.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  This last series of knocking was a lot harder than the rest. Clearly Mr. Midnight Knocker was not intimidated by her refined commanding voice.

  That’s it, buddy, you had your chance. Now I’m going to share some pain and end you.

  Not wasting a single second, Becca turned the knob with her left hand and yanked open the door. She had the German word for attack locked-and-loaded on her lips, and was ready to unload both the 1911 and one hundred and ten pounds of German shepherd on whatever lay on the other side of the motel’s door.

  But no one was there.

  Still keeping the 1911 discreetly behind her she stepped outside her room. No one was outside on the concrete patio or in the parking lot, either.

  A warm gentle breeze blushed through her soul, as if the passing had defined it, making it almost…familiar somehow.

  “Mike?”

  Becca scanned the parking lot a second time. He had to be there. She felt him. She needed him to be there. He wasn’t. And neither was anyone else.

  (All by myself. Don’t want to be? All by myself… Anymore.)

  (Sorry, was I singing out loud again. My apologies. Where are you at anyway? Oh, I see, at the Mister Midnight Knocker part. Oh goodie, we’re finally getting to the good stuff.)

  “Where is everybody?”