The Wrong Side of the Tracks

By TC McQueen

The second journal of John Henry Darrow and sequel to "The Mask of Romek".It takes up the story a few months after the events of the first book and follows John Darrow and "Doc" Lockhart as they take a train trip with an unexpected stop and encounter a monster from another age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TC McQueen
• Release date: Apr 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301792252

TC McQueen

I promised never to use my powers for evil. I did however have my fingers crossed when I said it.

Book preview

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

by

T.C. McQueen

Copyright 2013 T.C. McQueen

Smashwords Edition

Foreword:

This is the point where the author generally prattles on about inspiration and thanks lots of people, so here goes. I used to take the train to work. That's it, sorry it wasn't more engaging, but what do you expect for nothing, Stephen King? Special thanks to FNH at Cthulhu Podcast for his support, check out his regular podcasts. Also thanks to Gavin Steel for the cover photography. See more of his work that I haven't ruined with photoshop at Gavin Steel Photography on Facebook. Also follow the rambling of this author there on Facebook too. Enjoy.

Chapter One: The snake that swallowed its tail.

You are only as good as your last job was a pearl of wisdom handed down to me from Henry William Darrow, who had the dubious honour of being my Pa. In his own way he was warning me not to rest on my laurels and get off my ass and work. When I came home from France in 1918 it was sound advice. Over ninety years later it still was. However, the Department of Homeland Security seemed to prefer What have you done for me lately? Sure, I had prevented a long dead pagan witchdoctor from staging a bloody comeback tour and plunging the east coast into a new dark age, not to mention taking a severe ass kicking in the process. That, however, didn’t carry much weight with the payroll section at Homeland. They saw an agent unfit for duty and tried to ditch me on medical grounds. Yes, the only reason I took the badge in the first place was to get out of jail, but my pride wouldn’t let me just walk away. Frankly, I was a bit peeved Septimus hadn’t opened the door to his own side operation for me, hunting the paranormal with the protection of a Government badge. After a month or two licking my wounds, I was ready to get back to work. The thing was, I had no office to report to, no supervisor to check up on me, and most importantly no pay cheque. My calls to Septimus went unanswered, till after weeks of silence, one of his flunkies called me at my Boston apartment, with an order to report to DHS headquarters in Boston.

Bright and early on a crisp April morning, I hopped the train down town to the business district, trying my best to blend in with the other commuters, one more suit amongst many. Up till now, public transport was something that only happened to other people, ordinary people. People like me don’t keep office hours. When I worked with the Bureau, I was a field man, I only saw rush hour driving home off a night shift. Strap hanging with fellow members of the human race made me realise how much of a gap I had put between them and me. I swayed back and forth, bombarded by music, half heard phone conversations and the rustle of the morning papers, all wrapped up in the aroma of fresh ground coffee. It was a novelty at first, but that faded after sixty minutes of being elbowed in the ribs by strangers. I was grateful to climb the stairs out of the station and breathe fresh air. Spurning a short cab ride, I opted to walk to my new job, using the time to catch a smoke. I was early, so I stood in the shadow of the building, enjoying the last draw before stubbing out the butt. Gazing upward, I was more than a little impressed by the sight of Homeland’s looming headquarters. Keen to make a good first impression, I checked my reflection, straightened my tie and strode into the lobby, trying to look like I belonged there. I presented myself to the grim faced uniforms at reception. They directed me to the security checkpoint, were a pretty young thing with a badge and a gun relieved me of my revolver, phone and other tools of my particular trade. She raised an eyebrow at the Bowie knife when I placed it reverently in the plastic tray, likewise with the medicine bag from round my neck, She kept the aloof professional demeanour going throughout despite throwing her my best Cary Grant smile. As I gathered up my loose change and smokes she leant in with a conspiratorial whisper.

Keep the cigarettes hidden honey, don’t let the Troll see them, he’ll go nuts. Well, nobody wants to upset a troll, especially on their first day, so I simply nodded and palmed the pack into a pocket. Once through the checkpoint, I found myself confronted by a small, immaculately turned out little man in a blue pin stripe number. Picture the love child of Pee Wee Herman and Gollum and you’ve got him. The whispering guard showed him a clear bag containing my revolver, knife and other toys.

Good Morning, Agent, he managed a sly glimpse at his clip board, Marx. He raised an eyebrow at my offered hand like I had just spat on it. My name is Special Agent Tollan, I will be conducting your orientation and escort you to your new assignment. Something told me this was the Troll, an irksome little company man.

Every job has its own brand of company man. In law enforcement, a company man submits reports like regular cops do, but these reports are about potential budget savings by removing the coffee machine or how to improve public perception by not smoking and smiling more at the public. Frankly, if that’s how you think, you have no business wearing a badge. I need coffee and cigarettes, and if I don’t get any, I damn well guarantee I won’t be smiling at you. It is the lot of the rank and file that these folk climb the ladder on the basis of dumb ass ideas. Trust me, when you need a cop, and I mean really need one, you don’t want a company man. Chances are he would write you up for bleeding to death on the side-walk.

I forced a smile, hoping to charm my gun back from his bureaucratic clutches. As if reading my mind, he droned on. Your weapon, which I see is non-regulation, and your other, how should I put it, effects, will be returned after certain checks have been completed and your clearance is approved by a supervisory agent. I opened my mouth to ask who that was, but was cut off by a raised palm in my face. That would be me. He spun on his heel, gesturing for me to follow. I paused, considering which death I would most like to see him suffer. I decided on the spot if something should crawl from the depths of hell to crack his skull open and eat his brain, I would let it.

I threw the pretty guard a smile and got one back for my efforts. With a heartfelt sigh, I fell into step behind him. He led me through the cavernous lobby space, towards the bank of elevator doors. I trotted to keep up as he wove his way expertly through the sea of government employees busying about their government employment. We stopped at the last door. Keen to seem helpful, I tapped the call button as he fussed with a swipe card. I expected a swift elevator ride to some corner office with a vertiginous view of the city, instead he ran the card through the lock of a nondescript service door to one side of the elevator. It swung in to reveal a dimly lit stairwell that lead only one way, down. Hugging his clipboard, Tollan glided down the stairs, his wing-tips glinting in the service lighting. I got the feeling that the corner office was something I may have to work up to.

Flight after flight we descended, I couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t install an elevator for this part of the building. As we walked, he bombarded me with telephone numbers, break times, no-smoking policies, dress codes and a ton of stuff I didn’t even think was in English. I finally understood why they took my weapon. After the welcome talk, I felt like chewing on the barrel. At the base of the stairs, he swiped his card through another lock, this time however, instead of leading the way, he pressed a fresh card bearing my picture into my hand, holding the door open with his foot.

I go no further Agent. Follow this corridor to the end, report to Agent Fisher. He has your assignment. He ushered me through with that shooing gesture usually reserved for children and small dogs. Before I could thank him or, even tell him to go screw himself, he breezed off, letting the door slam in my face. Feeling slightly adrift, I peered down the hallway. I hoped agent Fisher was less of an asshole than the Troll.

Fearing the worst, I rapped on a door marked Historical Data Conversion Project and, rather gingerly, swung it open. The room was dominated by rows and rows of government issue steel shelving, stretching off into the shadows. The only light came from a buzzing fluorescent tube dangling precariously above a collection of desks, awash with boxes, huddled in the centre as if for protection. The glow of computer screens served only to add to the dreariness of