The Lineman

By Vince Zinkl

The Lineman
Synopsis
Death nearly had him, once, then again. After a third, freakish near miss, Daniel really begins to worry. As if these harrowing instances were not enough, he has begun to see things; things that apparently were there all along, just beyond his ability to witness. With each strange, sometimes horrific sighting, what has begun to feel like a curse gets stronger and begins to attract every sort of unearthly being imaginable... many with one inexplicable desire: his destruction.
Life had been unremarkable, quiet. Rather introverted, perhaps a bit insecure, young Daniel Gabriel lived alone in the little cottage he’d share with his mother before her early death. Lonely, with no girlfriend or prospects, his habitual angst and self-doubt were ameliorated by the one thing he clung to as a positive in his life: his job as a Lineman. But when things begin to unravel, this became small comfort.
Everything changed the night of the big summer storm. The thrill of working his first big weather event as a journeyman was quickly quelled, when through the driving rain, Daniel catches a glimpse of something loping across the arc of his spotlight. It was mannish, but too big and thick. This was unnerving enough, but his body reacted to the sight in a weird way he’d not felt before: tingles, shivers and a wild churn in his belly. Minutes later, he finds his old friend and mentor, killed, horribly electrocuted. The grisly sight would haunt him to the end of his days.
But this trauma is only the beginning of Daniel’s troubles. One freakish accident follows another; his coworkers begin to shun him. But far worse, he begins to see people and things he shouldn’t, that no one else can see: the dead who’ve not departed, and worse. Soon after, his childhood friend goes on a shooting rampage, but his eyes glowed red and he speaks in a host of voices (seen and heard only by Daniel). Daniel is forced to shoot him dead, becoming both hero and outcast.
The Lineman is nearing the end of his rope, when he is approached by an exotic beauty who offers him a way out that would lead to the course to his salvation. She proves to be one more piece in the puzzle that has become his life and would provide the path to the answer of Daniel’s own, mysterious lineage. This answer is not what any man could expect.
When Daniel is caught working another wild, unnatural storm he is forced into a final confrontation with the forces out to destroy him. In the final moments, an unlooked-for messenger delivering all the answers he’s so desperately sought allows his salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vince Zinkl
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311963819

Book preview

The Lineman

A story by

Vince Zinkl

Copyright © 2015 Vince Zinkl

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

1 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born to them,

2 the sons of God saw the daughters of men that were fair; and they took them wives of all they should choose.

3 And the Lord said, "My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is of the flesh; yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

4 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of great renown.

Genesis 6 (King James Version)

Prologue

Billy had known pain before. So understandably, to any informed observer, numbing himself had become way of life; a way that itself inevitably brought further pain, requiring further numbing. Some distant part of him could detect a considerable amount of it presently. But it was far away, pestering the small portion left of him that could still feel, an irritant perhaps best ignored. That same well removed bit could smell the slightly manured grass against his face. An internal debate ensued: rouse further to answer the flickering, sputtering hint of curiosity? He rolled to his bare back… no. Not when the soothingly warm balm of nothingness was still an option.

There’s a strange symphony to be heard near the ocean, sometimes. When the wind wails and waves rhythmically crash upon the rocks, an eerie composition can fill the night. This was such a night. This place’s natural confluence of earth, sea and sky had drawn men for millennia, in a mostly forgotten past. A depression near the middle of the peninsula, about a hundred yards across, was rimmed with craggy, petroglyph inscribed outcroppings that offered some protection from the Pacific’s incessant winds. The fire pit in its center had the collective char of centuries.

Most of the gathered were incapable of noticing the natural poetry transpiring around them. Generally, they were greedy, selfish men. Some wanted power. Some wanted money. Some, everything, without regard to cost. They stood in a circle of thirteen. Their hooded robes were a requirement of the ceremony, as were their half-masks. The initiates were casting about in excited anticipation… they’d heard the stories. The older ones less so; one was filled with dread as he looked up through the eye holes of his mask to the wisps of clouds darting past the sliver of the new moon that offer so little light.

Aye, a dark night fer dark deeds. This one was no longer sure. Doubt clouded his heart. Things appeared to be getting out of hand, more than he had bargained for. He could only pray his wavering resolve went unnoticed.

The Thirteenth, the Incantor, looked about, pleased. The moment was close. All the prerequisite components appeared to be in place. The centerpiece was beginning to stir. That was good too.

Hear me, sworn! The time is nigh! We are about to embark upon our greatest trial yet!

Murmurs of affirmation and encouragement came from most of the assemblage.

Silence now! The ceremony begins and we must prove worthy. looking about. He was dressed differently. Where all the others were robed in rough, dark wool, this one’s robe was also dark, but smooth and shimmered like silk; the hood of his cloak hung back and his ebony mask was a fierce face. At least, it was honest.

Billy had always been a bit lost, a daydream away from whatever was transpiring around him. Less than bright, he was ill suited for school, or much less for dealing with cruelty of children. Frustrated teachers ceded this odd little boy to his own singular prism of detachment, leading to further isolation. Naturally, as time went by, he fell to the role of sullen outsider. As could be expected, this drew attention of the most negative nature from the princelings of athleticism, the strong boys. He was smallish and such predators honed in toward him in their characteristically violent way. The regular, shoving bullying sometimes escalated to beatings, which only furthered his standoffishness. As the chasm between him and the mainstream grew, so did his tendency toward all things counter-cultural.

First were the cigarettes, easily filched from his divorced and distracted mother (Billy never knew his father; the subject was taboo). Her energies were consumed by pretending to be young and working to bed ever younger men in an endless pursuit of fulfillment that always fell short. Then, as the nonconformist sort so often does, he fell in with the stoner crowd, pulled by the inevitable social gravity. Pot was easy, prevalent and fit his need to drown out the cacophony of life’s noise like a numbing bubble. Pharmaceuticals were soon to follow and proved even more effective means of making life less real, more bearable. He liked the rare offering of cocaine, but found crystal methamphetamine more affordable and easily accessible. He was now fifteen.

It wasn’t long before his inherently atrophied humanity was so diminished that he fell to the relativism of whatever. This philosophy led to ever greater depths of self-loathing. Soon enough, events indicated Life seemed to feel toward him as he felt toward Life.

His mother’s latest was a perpetually drunken young preacher whose already questionable Christianity was further cast into doubt by abusive perversion. This fully, finally manifested itself during one of the compulsory Bible studies Billy assiduously sought avoid. The good reverend required the poor boy to his knees for other than prayer after an inspirational amount of whiskey. Even this didn’t fundamentally affect the teen; compartmentalization comes easy to the disconnected.

In a way, this shocking and violent act opened up new possibilities the befuddled, cash-strapped adolescent had not considered. Comprehension came (as did his next acquaintance) when hitchhiking home on Highway One soon after the sun-up following an all night beach party. After waiting a seemingly interminable period for a ride, he blearily looked up to feel his prospects were improving as the Lincoln approached, slowed and pulled over. The large, middle-aged driver apparently felt the same, flashing cash and making his intentions clear. An hour later, the feel of three twenties in his palm helped him to not think about the taste and its reminder of the abusive preacher.

A new career path had opened for young William. Unfortunately, his avocational appetites were becoming as expensive as they were self-destructive. As these habits predictably worsened, his devotion to his new found trade necessarily increased. And as the cruising areas of Highway One proved insufficient enough opportunity for such entrepreneurial endeavors, he began to look for new revenue streams.

What you need, my little sex-bottle, is to trek your hot little ass on up to the City. Billy’s agreeable work ethic was quickly gaining him a reputation among the beach folk. "That’s where all the really rich dudes are! Old Franco was holding court before a clandestine bon-fire nestled in the dunes. The dancing light upon his wizened faced added to his authority. His courtiers consisted of the usual of society’s fringe: a homeless couple, a few itinerant surfers and a drunken, de-badged cop determined to drink himself to death. ’Sides, the best shit comes in to Frisco… straight from the land of the Kubla Khan!"

Billy didn’t know who or what the Kubla Khan was, but the best shit certainly carried a positive connotation that appealed. He took a long pull from the screw-top bottle of Rose’ proffered by one of the surfers; of course, the cop kept his whiskey close: no threat of such generosity from him. Following the surfer’s nod toward that direction, he passed the wine to Old Franco, who accepted with a gracious flourish.

I dunno, Franco. Never been; wouldn’t know no one or where ta go once I got there.

Hey my fuzzy-headed little brother, Franco knows all, tells all! Listen up: got a friend, lives on Ellis… no, Eddy St. He hook you up, my man! Earner like you, fit right in.

And so it was that young Billy embarked on a new, foggy-minded, less than completely aware adventure. Hitchhiking his way north the following morning proved serendipitous in timing. Thumb out, small pack resting on the roadside gravel, he watched as the burping, smoking old VW van slowly chugged its way toward him. Once resplendent in its sixties décor of bright paints, glitter and seas shells, it was now a rather faded remnant of its psychedelic past. Still, there was something oddly regal to the aging road-schooner that left its dignity intact, some of it. His carefully contrived stance of nonchalance and cut-off tee exposing his flat abdomen were not necessary to catch a lift from this crew.

Hey man (the words required nearly a full second each), Where ya headed? asked the shirtless and extremely hairy driver from across his well worn female passenger who, in turn, flashed a mostly toothless smile. Beads and feathers hung from the rearview; shells, matches, rolling papers and half a pouch of American Spirit tobacco littered the dash.

Uh, north… Frisco.

Well today’s yours little brother! We’ll be passin’ through on our way to ‘Reggae on the River’, man!

Things felt like they might be looking up as he reached for the handle of the dented, rusty door, taking no notice of its flaking hand-art. He shoved the second-hand clothes and bedding aside and settled into the broken down back seat.

As they made their unhurried way back onto the pavement, smoke began to billow from the passenger. She turned, offering a sizable blunt of hospitality to the newest member of the crew.

I’m Groovy, she rasped, exhaling a surprisingly thick plume.

Uh, thanks, accepting the largest joint he’d ever seen. I bet.

"Ha! No man, Groovy’s her name, the driver laughed. I’m Hiram. Welcome to the Magic Bus, where the road goes on forever and the party never ends!"

As Billy sat back in his comfortable new nest and took a lungful from the Marley-cigar, he couldn’t have known this was as good as his short life would get. That after his northward trek, things would deteriorate in a most unpleasant fashion.

As it so often does, San Francisco swallowed the hapless, addled youngster, like a foggy black hole consuming a feeble light. Franco’s Tenderloin friend did indeed hook him up and hooked him good. Heroin was the natural progression for a lost soul like Billy. At first, it was offered under the guise of welcome and acceptance. Predictably, soon he was addicted and needed tricks to pay for his new habit. Then, he was ruthlessly pimped: a slave now to two masters. Even as he practiced his time honored profession and despite his youth, his wares were already beginning to lose their luster. The additional piercings and tattoos did little to ameliorate the emaciated, haunted visage he now projected. He began accepting less and less in payment for doing more and more, Until finally, his Eddy Street master sold him one last time. He didn’t even know he’d contracted the AIDS virus.

"O master of dark knowledge, hear our call! Come to us this night and accept our offering." He had recreated the dead language as best he could.

"Hear our call," intoned the gathering, as coached.

It was Aramaic, as only the Incantor knew, among the assembled. Not filled with the potency of the ritual’s first, lost language, but he was nearly certain it was close enough. He’d poured over all the crumbling texts he could get a hold of and the internet had a surprising array of digitized, arcane offerings. None in his other life would have guessed him a scholar.

The rite was too ancient for most alive to know in its original form and context. Yet, it persisted, a dark work of the first tribes of Mesopotamia, infants of an early civilization that had been used by even darker, older and certainly more potent forces that walked the earth openly in those days. As was so often the case with the efforts of such cabals, its use became subverted, a corruption to be expected. Once, it had been crafted to summon any number of specific targets. Now, the knowledge remained for just one. This bit of control had nearly been lost over time, becoming the mystical tool of only the desperate and reckless. Here, it required thirteen of the initiated, sworn to secrecy by blood and oath. The thirteenth, the leader, led the incantation of the summoning. His was an agenda of complete self-service, despite the deceptions of mutual gain promulgated toward the twelve. The empty promises were tailored to the desire of each participant. These were not pretences perpetrated with difficulty. It’s hard to rape the willing.

The chant concluded. The wind became still and the only sounds were the surf and the crackling fire. Soon, hoods began to turn toward their neighbors: was this a hoax, a failure? Were they fools, credulous dupes of the Incantor’s promises? Had all this ceremony…

"So priest, what have you here for me?

All present started violently at the unexpected words of the new arrival; his approach had gone unnoticed, even by the Incantor. As if bourn upon the suddenly still airs, the invited guest came forth. With racing hearts the circle parted and watched as the figure sauntered into the fire’s light.

Lord of dark stars, we welcome and are grateful.

"Hmm… grateful? I dare say. My presence is a most precious and coveted commodity, ha-ha-ha!"

He was beautiful to behold. Elegantly loose fitting clothes glimmering, he appeared perfection in human form. A wry, bored expression dominated his unnaturally fine face as he lazily entered into the circle of assembled.

"I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve discovered the ritual. Your lot’s always fumbling upon dangerous secrets, aren’t you?" with lilting, almost femininely musical amusement. Then the Invited slowly turned, examining the participants one at a time. As he did so, each man had a horribly uncomfortable feeling of invasion, as if no thought or sin could be concealed from the examination, no shameful secret. He lingered before the one, who fought to control his tremors, then moved on. When his gaze at last fell to the Incantor, he spoke again.

"I gather you wish to become my sorcerer. You want my guidance to reach for the knowledge and power of which men like you dream. Hmm… presumptuous, to say the least. Still I must say, I admire your moxie!" The last word rose with a tuneful, sing-song quality. Well, no turning back now! his voice changed in pitch. He stepped closer to the fire and addressed the gathering. Appease me, and the rewards will be great. Displease me and your days will be misery, your nights, agony.

The assembled stood in terrified, silent anticipation. The one again rued the choices he’d made to have come to this. O me dear moether in heaven, help me.

"Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? Alright then", he rubbed his long, graceful, less-than-masculine hands together. Let’s have a look at what you’ve brought me.

The Invited casually ambled to the prone figure near the fire’s edge and with a slight movement of an elegant hand, the shape laying upon the grass moved away the arm that had been covering its bruised, gaunt face. Looking down, the unnaturally beautiful countenance screwed to a frightening grimace, making clear his distaste for the cosmetic perforations and stains upon the pale skin before him.

"You desire to be a sorcerer of mine, to gain the kind of wisdom, the strength only I can grant and you bring me… this? This piece of human flotsam? This dragon-chasing bit of refuse?" The wind rose as his voice grew in power and volume, striking a panicky dread into the men around him. Where his fair features had seemed relaxed, barely interested, he now appeared dark and terrible. His softly held posture, sloping and gentle, was now tall, stern and frightful to behold. Then, as quickly as it had come, the Invited’s mood looked to swing toward its previous effeminate indifference. The winds diminished, to where once more, the only sounds were the nearby surf and sparking cracks of the fire.

"Well, he is rather young, I suppose. And, I do have a certain… fondness. Alright then," his voice betrayed an ageless hunger. A sort of glee took over, creating another expression entirely. He again rubbed his graceful hands together. Let’s roll him over and see what we’ve got!

Billy came to know pain that could not be ignored.

Chapter One

Climbing hooks

There he is! said one.

Nothing we have left to our later years can compare to the illicit exhilarations we might have experienced as preteens. For boys, surreptitious acts of skulking voyeurism are nearly unsurpassable among the forbidden activities that thrill. Silently through the weeds, tall-man dandelions and the other high growth, the boys had crept to their present position as commandos avoiding Axis attention, past the detritus of Detroit; the remnants of the sole Studebaker presided over the younger commoners, the GMs and a Ford. Old appliances added cover. From the forsaken Maytag to a discarded Kenmore, they’d quietly scrambled, living a special ops fantasy to infiltrate the depths of the weedy lot that was the realm of soldiers and knights, the scene of a thousand battles. Not all of their activities would be deemed as wholesome. Matches, fireworks and purloined tobacco were perennial favorites among the ingredients for the crimes perpetrated in this place. Some of these would invoke shudders, if mothers could know. The tall plank fence surrounding this wonderland usually prevented appraisal from the uninitiated or worse, adults.

C’mon Tom! Gimme a look! hissed the other, shifting from foot to foot in his impatience.

Tommy McCullough had angled directly toward this spot. He knew this was the best point from which to spy upon their subject, such was his intimacy with the place. The cracks between the boards of their treasured enclosure offered only a limited view. He peered through the knothole, enrapt and ignoring his partner, lingering a bit longer to exercise what he felt was his right of dominance as first.

Reluctantly relinquishing his position, he moved to one of the broader cracks. Hands splayed on either side of the fissure as face pads, he leaned forward to renew his observation. He could smell the acrid stench upon his fingers from the cigarettes he’d pilfered from his uncle and namesake. He again reminded himself to wash before returning home; the olfactory powers of Mrs. McCullough were the stuff of legend and source of fear for any of the local teens whose lack of fortune might place them within her purview. Though usually, other scents were of greater concern to them. Mrs. M was a singular force few dared to cross.

Heard ol’ Dash was still steamin’ when he found him, Carlos whispered, his tone a bit more content, almost thoughtful, with his new position. The flowered stem of sour grass dangling from his lips seemed to imbue him with a worldly air as he imparted this well- known information. He now had a prime view of Anchor Bay’s most talked about citizen who, with another Lineman, had just come down from their work aloft. Once on the dirt, the men began to remove their climbing gear at the pole’s base. They then joined the rest of crew to toss off their hardhats and heavy leather gloves and gather truckside, grabbing thermoses and lunch buckets. In the shade of the line-truck they settled they settled down to the grassy strip between the curb and sidewalk to eat or nap. Though the huge vehicle was now blocking much of the scene upon which the boys had come to spy, the general activity was still visible beneath the high carriage. Thought you said they play cards at lunch.

They used to, countered Tommy. Guess they ain’t so laughy-jokey since Dash. Maybe cards don’t feel right without him. Heard he was hell for King Pedro. Glancing down, he contemplated his squatting, knothole-peering friend for a moment. For reasons never completely expressed or defined, Mrs. McCullough didn’t seem to approve of Carlos. Not that he was any worse than the other boys her Tommy ran with, just browner. She was a product of her generation and could no more help than admit her latent racist, xenophobic tendencies. Never mind that Carlos’ people predated her own in the region by nearly a century. To dispel these uncomfortable thoughts Tommy added, On Fridays they drink beer. This was hardly news; the habits of the area Lineman were an open secret.

My aunt’s been lightin’ for him. Says he’s been cursed, Carlos uttered with superstitious reverence. For Dash too, this, especially hushed.

That don’t make no sense. Tommy countered in the barely audible tone of a co-conspirator. Dash didn’t cotton to no religion. He wouldn’ta been caught dead in no church! He regretted the words even as they left his mouth. Carlos and his kin took their Catholicism seriously. He peeked back toward their subject. "My Uncle Tom says they call him a Jonah." He had only a vague notion of just what exactly a Jonah was; but he knew it bode ill. Nobody wants to work with him.

"They’re eatin’ together," Carlos countered.

They like him just fine, just… they’re a bit jumpy these days, I guess.

Yeah, no bull-crap! Been a lot of weird stuff goin’ down. Carlos had no wish to bring up the most famous and strange of recent events. The subject of his cousin would surely be awkward. To avoid it he said, Man! How about that fire?

My mom says it was a freakin’ miracle no one got hurt! whispered Tommy, giving a conciliatory nod to his friend’s faith and avoiding speaking of his infamous relative… and his even more infamous demise. "I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout miracles. I just know that thing went up like the Fourth of July! In an even lower tone he hissed, Fred Thompson said that thing wasn’t even running." An involuntary thrill rippled through him, thinking back to that evening. Mrs. Sorensen’s seventh grade had gathered to rehearse the obligatory autumn play. The antics of the young thespians came to a standstill at the sight of the flames and sooty smoke clearly visible out of their classroom window, toward the south end of town. The nether-worldly orange-red reflecting off the fog bank rolling in off the Pacific was a sight permanently burned into his memory. My Uncle Tom says hardly a day goes by without some weird-shit kinda accident happening when he’s around. A listener might detect a certain hopefulness in the boy’s voice as he strained to watch the activities across the street; hope of the same flavor that caused him to bring a mitt to Giant’s games.

After a time, the crew began to stir. By the book, the lunch period was half an hour. But Johnson knew how to buy the loyalty of his crew and pushed the duration of that most cherished and sacred time as much is was prudent. The creak of the cab and the metallic screech of the sliding bin doors signaled back to work as clearly as a noon whistle. The young spies across the street went silent to listen.

Stump, you ‘n the kid finish off the service work. Big Bill Johnson had a voice that boomed, even in conversation. Me ‘n Smitty’ll go ‘n check the job down at the docks. If that shit ain’t marked and that pavement ain’t broke, I’m gonna wring a couple necks!

It was partial truth, with only a bit of theater. Holes needed digging, but hard experience had left the Foreman shy of using the line-truck’s great auger to bore into a busy earth fraught with unseen facilities lurking below. He could almost still smell the raw sewage of his last mishap and was loath of a repetition. The announcement was also not unexpected. Going to check a job was a Foreman’s prerogative, as was taking along his Bull, or senior Lineman, along. Today, it was Samuel Smitty Smith, a friend and co-drinker. With his Bull in tow, he walked toward his Foreman’s pickup with a bit more urgency than normal. It wasn’t unknown for the pair to disappear from a job and beeline it toward Anchor Bay’s premier watering hole. Though its raucous heyday as the haunt of fishermen and loggers was well past (the source of consistently embellished local legend), The Sawmill was still the social epicenter of the of the town’s diminished working class. The bar’s normal appeal aside, both men found attractive the idea of putting some distance between themselves and the junior Lineman of Pacific Electric’s Anchor Bay headquarters.

Junior perhaps, but the young man wasn’t so naïve or oblivious as to not know what was really afoot. With this understanding came pangs, a queasy mix of regret, angst and fear. Just a week ago, he’d been accepted, even liked, by all. Except Mal. But the ranks of his disfavored were legion and thus a condition that bought little grief. He liked Johnson, though. So this hurt and only added to his feeling of disquiet. Despite not being addressed directly, he felt compelled to say something, an attempt to convey some form of normalcy.

But, Sure, Bill, was all he could manage.

By contrast, his Groundman appeared unaware of anything out of the ordinary transpiring in the crew’s mood or make-up. Darwin Stumpy Barnes just looked glad to be there, contentedly humming show tunes (or rather, his own unique renditions thereof) while doing the job he seemed to love. There was nothing in his stature to rate the moniker. Where Big Bill was appropriately large, Stumpy was outright huge. At six-four, another man might have been conferred a nick-name connotating greater respect. To his co-workers, Barnes’s choice to remain a career Groundman was an oddity. Never rising to the money and respect that came