Landslide

By Bret Kamrud

Steve Lange, a veteran railroader, had it all except one thing: A son to carry on his legacy. It's a festering desire that eludes him, driving him to a dark place, causing his downward spiral. It intensifies when an Amtrak train derails while on his watch. The railroad, media, and even his wife Jackie, point accusing fingers at him. Jackie, avoiding Steven and the media spotlight, take their two daughters to a remote cabin along the Missouri River. It sets in motion a parlous journey leaving Jackie fighting for her life. Will the woman who owns Steven's heart survive his negligence, the Montana wild, and the railroad legacy that haunts him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780989547826

Book preview

978-0-9895478-2-6

1

… cursed at the knifing rain that wept like a bridal veil off the brim of his orange hardhat.

Renowned railroad foreman Steven Lange staggered out from the forest’s shadowy outline. His 36 year-old body toiled against foot-deep snow that roped around his Carhartt pants like slick, heavy chains. He entered a small clearing and stopped, knowing a few more minutes to collect his wits wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it was a good place to relieve himself.

The Norwegian descendent looked up into the seamless gray sky and cursed at the knifing rain that wept like a bridal veil off the brim of his orange hardhat.

Embedded in the heavy moisture he caught a fleeting pine scent. Normally he found the smell reassuring, but not today. Definitely not today.

He knew just then, in a brief glimmer of truth, that his hopes of leaving behind a railroad legacy were dwindling with each passing year. Even though he wanted to father another baby with Jackie, hoping for a boy, he also understood the danger to her of undergoing another pregnancy. He loved her too much to put her at risk for the sake of his male legacy dream. Regardless, he couldn’t block out the fact that Jackie’s biological clock continued to tick and that one day all hopes would be dashed forever.

Is it possible that age may produce a miracle? he asked himself. After all, it had been nine years since their youngest was born. Had the intervening years diminished the threat to his wife’s health?

He sighed, his short-lived rationalization dismantled by uncertainty and brooding questions. It went without saying that he felt guilty for thinking such thoughts. He wiped at his face with the back of his leather glove and lied. Forget it. We don’t need another mouth to feed anyway.

One thing was certain. He felt as though he were failing in every aspect of his life. His work, his friendships, his sanity, and his marriage of 13 years were in jeopardy. Adding to the certainties, a slow buildup of resentment was getting the best of him these days. Somehow he knew his antagonism was directed at friends and family, though he had no idea why. Life was unpredictable, and sometimes a gamble. He’d survived more than his share of bumps and bruises.

He’d survive this, too.

"Never again, Jackie… nev—

Promises, promises, cowboy, the unwelcome voice, deep inside Steven’s dark half, interrupted. Your dearest wife has had enough. You’re screwed, blued, and tattooed, Hoss, but I’m here for ya. I always will be, regardless of how much shit you stir up. We belong together like a grizzly and the wild.

Don’t start. Not today, Steven’s mind fired back. The gruff female voice taking up residence spoke to him on a regular basis. He nicknamed her his liquid demon. The alias was quite fitting because of her insatiable desire to raise hell inside Steven’s head like a severe hangover. She evolved from the anguished darkness of Steven’s mind over a year ago. The precise date and moment escaped him, but then as of late, most everything did. Pinpointing the time she first evolved was like trying to find your direction in impenetrable fog. Her birth was amorphous, like the foreboding clouds above.

She clamored freely inside his mind, swimming through his daily thoughts like a shark at feeding time. In Jackie’s presence, the voice would clam up and hide inside the folds of Steven’s warm, soft brain tissue, safe and alert. At times she’d reassure Steven that Steven was still in control. She embraced his side of rationalization, as long as Steven stayed abreast of their journey and did not stray off course. She schemed, manipulated, and stroked his lack of discipline, convincing him that all was well; that his faultless small town world hadn’t been breached and that his secret would always be secure. However, guilt and shame were getting the best of him, and he was beginning to despise the demon’s powerful chokehold. Her constant interfering had taken its toll. He felt like a person with a disturbed reflection, a reflection even Jackie was beginning to tolerate less and less.

Steven closed his eyes for a moment. There would be more headaches and vertigo, sweat and anxiety, increasing the consternation that would accompany the long workday ahead, a day he already regretted.

Steven wondered if his liquid demon had pushed him too far last night. He rather doubted it, but the fearful thought did weigh heavy in his fogged hangover as he strained to recall bits and pieces of the drunken evening before. Lately, she was instilling violent thoughts, specifically toward Jackie, and that was beginning to worry him. Stooping to domestic violence was beyond him, he believed. Besides, that’s what you saw on Cops, not at the Lange house.

You’ve done nothing wrong, Hoss. All will be fine, the voice said reassuringly, like it always did after a night of shame. Hang in there, cowboy… it’s all good.

Yesterday, under the cloak of darkness, a fresh blanket of snow had quilted the Montana high country and showered the warmer, low-lying valleys like the one Steven stood in with intermittent drizzle and rain. It was a wet cold and unlike the stereotypical sub-freezing temperatures of a Montana winter; however, in comparative terms, the past five winters had been mild, with low snow levels and high fire dangers. The white powder, splendor in sunlight, usually energized his soul and brightened his spirit, but sunshine shone sparingly these days, and it was obvious to Steven that winter still held spring at bay.

It felt colder than last week, Steven thought, as his breath mixed with the 33-degree temperature. It’s damn near June, for Christ’s sake, his mind screamed. I want dry roads and sunny days. Is that too fucking much to ask?

The early spring aberration typically happened once every decade, but this low-pressure blast was the second storm in a week. It shut down airports across the upper Northwest, knocked down power lines, swelled rivers, and stranded travelers. The rapid warming temperatures and rain that followed the fast-moving cold front created a massive mudslide in Idaho and several avalanches in nearby Flathead County, accounting for five local deaths. The Daily Interlake, located in nearby Kalispell, speculated that the unexpected storm was only the lull before the Storm of the Century.

Steven scoffed at the news report. The scenario sounded more like a Hollywood movie than real life. Besides, how could this spring get any worse? He’d lived here all his life, and he’d seen it all, at least he thought he had.

Even though Steven had grown up in the area, he hadn’t recognized any of the victim’s names that were published, which in some ways came as no surprise because the celebrity-attracting valley had blossomed with unexpected growth, swallowing up the once remote valley in a California gulp. He despised the population explosion with each passing year. The familiar hometown faces were fading like elk in a fast approaching snowstorm. Age was catching up to him, and the gradual disappearance of friends from high school reminded him of it.

A sudden wind gust slapped hard against Steven’s face. The rain stung his crimson cheeks. It brought him back to the present and the very reason why he stood in isolation with his zipper wide open.

His dark, narrow eyes squeezed shut, and crow’s feet branched out from swarthy eye sockets as he spread his legs a little wider, trying to unleash the expanding cocktails bombarding his over-worked liver. Finally, a golden, acrid stream arched outward. Ahhh, oh yeah he bellowed. Relief quickly mutated to sickness as vomit churned within on the verge of escape.

An offensive, putrid stench rose from the yellow snow between his battered boots. Tearing into his stomach, it sickened him as the weather sickened him, as his guilt sickened him. He fought back the foul taste. His heartbeat was hard, a toneless Morse code, transmitting additional pain to the pounding spike-mauls between his temples. He brought his free hand to his left side, massaging his head, trying to silence the thundering communication with small soothing circles.

Suddenly, his eyes flew opened. A whiff of cremated T-bones still clung to his clothing like a posted sticky note, recalling a troubling memory from last night: Jackie standing next to the smoldering barbecue grill with angry eyes, a broken smile, and her hands planted on tense hips. He had damn near started the garage on fire. It was that close.

He sighed. Gawd, I’m losing it.

While he pondered this thought, he zipped up his fly and noticed the sudden stillness of the forest. The rain had exhausted itself and dwindled to a faint whisper, quiet and delicious. The silence was so heavenly that even his headache had softened. He took off his hard hat and ran his gloved hand through his hair.

Steven’s rugged, handsome features were a telltale sign of a working beast. He had spent seventeen years banging between the rails, drinking diesel fumes, cutting and gauging rail, pounding spikes, replacing ties, dumping ballast, and barking orders, all in his journey to keep the Great Northern Railroad in business and the Lange legacy untainted. Arduous work, but he loved it.

Three railroad generations branched from his family tree—his great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father, who retired a few months earlier. The captivating life was as natural as breathing, and so was having a few cold beers after work. Drinking was an ordinary act of everyday life, especially in this neck of the woods.

This was Northern Montana—even your neighbors greeted you with a beer instead of iced tea.

He scanned the broken gray sky around him and wondered what had changed. Why was his life becoming so unmanageable? He coughed. When did life change course? I drink the way I’ve always drank. He coughed again, putting on his hard hat. You enter your mid-thirties, and suddenly you’re supposed to stop drinking, start jogging, and seek the Lord? Bullshit.

Natural progression toward stronger family values, Jackie had said. I think that’s how she put it. Priorities, family, changing times, self-respect… something like that. I think she’s the one losing it.

He hacked several more times before regaining control. Okay, so I’ve been getting a little carried away. So what? It happens to everyone a time or two, doesn’t it? Damn straight it does. Who ever said we lived in a perfect world? We don’t, so get over it.

After his brief soliloquy, he retrieved a skewed pack of Marlboros and lit up a cigarette, suspecting but not accepting the fact that his drinking had escalated to a dangerous level. His functioning façade held in place the river splashing deep inside the pit of his stomach. It would pass, he told himself. Life’s journey is in constant motion, always altering the landscape with industrial change and another bank or two. Even though Steven despised physical change, emotional change he’d embrace with open arms. Blackouts and hangovers were getting deep-rooted.

He blew out a bullet of smoke and guzzled the temporary tranquility the cigarette imparted. Two years ago he promised Jackie he’d stop smoking. Since then, three-pack days had turned into half-a-pack days. A positive direction considering the coffin nails had shot through his lungs since age fifteen.

He stroked his goatee and considered Jackie’s disturbing observations: isolating himself in the garage, defensive anger, his overzealous drinking, and the affair she believed he was having. An affair. Shit, we were just talking. He clutched his stomach and spat out his cigarette. I don’t have a drinking problem and it wasn’t an affair. Bending at the waist, he vomited into the sloppy snow. It’s only the bottle flu…and we were just talking.

His eyes watered and his mind begged for mercy. His mouth burned from the acrid taste, a burn so abrupt and awful that every time he found himself in this position he swore it would be his last. A short-lived pledge, however. As Steven pulled himself together, he drank in the fresh mountain air. A vain attempt to shake the haze from his mind, but the hangover held on with the determination of the parlous drug that created it.

Get a grip, cowboy. You’re making us both look bad, the demonic voice hawked. Eight more hours and you’ll be knocking back a cold cure, so get it together. A Bloody Mary, that’s the ticket…and a shot of Daniels to wipe Mary’s hot ass.

Steven had to collect himself. After all, he was the lead foreman and his crew and the Great Northern Railroad not only demanded it, they expected it. This was not the time to tap out, turn tail, and go home. He was a fighter and could defeat the day’s tasks with his eyes closed. Besides, onerous work and cold air cleared the intoxicating haze like sunshine on fog.

Suddenly, a voice rang out, Hey! A gloved hand grabbed Steven’s shoulder and spun him around.

A move Steven believed unnecessary, considering his shaky condition. You on vacation or what? The strong grip and agitated voice belonged to Ben Frazier, assistant foreman. He was stocky, with a strong jaw and dark, narrow eyes, and he was pissed. What the hell ya doing out here? Even though Steven was the foreman and they were best friends, today wasn’t about friendship, it was about getting a job done. I was spanking the monkey, asshole, what did you think I was doing, Steven thought. Had to take a piss. Do ya mind?

You showed up late on site, you don’t say a damn word, and then you disappear into the woods like a freaking lunatic? Ben gazed at the puke splat near Steven’s boots and shook his head. Turn your damn radio on. I’ve been trying to call you. He reached over to power up Steven’s Motorola radio, which hung on his belt like a worn out handgun, but Ben’s hand was met with a swift push as Steven turned the radio on himself.

Static precipitated intermittent railroad traffic. You satisfied?

They paused, staring each other down, obscenities dancing in their heads, until Ben caught a whiff of Steven’s breath. He swatted at the foul air and simply said, Go home. I’ll take over.

It was obvious what Ben was implying, and even though Steven knew his friend was right, it still infuriated him. I’m fine, he replied, biting his tongue from telling Ben where he could stick it.

You’re not fine.

I’m fine, Ben, so give it a rest.

You look like shit, my friend. Go home, sleep it off. Take a damn vacation, will ya?

Steven would’ve loved nothing more than to follow Ben’s advice, but missing a day of work, especially as busy as they’d been with avalanches and high water, wasn’t going to happen. Not now and not ever. It was just a damn hangover. No big deal.

I can’t do that, and you know it.

Look, Roadmaster Evans will be roaming our section today and—

Screw him and the caboose he rides in on.

Oh, that’s real good. Ben sighed with heavy frustration. In this case, Steven, screwing the boss would be grounds for immediate termination.

Hell, the company man would probably like it.

Ben knew he was beating a dead horse, so he shifted gears and took in Steven’s condition with a knowing eye. Puke on the ground, glassy eyes, irritability, and the foul odor of alcohol and cigarettes. Where’d you go after you left my place last night?

Home. Where else?

Selena’s?

Oh, please… don’t start with that shit. I went straight home and fired up the grill.

You got shit-faced again, didn’t ya?

Shit-faced? Oh boy, if you only knew, he thought. I had a couple more, if that’s where you’re headed. It was an obvious lie, but even Steven couldn’t remember how many beers and shots he’d had. He’d blacked out. Again.

Ben creased his brow and gave Steven that lecturing look that usually followed with a few drunk-in-the-gutter darts and a minor beer drinker’s tongue-lashing among buddies. You’re putting the bottle to your head and pulling the trigger, my friend, was all he said. That was as profound as it was going to get today.

You slapped the words right out of my wife’s mouth, Ben. You two got something going?

Tired of Steven’s gameplay, Ben paused, finally coming out with, Yeah, the same observation.

Steven chuckled. Ouch.

Ben would be the first to admit he wasn’t faultless. Years past he too had shown up for work hung-over and shuffled through the day harboring bitter annoyance. For that matter, the entire railroad maintenance crew had been there at one point or other.

When it came to drinking beer, he came from the same mold as Steven, and likewise staked a claim to the fearless warrior band of the Great Northern Railroad tribe. But at this point in his life, when it came to slamming beers, he knew when to stop. His body told him that he wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and in case there was any doubt his wife Tina was there to confirm that fact. Ben found his limits. Steven fought his.

You’re a runaway train, my friend, Ben continued. One of these days, I will express my condolences by scattering your ashes over our Desert Mountain elk stand, and every time I shoot a respectable bull I’ll think of you.

Yeah, bite me.

Ben feared for the worst. On no personal account had he ever pulled Steven aside and confronted him on the alcoholic issue on a full-blown, intimate scale. The male ego rendered such emotional brazenness difficult. And besides, how do you accuse your friend of being one of them—the few who can no longer manage alcohol. The A word bred fear and cut right to the bone, and Ben didn’t want to be the one to unsheathe the blade and thrust it into Steven’s heart. After all, maybe Steven wasn’t an alcoholic. There exists a gray area, a fine line between drinking and being a full-blown functioning alcoholic, and not everyone sitting at a barstool had a drinking problem. His fear of that uncertainty made him hesitant. After all, he didn’t want to risk destroying a friendship. Opinions, he reminded himself, are like assholes and everybody has one.

You have to get it the fuck together, man.

At first, Steven said nothing. He knew his world was crumbling around him. The writing was on the wall and even he couldn’t miss it. Was it because of alcohol or was it the ticking biological clock? Maybe it had to do with wanting something you know you can’t have. Maybe it was the irony he felt when the anniversary of the death of Jackie’s father rolled around.

The man had been killed by a drunk driver, and Jackie made it a point to remind Steven of it. Her moods could be hell during such times.

It’s all fine. It’s been a tough couple of months, that’s all, Steven finally said.

Ben nodded. He had suspected a strain in the Lange marriage, but today wasn’t the time to delve. He settled down some and clapped Steven hard on the back knowing he stood no chance of convincing Steven to go home and sleep it off.

The clap on the back sent shockwaves through Steven’s weary mind, like a gunshot in an empty room. He forced a thin smile and barked, Ben, just post a lookout, secure the low spot, and drop the remaining sandbags. I’ll be along in a minute.

Ben drew a crooked grin, envisioning the arduous day ahead: rising rivers, avalanche dangers, a hung-over boss, and Amtrak due to arrive within the hour, all of it converging in one socked in valley of cold, wet weather.

And Ben, he said as Ben turned to leave, I secured the red flag warning one mile west of our milepost. Pull it before Amtrak arrives.

Ben nodded.

We’ll get track and time after Amtrak clears, and rap up.

Short day?

The very thought of work punished Steven. His body begged for home, pleading for their warm feather bed and sleep. Oddly enough, the very job he admired, today he loathed. He felt irritable and restless. The outside world seemed to be closing in, challenging his very existence. Even his best friend had tried opening the door that Steven preferred closed. That’s what friends are for, Steven guessed, watching each other’s back, especially on the parlous railroad. Better than a long one, Steven offered.

Right on, Ben said and walked off.

Steven watched his best friend disappear into the trees like a winter mirage.

Ben’s uneasiness seemed different this time, Steven thought, more ill-tempered than last week. Steven hadn’t been himself in months, and he knew his abject behavior was starting to cross the line. Ben was right. Steven murmured, I got to get my shit together.

Steven and Ben grew up together in Landslide—a small town forty miles to the west of their present location and a few miles east of the Flathead Valley, a breathtaking area made up of several towns: Bigfork, Kalispell, and Columbia Falls.

Landslide rested in a canyon five miles east of Columbia Falls along Highway 2 that snaked through the mountains, hugging the Middle Fork River like a lover. In the summer, the river was the proverbial picture postcard, though presently a treacherous gusher on the verge of spilling over its banks and threatening not only the rail line, but the towns of Landslide, Columbia Falls, and others downstream.

As boys, they launched model rockets, hiked, and studied the night sky. By high school they had graduated to football, cheerleaders, and parties. After high school, Steven hired on with the Great Northern Railroad—his father, Abel, a railroad diehard, saw to that career move. Ben, just hung out, no steady job, no real concerns, and despised the thought of advancing his education any father. A year later, his frustrated parent’s had booted him out of the house and Steven’s father willingly introduced him to railroad life.

Seventeen years they banged between the rails, fished, hunted, and drank beer—lots of it. Their friendship had comrade adhesiveness,