Melody was working tonight.
It was slow. It had been for months with all the problems along The Zeppelin. Tonight: one customer. A young man from out of town with a large backpack was eating an egg sandwich on an English muffin, tearing it with his canines.
Melody sat at the counter drumming her fingers, wishing there was a cigarette in one as she thumbed through a pulp magazine.
Ken turned into the parking lot and backed into a spot opposite the diner. The building wasn't much bigger than a trailer and was plated with chrome. The "Shorty's" sign in the Art Deco font had the "O" stolen a few years back (by Lem Parker). Much of the chrome was covered in soot and brake dust from the Zepellin. Yet the highway was quiet tonight.
The fluorescent lights shined on two isolated figures; dammit, one of them was Melody. The other was a man eating a sandwich.
Ken felt for the marble in his pocket, took a deep breath, and went in.
Melody was at the counter reading. She looked up as the wind rushed in through the open door.
"What are you doin' here?" she asked.
She wasn't young anymore. Yeah, she looked it but there wasn't the edge in her eyes. It had been replaced by soot and brake dust. Ken wasn't prideful enough to fully blame himself; he knew Melody had changed a lot when Shorty had passed. That and the severe lack of traffic on the Zeppelin had left things tense down here.
Still, she was beautiful, her curly auburn hair lit by the fluorescent lights and pulled back behind her ears.
"Melody," he hadn't said her name in a while. "Two people got killed up Hickory Knob."
Melody’s eyes widened. The young man stopped eating and straightened up in his booth.
"Who was it?" Melody asked. "And why were you up Hickory Knob?" There was a hint of something in her voice. Worry?
"One of them was Lem Parker. I didn't recognize the other guy."
Melody was drumming her fingers on the counter. She was worried. Even Lem Parker couldn't die without someone to feel his passing.
"Versie Parker was in here earlier. You told him yet?"
"I figured I would once I got the bodies off the mountain."
"Are you … are you going back?"
"I can't leave them up there. They're near," Ken coughed. "They're near Dad's cabin. I need help hauling them down. Is your brother around?"
"Lonnie's on a supply run to Shelton's Station. Won't be back until tomorrow."
"Dammit."
"Could I be of any help?" The young man had stood and approached them. He was taller than Ken expected.
"No, thank you. Enjoy your meal. Is anyone else around?" Ken asked Melody.
"Only the ghosts," she said.
"I really wouldn't mind," the man stared. Ken didn't like him. Maybe it was his sharp eyebrows, hazel eyes, or the way the edge of his mouth seemed stuck in a hungry smile.
"All Right, fine," Ken said. He needed to get those bodies off the mountain. "What's your name?"
The man took a second.
"You have a name, right?"
"Stephen. My name is Stephen."
"My truck is parked outside," Stephen exited.
Ken was drumming his fingers on the counter. "Well, Melody. Good seeing you," he turned to leave.
"Ken," Melody said. "Who was the other guy?"
"I didn't recognize him." Ken stopped himself from saying more. The less she knew, the less the town knew the better. Folks have it hard enough around here.
"Could I come with you?" Melody asked. Her eyes said something Ken didn't understand.
"Absolutely not.”
"I been up Hickory Knob before."
Her stubbornness.
"No."
She bit her lip. The same way she always had. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Fine," she stormed into the back, the kitchen door swinging behind her.
Ken heard the freezer door open. She was going for the cookie dough, which made Ken chuckle as a few memories crossed his mind. He let go of the marble in his pocket.
As he turned to leave, Melody popped out of the kitchen with a brown paper bag.
"It's a pimento and cheese sandwich. Put extra of Daddy's mayo on there because I know you like it. Don't say I sent you off empty-handed."
"Thank you?"
"Do you know these woods well?" Stephen asked as he and Ken exited the truck.
"Yes," Ken said as he walked through the foliage onto the trail. He had his shotgun loaded and was using it to move branches. Ken didn't like how the way he asked questions. He liked even less how he’d stared straight ahead the entire ride up, rigid in the seat.
"How do you know them?" Stephen was following.
"My dad lived up here," Ken was walking faster. "His cabin is up the trail. Listen, something attacked these men. They're not in good shape."
"I understand," Stephen said.
They emerged into the clearing where the attack happened. The moon was shrouded in clouds, and the cabin was just a dark splotch on the other side. There were no sounds of crickets.
"This way," Ken walked to the cabin and stopped.
"Is something wrong?" Stephen asked.
"The door is open … I didn't leave the door open," Ken's heart was thumping. He felt warm sweat on the gun stock.
He let the barrel of the gun lead him into the cabin. The door had been blasted open from the inside and was hanging on one hinge. Every dark corner danced insultingly on Ken's fears. But the place was empty save for:
Lem's body was still there, his face cold and blue. Mike's body was gone.
"You knew this man?" Stephen asked, his hands at his side, staring down at Lem.
"Sort of," Ken said. "He was a troublemaker, and I'm a sheriff."
"I see. Where is the other?"
"That's what I was wondering."
"You are certain that he was dead?"
"There wasn't much left of him,” Ken clicked on a flashlight.
Had the beast taken him? Surely the man was dead. Ken had seen him, couldn’t unsee him.
Moonlight snaked through the clouds and into the cabin, lighting one wall as the shadows of branches flickered through the pale light. One photo hung there of Ken and his dad. Ken was holding a prized large bass.
He couldn't help but pause in front of the photo. He'd been shocked enough to see that the old man had hung one up. He wasn't really the sentimental type. The only other thing hanging on the wall was the old flintlock rifle above the fireplace—that and a nail for Daddy's hat.
He leaned in, took in his daddy's face down to the crow's feet by his eyes, the slight smile on his lips.
He had his hand in his pocket thumbing the silver marble.
Suddenly, the wall was saturated with a dull red light.
"The hell?" Ken said, turning. The red light was filling the trees, creating a haze around the cabin. And there were thrashes: something was coming up the hill.
"This is most unfortunate, Officer Burchfield," Stephen said. He spoke louder but with even less inflection, a smile forming on his lips.
The thrashing was getting closer, sloshing the underbrush.
Chills engulfed him, the backs of his legs numbing and beginning to shake. He raised the shotgun.
"I don't see that being helpful, Officer," Stephen said. His voice was getting deeper, and his eyes were brightening yellow.
"You," Ken whispered.
"Yes, and my new companion will join us soon."