Black Pine Creek Read online

  Black Pine Creek

  by

  David Haynes

  Copyright © David Haynes 2016. All Rights Reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent from the author

  Edited by

  Storywork Editing Services

  Cover artwork by

  The Cover Collection

  To find out more about David Haynes and his books visit his website

  David Haynes Horror Writer

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  For Sarah and George

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  1

  Black Pine Creek

  The Interior, Alaska

  Approximately 200 miles north of Chicken

  Winter 1897

  George Clark dropped to one knee. Numbing cold, more toxic than a bite from a diamondback, gnawed at his bones. He lifted his head and peered through the blizzard. His hair and beard crackled with ice crystals and a great wave of trembling nausea swept over him. If he could get to his feet and reach the dark shadow of the tool shed, safety was waiting. Temporary safety.

  He roared into the darkness and used his shovel as a crutch to haul himself upright. The tool’s shaft was splintered and jagged where it had snapped like a rotten twig. He took two steps forward and collapsed again. They were all dead. Morgan, Bailey, Johnson, Evans and the Strickland boys; all dead and not one of them whole. He was damn sure it wasn’t just their bodies that were broken either.

  Behind him the pine trees swayed violently in the wind, and beyond the trees, Black Pine Creek boiled, churned and spat icy water into the cold, dark sky. It was hellish. He wished he were back in San Francisco, in bed nuzzling against Nancy’s naked breast. He wished he’d never heard of the Klondike, the Yukon or Alaska, or of the gold that was supposedly dripping off the trees. He should never have come.

  The eerie sound of branches fracturing and splitting echoed along the narrow valley, as trees were uprooted and pushed aside by the storm. The creaking, groaning and splintering of the limbs reminded him of the sound Morgan’s bones had made when he was dragged from the camp, five nights ago. It made his stomach churn afresh.

  He pulled himself upright again and tried to focus on the tool shed. It fell one way then the other before it steadied enough for him to take his next steps. He knew Johnson kept a bottle of bourbon inside the shed, secret and hidden. Well, Johnson was dead. His guts stained the rocks at the bottom of the glory-hole and his boots were found hanging just-so on his old pick. He had no say in who touched his beloved bourbon now.

  Clark shuffled through the snow a little quicker. It came up to his knees but the thought of having a drink urged him on more than any other consideration. What he would do once he got inside the shed, what he would do once he had swallowed as much bourbon as he could, he hadn’t given any thought to. There was no point because he knew that was where it would end. His choices were limited.

  He fell against the rough logs that Johnson had used to construct the crude shed. It felt solid enough but that didn’t guarantee him protection. He heaved the door against the snow and tumbled inside. The wind slammed the door closed behind him but since there was no moon, the darkness was the same inside as it was outside.

  There were lamps in here, shovels, picks, hammers but no guns. The Strickland boys had the muzzle-loading shotguns they used in the war, but they had been about as effective as throwing pine cones in the wind.

  They were the last to go – Henry and Samuel Strickland. Tempted, like the rest of them, by the gold. Tempted to stay just a little too long as the winter slithered down the mountains and fell on them with a swift and brutal kick in the ass. Farther down the valley, Miller and his crew had gone back home three weeks ago, when the first snow came and his pockets were so full of gold he jangled all the way back to California. That’s what they should have done, called it quits. But they were greedy.

  “Another week won’t hurt, George. There’s a million dollars' worth of gold down there in the glory-hole. We can’t just give it up now.”

  Morgan had been adamant he was on the verge of something big. He was right about that, it just wasn’t what he intended.

  Clark pushed his back into the logs at the rear of the cabin and edged to the far corner. He knew where Johnson kept his stash. It was behind the empty crates where nobody would think to look. But Clark knew him from way back and Johnson never went anywhere without a good supply to see him through the season.

  He shoved the boxes aside, found the last bottle of Old Forester and wrapped his aching fingers around it. He whispered a curse when he couldn’t break the seal but smashing the neck against the side of a crate did the trick. Johnson would have been as mad as hell to see the spillage but that scarcely mattered anymore. He tipped his head back and poured the whiskey down his throat. It splashed across his face and rolled down his chin in a stinging river, but it lit a fire in his throat and belly.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Now what? Wait here like some miserable coward, or make a run for it? Where to, though? The nearest town was two hundred miles away and by now it would be deserted. Miller’s place. He could follow the creek down there and hole up in...

  The sound of a tree being uprooted stopped his thoughts. But uprooted wasn’t exactly right. Violently wrenched was a better description and he had heard the sound before. It wasn’t nature’s doing. This was something unnatural.

  He tipped the rest of Johnson’s bourbon over his face, swallowing as much as he could. Morgan had been wrong about the mammoth tusk he found down there in the hole. It hadn’t been an omen. It hadn’t been good luck. It had been a portent.

  More trees splintered and crashed down into the creek. There were other sounds too. Sounds that despite all his time in the wilderness were strange to him. A low, guttural whisper that rose above the maelstrom seemed to make the hundred-year-old logs of the cabin vibrate around him.

  Clark threw down the bottle and flicked his tongue over his bedraggled mustache. He was going to face it with the taste of Old Forester on his tongue.

  He picked up the broken shovel and took a step toward the door. “I’m coming, you son of a bitch!”

  It was not just his tongue that tasted the Old Forester, it was his muscles, his bones and his brain. He felt stronger than he had done in days. He grinned and licked the last drops from his mustache. It was false strength but it was better than nothing.

  He opened his mouth and roared with his bourbon breath. “I’m coming!”

  Clark barged through the door and managed one step in the snow before he fell. The snow had deepened even in the short time he’d been hiding.

  There it was again – the reek of it. The hellish stench. They’d all joked about it at first, blaming each other and the beans, but it got to them eventually. The smell of shit, decay and rotting meat scorching their nostrils like fire as it burned their lungs with each breath. Then there were the dreams, the visions and the fights. It was the beast. It was death.

  He struggled to his f
eet. The world had changed. In those glorious few minutes with Old Forester, the whole world had changed color. The snow was green. It was grass, the emerald turf of Golden Gate Park in the spring. He tilted his head and looked upwards. The aurora was weaving across the sky in its magical way. The storm had abated, just for a second, and the sky clear enough to show him this one last thing of beauty; to remind him that not all was dark, not all was death. The air remained. Nature couldn’t dismiss the decaying air quite as easily as the clouds.

  Footsteps behind him, on the ridge above the cabin. It had been waiting for him. He clutched the shovel’s broken handle tightly and gritted his teeth.

  A heavy grunt as the thing landed on the snow beside the cabin. But he could not bear to turn away from the beautiful dance in the sky just yet.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered and turned slowly. “I hope you like Old Forester, you bastard, ’cos I’m full of it.”

  A staggering flash of red in the eyes as it stared back at him. Almost as stunning as the sky, he thought.

  Clark lifted the shovel and charged forward to meet the beast. His bourbon breath singed the air as he screamed in the darkness.

  2

  Harbor Bar

  Main Street

  Haines, Alaska

  July

  Now

  “Twenty-five percent? Are you kidding me?” Draper put his beer down and frowned so deeply it hurt.

  “You want the lease, that’s the going rate.” Burgess was a giant of a man. Neither his hair nor his beard had been cut in the last decade, possibly longer. He pushed half a burger into the area where his mouth should have been and it disappeared.

  “Maybe for some greenhorn fresh out of the box, but for me? Come on, Dave, I’ve been at this long enough to know that isn’t the going rate.” He picked up his bottle and took a long drink. He kept his eyes on Burgess.

  Burgess picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “Take it or leave it, Scott. All the same to me.”

  Draper drained his bottle and set it down beside the other three. “I’ll have a think on it while I get another. You want one?”

  Burgess shook his head and stuffed the rest of the burger into his mouth.

  Draper slid out of the booth and walked toward the bar.

  “Same again?” The girl had seen him coming and reached down to grab the drinks.

  He was about to tell her he only wanted one this time, but knew he needed at least two more if he was going to make this deal.

  “Thanks,” he said and slid the money across the bar. She smiled and held his eyes for a moment more than was just polite. Draper looked away first. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Twenty-five percent was more than he was used to but his options were running out. He wouldn’t be here if anyone else was prepared to gamble on him, but he hoped Burgess wasn’t aware of that.

  He finished one bottle and walked back to the table with the other. Burgess had a bundle of papers in front of him.

  “Twenty-five is too rich, Dave.” He slid into the booth again. “Maybe I’ll go and see...”

  “You’ve seen everyone, Scott. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.” He pushed his plate aside. “You saw Crocker yesterday, Flint the day before and Sands wouldn’t even let you in the door. So here we are. Twenty-five percent. You wanna get some gold or not?” Burgess pulled a fat cigar out of his pocket and sucked on it while he held a match to the end. No-smoking policies didn’t hold much weight here, that much was obvious.

  There it was, simple as that. This was the only way he could get his reputation back. This was the only claim left in town and the season was nearly halfway through. So, did he want to pay Burgess twenty-five percent, or did he want to crawl back under the nearest rock he could find?

  “I’ll take it,” he whispered.

  “What’s that?” Burgess cocked his head to one side. His grin made Draper feel sick.

  “I said, I’ll take it.”

  Burgess reached across the table with a great greasy paw. “I knew you weren’t as stupid as they said you were.”

  Draper shook his hand. “And who might they be?”

  Burgess laughed and slapped the table hard enough to knock an empty beer bottle over. “I’m pullin’ your leg. Don’t take life so seriously.”

  Draper didn’t crack a smile. It was hard not to take things to heart when all he’d heard for the last month were excuses for not giving him a claim to work this summer.

  Burgess pushed some of the papers across to him. “That’s the contract. Sign it up and you can get back to what you do best.”

  Draper looked up to see if he could spot any signs of sarcasm but Burgess just nodded.

  “I’ll have a read through before I sign.”

  Burgess shifted his bulk along the seat. “As is your right, Mr Draper, as is your right.”

  “And the map?” Scott asked. “The geologists’ report, drill-hole results and...”

  Burgess pushed the other papers across to him. “It’s all there.”

  Draper flicked through the papers until he found the drill-hole reports. He’d been staring at them for the last twenty minutes but he wanted to hold them again. They looked good, very good.

  “How come it’s not been touched before? Virgin land like this doesn’t come round very often.”

  “I didn’t say anything about virgin ground, that’s what you said. You’ve got good dirt up there, close to two million dollars' worth of gold.”

  He was sure Burgess had told him it was virgin ground, but with a favorable report like this it wasn’t worth arguing over.

  “When was it last mined?”

  Burgess heaved his gigantic frame and stood up. He pressed his hands into the small of his back. “About two years back. I’d like to find those bastards, they left without paying me a cent. Bunch of fucking greenhorns.”

  Draper nodded. Geologists’ reports were one thing but getting the gold out of the ground was another. Nevertheless, if they were even halfway to being correct, he was sitting on a major payout.

  “They left some good equipment up there.” Draper leafed through the summary. “Wash-plant, dozers, a couple of excavators.” He tapped the papers for emphasis.

  “When you get up there you’ll see why. Getting it up there must’ve damn near killed them. Getting it down would be torture, especially if they wanted to get out of there quick.”

  Draper nodded again. It was ready to go. Literally ready for a crew to come in and start.

  “Why’re you letting me near this place, Dave?”

  Burgess took a deep breath and leaned on the table with two enormous hands. He spoke quietly. “I heard some bad things about you, Scott, some very bad things but not one of them had anything to do with your ability to take gold out of the earth. Up until three years ago, you took more money out of the ground than anyone else around here.” He straightened up. “It ain’t pretty up there. You take a drive up to Chicken and see for yourself. It ain’t gonna be easy, it ain’t dripping off the trees but there’s a lot of it and it needs the right man to get it out.”

  Burgess tapped the contract with a grubby finger. “This is why you started mining, Scott. Black Pine Creek is the reason you’ve been covered in dirt for the last twenty years.”

  Draper looked at the greasy print left by Burgess’s finger. The man was right. Draper could feel a buzz in his stomach, and it wasn’t the beer. It was excitement.

  “Sign it up and drop it off tomorrow.” Burgess walked toward the door. “I hope you gotta good crew.” He waved over his shoulder and left the bar.

  Crew, thought Draper. At the moment I am the crew.

  He finished his beer slowly and read through the bundle of papers Burgess had left. The contract was industry standard, without any nasty surprises. If Burgess knew him as well as he thought he did, he wouldn’t try anything stupid anyway.

  Draper looked out of the window and across the dark expanse of Chilkoot Inlet. A heavy blanket of cloud obscured the far sid
e of the water where the mountains rose with their permanent ice hats. If he took this on, and he wanted to, it could be his last throw of the dice. There were no guarantees he could make it work and even less assurance that he could keep a crew together again. But if a greedy fat man in a bar had some faith in him then shouldn’t some of the old team too?

  “You want another?”

  The waitress was standing beside the table holding a tray. She smiled down at him.

  He smiled back. “Better not. Got a long drive tomorrow.”

  She shrugged and took the empty bottles back to the bar. At the back of the bundle of documents, Burgess had printed ten photographs of the claim as well as a map of the route. The planner said it would take just over ten hours to get up to Chicken but he knew it would take him longer than that. Taylor Highway was fine at this time of year, he’d driven that road countless times. Of course once winter set in, it was a different matter. You wouldn’t want to get stuck up there with the snow coming, unless you wanted to stay for the season. It was the track from Chicken to the claim that looked tricky. The claim was a long way into the wilderness. A couple of hundred miles at least.

  He slid out of the booth, walked out of the bar and into the night. Wind rushed through the rigging and halyards of the yachts moored in the harbor, the chimes making for a melancholy ambiance. He blew warm air out of his lungs and watched it fog then disappear into the night. Even in the summer, the nights sometimes got down near freezing, especially the clear ones. Burgess was right, he belonged in the wilderness with nothing to think about except pulling gold out of the earth. It was what he was made for. Thinking about anything else was way too complicated.

  He walked back to the motel with the mournful wails of a pair of loons drifting across the water. His room was basic but at least it was warm and came with free Wi-Fi. From here on in, everything needed to be basic. He was about to sign the last of his savings away.