Book 1, Chapter 1...

Greenshore Series

Book 1: The Old Hollow

 

Introduction

 

 

John Barmin lives in the city of Ashland, Wisconsin.

He works at the Greenshore Senior Living Center as the live-in maintenance man.

The Greenshore Senior Living Center is the place where wizards go to die.

 

Chapter 1: The Offer

May along southeastern Wisconsin's shoreline is a time when Spring gives way to Summer. The nights are cool, the days warm and everything is green again. Much like the cover brought on by heavy December snows, the new greenery brings a false sense of renewal. In May, the flora covers over most of the open lots and cracker box yards throughout Ulao Village. The vegetation makes shadows of the refuse, dampen the sounds of the nearby highway and trap the flying waste in its ever-entwining snares. However, there were certain buildings resistant to this green veneer.

Sagging Sal’s Pub was one such property. This establishment brooded beneath the steadily intensifying pre-dawn light and presided in what most locals considered the depressed part of town. It was a good distance from the century-old mansions and neatly quarantined off by public parks and McBusnesses. Here, painted cinderblocks and oil-stained cement was the place where newspapers played chase with plastic bags while swarm clouds protected their dumpsters. A line of shining motorcycles and muddy rust buckets all huddled close to the painted metal portal set in the block wall like campers around a fire on a cool night. This was a place where the local working-class gathered to celebrate, or at the very least bemoan their existence.

John Barmin leaned his Trek bicycle against the wall back by the dumpster. He had an old chain and padlock that allowed him to secure his 'ride' to the weathered slats surrounding the bins. He was licensed to drive, but had developed the habit of riding a bike more than a decade ago after his Very Bad Day.

Walking to Sal's front door, he heard the television and shouts of sports fans dully reverberating from within. He stretched before going in, watching his shadow reaching outward against the cement wall. It had been a long night and his muscles were reaching an age where they felt a little sore at the end of the day.

Or night, as it was for John.

He was a third shifter.

He scanned over the vehicles and found Elliott McFadden's truck parked in the handicap spot. John and McFadden had worked together for years. 'Monday at Sal's' had become part of their weekly ritual. Rubbing his eyes, John entered the maple paneled darkness and strolled over to his and McFadden's places at the end of the bar. Charley, the bartender, nodded to John as he sat next to his friend.

John's beer was already poured and waiting.

McFadden was closing his flip phone. He didn't look happy as he hung up.

"Well John," McFadden growled as spun the phone upon the bar's well-polished veneer. "I jes gotta call from an old buddy from up north. It seems he's got himself in a bit of a pickle and needs me to head on up to help him out. That ain't gonna happen. Heh. Damn fool thinks I'm twenty years younger or sump'm. Anyhew, I'm thinking you might do instead of me."

John sat silent as he sipped his stout and listened to the old man draw a ragged breath. McFadden’s eyes were red. They were both a little burned out from last night's work load at the Rosebud Retirement Apartments. Both men were the 'Custodial Engineers' for the 47-bed community.

McFadden was the lifer.

John was playing around with the idea of quitting and moving on.

McFadden gave John a sideways glance and said, "Yah. I see your eyes look'en at that door. I see what's goen’ on in that head. We been work'n together now for almost five years. Five years. That's a helluva lot longer than most young guys who pass through town. You got the burnout."

John nodded. "You got me pegged, Eliott. I've been thinking a lot about not making money at some other place."

McFadden laughed and slapped John on the back. "I know you're good people. You try hard to do right. Ya screw up... not often though, and ya don't give up. You’re quiet. Folks feel that they can talk to you."

McFadden leaned back and fished around for his pack of camels. "Yep. Timing seems about right. You'll do."

"I'll do what?" John chuckled as he slid his lighter over to his co-worker.

"Take the trip! You wanna fly and I think I can help you out." McFadden said with bugged eyes and a mock expression of surprise. "I got ya all set up REAL nice. I got a truck down at the rental place for you to drive up in. It's yours for a week. You'll be all settled in by then."

"What..." John responded with disbelief, "in the hell are you talking about?"

McFadden was in mid-draw when John blurted out his question. This resulted in a laughing coughing fit, and Charley came down to their end of the bar. Charley, as the owner of Sal's, had been enjoying a 'quiet Monday'. He glanced over at the No Smoking sign and pulled an ashtray off the stack leaning haphazardly beneath it.

"You OK, pops?" Charley said as he slid the ashtray over.

Still coughing, McFadden twisted his mouth into a yellow toothed grin and nodded as he waved Charley off, drink in hand. "Yerp." He burped out. "Fill 'em up, Charley! We're celebrating my boy's promotion!"

Charley chuckled as he walked off to the taps.

John leaned in and said, "Talk to me, Eliot. What is going on here?"

McFadden leaned forward, close enough for John to catch a good whiff of stale beer and cigarette smoke. He glanced down the bar, twitched a little, and looked up. He caught Johns eyes in an unforgiving stare. In a low voice that John had to strain to hear, Elliott said, "Ya made the cut. There's a guy I know up north named Scott. In a city called Ashland. Just south of Superior. They got this retirement village on the lakeshore. A real old place..."

John sat back to listen. McFadden had talked about Scott from time to time down at work. But it wasn't about Scott the man. It was always in the context of what they were working on. Through those conversations, John had learned that McFadden had trained Scott at some point.

McFadden sniffed and glanced around before continuing. "They got stuff going on up at the Center. Noth'n illegal, mind you. Just a lot of deep secret, big brain stuff. When they sent me a-pack'n, they had my assistant take over."

"You left on good terms?"

McFadden nodded and leaned in close. Quietly, he said, "They retired me. But they didn't fire me... Get what I'm say'n? Too the hell old to go back up there anyhew."

Charley had returned and set the two beers in front of the conspirators.

McFadden fished around in the breast pocket of his ratty green jacket. "Hey! Ki mo sabi! I wanna fix both'a our tabs." With a casual flick of the wrist, McFadden laid a thumb-thick wad of folded bills on the bar. They were wrapped with a rotting rubber band.

"I got it." The bills vanished under Charley's meaty hand and he strolled back down to the register.

McFadden turned back to John and said, "This is your retirement party, kid."

"Why me? Why now?" John was tired and really didn't want McFadden to go off on one of his rambles. Still, he wanted to understand his buddy’s point.

"I got a job to keep an eye out for good folks that would work for other good folks. I got this side job that I do for some folks up in Ashland. What I do is steer folks like you up to where they can do... more. Up there, trouble comes and things need fixing. Problem is, I can't pull folks from the Ashland locals. The locals are too close to everything. Like take’n a gear outta one part of a clock to fix another part of the same clock. Yah just can't do it. Gotta get that gear from the outside."

McFadden gave a wink and returned to his beer.

John leaned back, letting his sore spine straighten out. He let McFadden's words sink in as the two men sat in silence. They drank. People around them came and went. Charley came back with the new tab total.

It was a sizable credit. Charley nodded to McFadden and returned to his end of the bar.

"These Ashland folks," John surmised, "they are the ones who set you up with the extra cash?"

McFadden just gave a little smile as he sipped. A cheer rose from a nearby table as the Brewers scored a home run. Charley enjoyed replaying the previous day’s game for his morning crowd. The wave of sound broke the simmering tension between John and McFadden.

John sighed. McFadden just sat there with a little smile on his face.

He stared at McFadden and said, "So what do you want me to do? Take him some cash? Drive him back down here?"

"Naw." McFadden said dryly. "Scott'll be dead before the sun's all the way up."

John's blood ran cold. "Wh... what?"

"Dead." McFadden raised his glass and took a long, slow drink. "O.K... let me tell you a thing or two about what's goen’ on. My replacement up there: Scott. He's a good kid, like you. But sometimes bad things pop up around there. Stuff like rabid dogs and floods. You know, shit that makes someone think that a place is cursed, 'cause it only seems to happen in one place. But that place is special, ya know? Lotta history. Lotta good vibes and all of that. The good stuff attracts the bad stuff."

John shook his head. "Eliot, you're really not selling me on this road trip..."

"Now jes shut up for a few minutes an let me finish!" McFadden slammed his fist on the bar, resulting in a few concerned stares. Glumly, he returned to his beer and took a drink. The folks around them shrugged off the outburst.

John sat dumbly by and listened.

"I'll spell it out real simple." McFadden took out the receipt that Charley had given him earlier. He wadded it up and whispered into the paper. For a moment, the copper ring on McFadden's thumb shimmered as he waved it beneath a nearby beam of the rising sun. "Scott knew this goen’ in, so you should too. The Greenshore Living Center is built on a sacred place. A place forged long ago. This place allows some of the folks who live there to do incredible things. Things that science can't do. Things that don't make sense."

"You're talking about magic?" John asked, his eyes laughing.

McFadden let a flash of acrimony wash across his face. He wordlessly handed John the wadded receipt and took a breath. He started to speak as John unfolded the thin paper.

"Solve that puzzle, smart guy." McFadden motioned to the paper scrap in Johns hand. "Scott worked with me about a decade ago. I sent him up nice just like I'm planning on doing to you. He made it past the year and a day thing without any problem..."

Puzzle? At first John didn't see it. Only the simple receipt. Sure, Charley's ink cartridge needed changing. The print was faint. The light was poor.

McFadden spoke up. "They come from all over. They've worked up there for centuries. It's called a 'Font' or sometimes a 'Wellspring'. I call it a 'Core'. Lots of power for the take’n..."

John found it. Near the middle, next to his thumb. The surprise resulted in him twitching the thumb away, as though it were about to sting him.

McFadden smirked at the reaction. "These special places need to be kept in good condition, or they fail like a car without a regular oil change. That's the job I used to do. That's what Scott did after I left. Some of us retire. That's what I got. We get to finally travel the world and find new blood. Other ones... ones like Scott; well they find themselves in deep with the wrong folks and then they have to get their hearing and their trial."

McFadden raised his tankard and took a long swig.

John half-listened to his companion as he scrutinized the receipt.

"Being found guilty ain't like it is out here in the World, John."

Right after the words "YOUR CREDIT AS OF TODAY:" The total read $174.93. But the three changed into a 4. Then a 5. The pennies continued a slow tick upward, ink flowing from one number shape into another number shape.

"Yah." McFadden stated dryly. "What you're looking at is happening in Charley's computer, too. I'll have to stop it before too long. Can't let something like that spin outta control. Let's in too many... bad feelings. I imagine my boy Scott got bit by some of those bad feelings and got some wrong plans in his head. I suppose that the council had to call a Hypnos down on him, if he's lucky. As of this morning's sunrise, he's going to sleep."

Something in the tone McFadden used when he said 'sleep'. Something made John think of Old Yeller and tasks vets don't usually talk about.

"The final choice is up to you." McFadden slid the rental keys over to John. He then plucked the receipt out of his young friend’s immobile fingers. With a sharp inhale, McFadden dropped the receipt into an ashtray, then put the cigarette out on it. A small flash of fire, and the paper became reduced to ashes.

"Poof!" McFadden croaked, "Magic show!"