EXCERPT
FROM FIRST DEGREE MUDDER
Fort
Vancouver National Park
Old Army Barracks
My feet squished inside my drenched kicks as
I limped through the damp grass. I’d like to give Billy a swift kick in the
shins, I thought cranking the volume on my phone to high. Maybe Dean Martin’s
“King of the Road” would give me a final boost. Doubtful. I didn’t feel like
the king or queen of the road. Quite the opposite.
The rest of my Mind Over Mudder teammates
were nowhere in sight. Thank God. I checked behind me twice, just to make sure.
I probably could have taken the shortcut straight to the barracks, but I didn’t
want to risk being seen. That might have been a mistake. The historic grounds
gave off an eerie aura, especially the dilapidated army hospital Building 614,
to my left. It was rumored to be haunted. I understood why. Built in 1904
during an influenza outbreak, the three-story brick building had served
hundreds of infantry men over the decades.
I shuddered to imagine the torture some of
them must have endured. Was that a moan? A prickly feeling ran down my spine.
I think that’s a moan, I said aloud as I
glanced up at the broken top story windows. Something ghoulish floated past.
Run, Meg!
I willed myself forward, ignoring the
blisters on my heels or the chafing under my sports bra. It felt like I was
breathing under water. I didn’t care. I crested the hill and turned onto
Evergreen Boulevard.
Relax, Meg. It’s just your mind playing
tricks on you. I had read one too many ghost stories when researching the
history of Fort Vancouver and its surrounding grounds. The hospital had been
abandoned for years, but people swore that things were amiss. Faucets were said
to turn on in the middle of the night, bathroom doors banged shut for no
reason, faces, like the one I’d just seen, appeared out of nowhere in the
windows. The place was haunted. Definitely haunted.
You’re fine now, I told myself, slowing my
pace.
I followed the flour on the sidewalk that
marked the route of our pre-dawn run. It took us past the Fort’s parade grounds
complete with an old-fashioned bandstand and Officer’s Row—a row of stately
Victorian officer’s houses. That’s when I saw the creepy old lady again. I’d
seen her watching us from her ground floor apartment before. The twenty-two
stately mansions that make up Officer’s Row were now used for a variety of
purposes. The Grant House had become one of Vancouver’s premier restaurants and
the Marshall House a favorite spot for weddings. The remaining properties had
been converted into commercial and residential space.
Yesterday when I jogged past the creepy old
lady’s apartment she peeled back one lace curtain and watched me and my
teammates. It was unsettling to say the very least.
I stopped to tie my shoe under an ancient
oak. Its leaves looked parched from summer’s endless sun. My throat
commiserated with the tree. I could use an ice-cold glass of water right about
now. Pushing myself to standing all the hairs on my arms stood at attention as
a creaking sound came from the creepy old lady’s front door. She appeared out
of nowhere on the wraparound porch.
Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Where had
she come from? I jumped back in surprise. Her glassy eyes bore into me. She
wore a faded pink bathrobe and appeared to have been old enough to be one of
the original members of the Hudson Bay Company.
“Hi.” I offered a tentative wave.
She didn’t move.
I tried again. “Good morning.”
Her eyes remained locked on me, but she gave
no indication that she’d heard my greeting.
Was she a ghost?
I had no intention of waiting around to find
out. I plowed ahead, crossing Evergreen Boulevard, and practically hurdling the
waist-high wooden fence that ran the length of the grassy parade grounds. My
feet revolted as I stumbled down the hill. It felt like someone was sanding my
heels with sandpaper.
Pick
up the pace, Meg.
The
only thing that kept me upright was the promise of a hot shower and the fact
that a ghost might be in hot pursuit. I needed to get to the barracks and get
out of these shoes. Mud and sweat oozed from every pore. Thankfully, I’d
learned my lesson after the first day on the training course and ditched my
cute pink tank top and capris for old raggedy sweats and a t-shirt. Everything
ended up discolored from the mud. There was no point in trying to look cute
while under Billy the Tank’s watchful eye and blaring bullhorn.
I
cut through the grass, something Billy definitely frowned on. “Reed!” he
bellowed in his bullhorn when he caught me sneaking around the back of the
barracks last week. “When you take a shortcut you’re only cheating yourself.”
That
was fine by me. I happily owned cheating on myself.
There was a single light on in the otherwise
deserted collection of buildings down the hill. The reserve encompassed three
hundred and sixty-six acres of land. It included Fort Vancouver, Pearson
Airfield and Museum, the barracks, Army hospital, Red Cross building, Officer’s
Row, an old chapel, stables, and non-commissioned officer’s houses. The grounds
are considered the Pacific Northwest’s most important historical site. And this
morning I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were whispers from the past
surrounding me.
My
target was the barracks’ building where the single light glowing golden yellow
looked like a welcoming beacon. Billy and his business partner Dylan had leased
the barracks to use as base camp for their three-week intensive training class
Mind Over Mudder. They promised that by the end of the session (If you
survived, which at the moment looked doubtful for me) that not only would you
be in “fighting shape” to finish a mud run, but that you’d also drop pounds and
pant sizes. So far the scale hadn’t budged when I stepped on it, and I was so
exhausted at the end of the day that I felt like dropping dead.
Using
the wooden railing, I placed one hand over the other and slowly hauled my body
up the ramp. The rotting wooden slats buckled. Please hold, I said a silent
prayer to the Universe. The last thing I needed was to crash through the ramp.
Compared with the other buildings the
barracks were in great shape. Everything had sat empty since the army abandoned
its post in Vancouver decades earlier. The National Park, along with a trust,
had begun renovations on the massive site. The barracks were first on the list,
and Mind Over Mudder the first and only tenant at the moment. A sharp splinter
lodged itself in my palm. It protruded from my mud-chapped skin. I stopped and
yanked it free. Ouch!
Yet
another reason to love this training program, I sighed as I opened the front
door and stumbled inside. Every muscle in my body quaked. Billy had promised us
that muscle pain was a sign that our metabolism was revving up and we were
replacing fat with muscles. “Embrace the quakes” was his motto. Easy for him to
say. Billy aka “the Tank” was the fittest person I’d ever met. That was saying
a lot given that I write for Northwest Extreme Magazine and am constantly
surrounded by hard bodied adventure junkies.
Billy
instructed us to call him Tank on the first day of training. He looked like a
tank. His stout body bulged with muscle mass. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on
his body. Let’s just say that he was a bit intimidating when he sounded the
whistle around his neck, wearing skin tight army shorts and a sleeveless shirt
specifically designed to show off his enormous muscles.
I
scanned the dimly lit hallway to make sure the Tank wasn’t there. By my
estimate the rest of my teammates should be on the course for another thirty
minutes. That should give me ample time to shower, soak my aching soles, and
hightail it out of here before anyone was the wiser. I clicked off my music,
tugged my earbuds out, and clutched my phone in the hand without the splinter.
The
barracks have an ominous vibe even when they’re packed with my teammates and
coaches. Shuffling down the long empty hallway made it feel even creepier. Like
the army hospital the barracks are said to be haunted. The top floor was used
for gun testing. There are still bullet holes in the walls upstairs, and it was
said that you could hear phantom gun shots.
A
loud thud sounded below.
I
jumped and let out a scream.
My
heart pounded in my chest. Relax, Meg. Maybe one of my teammates had the same
idea.
I
continued on, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was behind me. The
locker rooms were located in the basement. Not exactly where I wanted to be at
the moment, but I hobbled down the hardwood stairs anyway.
When
I was a few feet away from the locker room doors, they swung open nearly
smacking me in the face.
I
jumped again.
Was
it the ghost? How were the doors opening? One of the rumors that I’d heard
about the haunted buildings was that doors were known to open and close at
will.
I
backed up.
At
that moment someone barreled through the doors and knocked me off my feet.
“Hey!”
I caught myself on the wall.
The
guy leaped over me and raced down the hallway before I could get a look at his
face. I had a pretty good guess who it was. Tim Baxter, one of my fellow
teammates. I recognized his bulk and black hooded sweatshirt. What was he doing
in the locker room and why was he in such a hurry?
I
pushed to standing. “Tim, where are you going?”
He
paused at the front doors.
I
noticed a package under his right arm. “Tim!” I called again. “What’s going
on?”
He
froze. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. My contacts were thick with sludge.
I don’t see distances very well even when my contacts are perfectly clear. Dirt
had formed a thick filmy layer, making my vision blurry. I blinked twice.
The
door slammed shut. Tim, or whoever had run into me, was gone
Weird.
I
brushed myself off and continued into the locker room. Steam enveloped the
front area where three massage tables sat empty. Long mirrors stretching the
length of the room were completely fogged over. It smelled like stale sweat,
moldy wood, and eucalyptus. Someone, probably Tim, must have left the steam
room doors open.
Using
my hands as I shield to avoid tripping over a bench I made my way past the
massage tables and into the shared steam, sauna, and whirlpool room. Doors on
either side of the room lead to the men’s and women’s changing rooms and
showers. Originally the barracks only housed men, so when Mind Over Mudder
renovated the basement locker room they’d had to get creative with the design.
The actual changing areas and showers were private and on opposite sides of
each other, but the steam room and hot tub were coed, which meant that bathing
suits were always required.
My
cheeks burned with heat. Muddy sweat dripped onto the floor. The wet air filled
my lungs, making me cough.
I
fumbled through the dense layer of steam. My hands landed on the cedar steam
room door, which was indeed wide open. Someone had propped it open with one of
the locker room benches. Really weird. I pushed the bench away. It made a sound
like nails on a chalkboard on the tile floor.
My
feet slid across the wet floor. I landed on my tailbone as the steam room door
swung shut. Awesome. Two falls in a matter of a few minutes. That had to be a
new record for me. At least my phone was safely secured to my arm. I just got a
new phone after a little accident with my old phone. Smart phones aren’t cheap,
especially for a girl on a tight budget. I couldn’t risk damaging this one, so
I undid the Velcro strap around my arm and placed my phone and earbuds on a
bench nearby.
Steam
billowed from underneath the door. It reminded me of dry ice on Halloween.
Whoever turned it on must have cranked the heat to full blast. I braced myself
as I opened the door to shut it off.
I
couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, but I knew where the dials
controlling the heat and steam were. The steam room and I had become besties
over the past few days. Nothing soothed my training aches and pains like the
moist warm air.
I
found the thermostat and switched it off. I know I shouldn’t have, but I
climbed onto the cedar slatted bottom bench and drank in the steam. Billy would
be furious if he caught me wearing my muddy clothes in the hot humid room, but
I couldn’t help it. I was freezing. Just five minutes, Meg, I told myself as my
breathing steadied and I sunk onto warm bench. This is exactly what I needed, I
could almost feel my muscles begin to relax.
Within
minutes the steam began to evaporate and the air began to thin. I opened my
eyes. My contacts were like glue. Blinking as hard as I could, I tried to
loosen their grip. It didn’t work. They felt like sand. I might have to ditch
them, I thought as I stood up.
The
small cedar room came into soft focus. Someone else was in here with me. I
blinked again. “Billy?”
Billy
was laying on his back on the top bench with his eyes closed. Why hadn’t he
said anything? He must be pissed that I snuck out early.
“Listen,
Tank, I’m really sorry I took the shortcut. My feet are killing me this
morning. I have like a thousand blisters.”
Billy
didn’t respond.
“Tank,
I’m a reporter, remember. I’m here for a story. It’s not like the rest of my
teammates.” I stood. Spots danced in my vision.
Again
Billy didn’t respond. I moved closer. Suddenly, I knew why he wasn’t
responding. Billy wasn’t resting.
As I came closer, a horrific sense of dread
came over my entire body. Billy was dead.
for Kensington Publishing,
featuring a young journalist, Meg Reed, who bills herself as an intrepid
adventurer in order to land a gig writing for Northwest Extreme. Only
Meg’s idea of sport is climbing onto the couch without spilling her latte.
