Mountaineer
Craig Bernier

Mountaineer is lit by bays of enormous hurricane lamps. They cast eerie quasi-daylight over the track. Each lamp is contained inside a high-polished cowling affixed to a frame. The frames are attached to massive poles encircling the track. That’s Mountaineer’s draw: year-round, nighttime racing. The light becomes perverted farther from the source, filling Mountaineer’s backdrops with elongated shadows.

It’s not uncommon to hear men howl underneath this light, the booze or lycanthropy taking hold. It affects people like an eclipse rolling through the Middle Ages; it puts things askew. Yet, rarely do people look up for the source of their unease; they seem either aloof to it or mildly afraid.

The horses enter the turn, and someone tugs at me. I lower my binoculars and look to both sides. I can’t figure out which one of these bastards it was: the old drunk struggling to stand to my left or the teenage punk trying for my wallet? The old man is holding the railing, yelling at the seven. He has a scar that runs from underneath his ball cap, continuing to his shirt collar and possibly far beyond. How far does that scar go? The horses are midpoint in the turn. I turn and glare at the teenager. There’s no way that fucker did it; he’ll never be that hard. He averts my stare when I give it to him, turning instead to the horses. This kid has target written all over him, and I wonder if he’ll see 20.

My people. At this hour, I can almost smell them. I want to lead them out of here to start anew. But we aren’t going anywhere. Nothing exists but the race. I’d take short odds that I could find five cars in the parking lot with babies locked inside.