Free The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) by Mark Reynolds

into the deep alcove that the kiosk guarded, and saw a pair
of very large, glass doors, art deco design with handles made of tarnished
brass piping, the glass deliberately soaped over to guard against curiosity.
Jack looked up quickly at the stone archway he was under, and saw raised
lettering in brushed-steel under a half-circle of ornately carved brick: CROSS-OVER STATION .
    He looked again at the double doors,
out of place at the end of the shallow brick cave, as if at any moment, time
would suddenly pop the clutch, drop itself into gear, and he would find himself
caught in the midmorning rush of office workers, white-collar stock
speculators, and graveyard shifters bound for work or home, all filing through
these doors to reach their trains.
    But Cross-Over Station, like the
newspaper kiosk, was a relic, an ancient uncovered ruin abandoned in time like
a leftover story-line prop. It was dead.
    He started forward, the shadowed corners of the alcove wedged with a
thick layer of neglect and filth: discarded cigarette butts, flattened and
rain-soaked mats of paper, a lost glove, broken glass, something that resembled
a used condom. A small shadow slipped quickly into the darkness and
disappeared, a rat maybe. Jack reached for the brass handles and swallowed, arm
bracing for the possibility that this would all end in folly, that the door
wouldn’t budge, that the Writer was insane, and that he himself was the biggest
fool this side of heaven.
    He pulled on the door, and was
actually amazed when it opened. He jerked his hand away almost reflexively, the
quick reaction to grabbing something hot, and watched as the door swung closed.
    About this, at least, the Writer had
been telling the truth! Jack was only just realizing that up until this very
moment, and in spite of everything he had done so far, he still hadn’t entirely
believed him.
    Maybe even more startling was the
discovery that some part of him, deeply rooted and terribly frightened by
everything he was doing in his newfound madness, actually wanted the door to be
locked, wanted this to end, wanted him to go back to his normal, ordinary,
usual existence.
    But that could never happen now.
    When he reached for the handle again,
it was with an anticipation that made his heart trip, the pounding in his ears
so loud he would have sworn that anyone standing next to him just then would
have heard it; would have known. Possibilities were unfolding before him.
Forget the broken bits of mortar around the entranceway. Forget the smashed
bottle of cheap wine still half-wrapped in a paper bag. Forget the condom and
the glove and the debris and the scurrying rat. Forget it all. Cross-Over
Station was real! And he never even knew it existed. Whole realms of
possibilities were opening up before him, waiting only on his willingness to
look. All he had to do was seize them. Ever forward, never back .
    Precisely because there is no back. As the Writer pointed out, there was
nothing left for him to go back to except a place he did not want to be. This
was his second chance.
    Not far away, the Writer’s lifeless
body sprawled in an alleyway under a broad sky of bright summertime blue, the
lower-half of his face destroyed.
    Jack entered Cross-Over Station.
    Whatever he imagined, whatever he
tried to prepare himself for, the station failed him. Beyond a small atrium was
a vast space where long wooden benches like church pews faced a single track—a single track! No arrivals, just departures. A world trapped in its beginning.
    Your ticket did say “one-way.”
    Perhaps that was why the station was
abandoned. Cross-Over Station was like stepping over the threshold of some
post-apocalyptic wasteland where everything was left behind but the people:
empty benches, discarded paper cups, the occasional newspaper. But no sign of
habitation. No spilled coffee, or smoldering cigarette butts, or hastily
discarded wads of gum stuck to the benches. Everyone had walked out of this
place a long time