The Boundless (12 page)

When he looks back down the train, he catches a distant flash of light—a lantern held by someone leaning out from a freight car. Will pushes himself flat. If he hasn't been spotted already, he soon will be.

Just around the corner of the boxcar, on the back, is another set of rungs. If he can get to those, he'll at least be hidden in the space
between
cars. But moving is the last thing he wants to do. He grinds his teeth. What has he done? He can't cling on to a boxcar forever!

Cold wafts from the boxcar as though it were an icebox. His hands are numb, his limbs exhausted. But he knows he has to move. Releasing one hand from the rung, he reaches around the corner of the car. His fingertips find the rung and close around it. Then, swiftly, before his courage fails, he leans back and swings his whole body onto the other set of rungs. Gasping, he presses his face against the cold metal, willing his arms and legs to stop trembling before they shake him off the train altogether.

He waits, the judder and rumble of the train melding with his pulse. There is no door back here; it isn't like a passenger car. Sooner or later he'll be discovered. Or fall.

He has to move and keep moving until he reaches a passenger car or—Zirkus Dante! He remembers the circus train is back here somewhere, nestled amongst the freight. Eighty cars they have, that's what the conductor said.

The rungs lead up to the roof of the boxcar, and he can make out running boards jutting over the edge. Just hours ago he ran along them. But the train was still then, and now it's moving at forty miles an hour through darkness. Five men killed every day.

He climbs a couple rungs—one more and his head is sticking up above the roof. He takes a backward glance and his throat tightens. The lantern is a faraway white dot, and he can't tell how quickly it's moving, but he knows it's headed in his direction.

The train gives an unexpected jolt, and Will's feet are nearly jarred from the rungs. He faces forward, breathing hard.

Go!

On the roof of the boxcar is a single handle to the left of the running boards. He takes hold, heaves himself up onto his belly, and slithers onto the boards, gripping them tightly.

There is a constant shimmy to the train, an impatient forward surging. Will is afraid to stand, and drags himself forward on his belly. But it's no good. He'll be overtaken in minutes this way. He gets to his knees and crawls, slowly, for he's very tippy. The boxcar's roof slopes gently away on either side. It would be so easy to roll right off.

When he takes another backward look, his worst fears are confirmed. The lantern light is definitely bigger. Has he been spotted already? The train banks slightly, and he nearly loses his balance.
Look ahead. Never turn your back to the track.

He has to get up. He plants one foot on the running boards, raises himself into a sprinter's start. Quickly he stands, knees bent, arms out. He will not look down to the sides, only forward. One step, then another, his feet mere shadows in the moonlight. The dark outline of the running boards is his only guide.

Cold air pushes against him, and he has to lean into it for balance. The faster he walks, the less he teeters. At the end of the car, he looks down into the noisy, churning gap. He's not ready to jump. He'll climb down, cross the coupling, and then go back up. But when he kneels and turns to descend the rungs, he sees Brogan's lantern, closer still. Its light is pale upon Will's clothing.

No time to climb. Once more he stands, and takes a few steps back. Squinting to check that the train isn't turning, he jumps. He locks his eyes to the running boards, lands, stumbles, but doesn't fall.

He keeps going at a steady jog now, his body parting the wind, the night forest hurtling past on either side. Brogan's powerful lantern beam hounds his legs like an attack dog. Will jumps again, keeps running, counting cars in his head. Five . . . six . . . seven . . . He squints, then blinks. It's like part of the sky is blocked out. Then he realizes that before him, rising like a wall, is a double-decker boxcar.

Will pulls up short, panting. How does he do this? He knows he's out of time. He steps back, takes a wild jump, and clumsily catches hold of the rungs. One of them strikes him hard on the cheek and sends bright sparks of pain through his head. He keeps climbing.

On the high roof he feels the train's sway more strongly. As it rounds a curve, he crouches for safety. He notices that the lantern light no longer dogs him—for a few moments he's invisible. But Will doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Eventually Brogan will catch him, and then what? A quick tussle, a thrust of the knife, and his body tossed off the train. The mere thought makes him feel faint—and he very nearly falls into the hole that suddenly yawns before him.

He jerks back. Cut into the roof is a large rectangular opening. No way can he jump across. On one side he sees a skinny running board, perilously close to the boxcar's edge. One false step and he'd be over.

He shuffles toward it. He really does feel like a tightrope walker now. Something thick and rough brushes his ankle. With a yelp he looks down and sees it slither past his leg and disappear into the darkness of the hole. A hot whiff of animal rises up to him.

He moves as quickly as possible, but suddenly a shape undulates before him like a giant cobra. It sways, its head a toothless gaping hole, and sends a snort of rank air into his face. Will staggers and falls. His hands uselessly claw the empty air—

And the dark snake hooks around his waist and plunges him through the hole in the boxcar roof. Even as Will hollers, he's aware of some vast shape in the darkness, and he understands finally that this creature twisted around him is no snake but the trunk of an elephant.

A thick layer of straw rustles beneath his feet as he's set gently down. The trunk releases him, and the tip prods his body inquisitively.

“Thank you,” is all Will can think to say.

And then jubilantly he realizes: Zirkus Dante!

These must be the first of their animal cars! He's never been so close to such a large beast. It could trample him by casually lifting a single foot. Who's to say it won't? Will wishes he had something delectable to give it.

It pushes against his pocket, and Will remembers the sugared almonds. He takes out the mangled paper bag and holds it up to the elephant. Its trunk deftly slips inside, extracts the last few nuts, and carries them to the shadowy regions of its mouth. Will hears a satisfied chewing sound.

A beam of light plays across the hole in the roof. Will staggers into a far corner of the boxcar. Hastily he throws straw over his legs and torso and sinks back.

A figure appears at the edge of the roof. Light stabs down. Will holds his breath. For the first time he sees the elephant properly, its ancient mottled gray skin, and its big patient eye—dilating with the light shined into its face. It makes a disgruntled sound. Its trunk arches up and, with a flick, knocks the lantern from Brogan's hands.

“Cheeky beggar!” Will hears Brogan mutter. “I'll give that trunk of yours a hiding. I know you're down there, boy! And I'm coming for you!”

In the moonlight Will sees the elephant's trunk flex and shove the man. There's a thud against the roof and considerable cursing as the elephant pummels Brogan, barring his passage.

Will leaps up. At the front of the car he finds a low door. It takes him some time to figure out the latch, but he manages, and swings it inward. The noise of the track clatters against him. He steps out onto a narrow platform. There are no railings here, just a wooden gangway shuddering atop the great iron coupling.

It's just a few feet across, but Will hesitates. Somehow this is scarier than jumping across roofs. The tracks are so close. He steps onto the gangway, feels the deep vibration of the train's metal bone and sinew pass through him—and jumps the rest of the way. He grabs hold of the handle of the next car, opens the door, and ducks inside.

More animals—he can tell from the fug of straw and excrement. High up, a few windows let in starlight. Almost the entire car is an enormous cage, with only a very narrow corridor running down one side. He presses himself against the wall as he pads along, trying to keep away from the bars.

A low feline growl wafts up from the darkness, and he quickens his pace. From the corner of his eye he sees a shadow of movement—low to the ground, stripes. Bengal tiger.

Will reaches the end of the car, opens the door, and crosses again, noticing that the sky is starting to lose its darkness. The next car is divided into stalls, and he hears the comforting sounds of horses nickering. How far does he have to go before he finds people who can help him?

The following car holds monkeys, which set up a terrible shrieking when he enters. After that is a large open pen of camels, which smell terrible. There are no cages, and he has to walk amongst them. Most of them just sit and watch dolefully as he passes, but one stands up on its ungainly legs and produces an appalling rattling call.

When Will enters the next car, he knows right away there is something different about this one. There are no windows at all, only a few small grilled vents high up. Before he closes the door, he sees that the bars of the cage seem thicker and more closely spaced. The corridor is a little wider. The smell is different too, skunky, cloying.

He walks quickly. From the cage comes a surprisingly light patter of footsteps. Fear crackles across his back like brush fire. The train sways violently, and Will bumps against the bars.

A hand closes around his wrist.

Will chokes on his own cry, coughing for air. He tries to pull free, but the fist tightens. He's aware of something very tall on the other side of the bars. A face looms from the darkness. It's the eyes he first notices, far more intelligent than most animals'. The face is long and lined, bordered by dense hair. All the terror that has been dormant in Will since the avalanche is suddenly wakened.

Will pulls again, but the sasquatch tightens its grip and pulls too, so Will's face is smacked against the bars, right next to the creature's. He can feel the hot air expelled through its nostrils.

“Please,” Will says.

“Get back!” a voice shouts, and Will looks over. A young man with a lantern and a stick walks toward the cage. “Let go, Goliath!”

Will feels the sasquatch's grip loosen but not release. He sees its hand clearly now, twice as big as his, the fingers long and leathery. It stands taller than Will. On its left shoulder is an angry line of raised scar tissue.

“Now!” The young man bangs the bars with his stick, and the sasquatch finally lets go.

Will falls back against the wall, his mouth parched with fear.

In the wash of lantern light, the sasquatch squats and rocks on its haunches, staring at the man balefully.

“That's good, Goliath,” he says. “Good!” From his pocket he takes something and tosses it at the sasquatch. Almost dismissively the creature picks it up, sniffs it, and puts it into its mouth.

The young man turns now on Will. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

“My name's Will Everett,” he says hoarsely. “And someone's trying to kill me.”

ZIRKUS DANTE

Will is unceremoniously marched through one dimly lit car after another. The young man has yet to tell him his name. In fact, all he has said is: “Mr. Dorian will want to hear about this.” Will assumes this young man must be one of the Zirkus's animal handlers. He seems grumpy, and Will supposes he's to blame for waking him up—that camel's rattle was certainly loud enough. The animal trainer wears loose-fitting trousers and a vest. He can't be much older than Will. Though he's not as tall, the trainer's shoulders and arms are more muscled. On his left forearm are twin scars that look like claw marks.

“That sasquatch,” Will says. “Is that the one Mr. Dorian caught in the mountains? When it was just young?”

The young fellow glances at him. “How d'you know that?”

“The scar on its shoulder,” Will says. He's so relieved to be with someone who isn't trying to kill him. “I was there. I saw it get stabbed. Are you the animal trainer?”

“Assistant animal trainer,” the fellow mutters.

“What's it like?” Will asks. “The sasquatch.”

“Smart.”

“Are you training it?”

“You don't exactly train a sasquatch. He lets you
think
you're training him sometimes. He's cooperative—so long as you don't annoy him. Sometimes I think all he wants is escape.”

Will has lost track of how many cars he's passed through. He looks about. On either side of the corridor, thick burlap curtains conceal berths. The hallway is humid with the smell of people sleeping. Clothing hangs from any old place—pegs, hooks hammered into the ceiling, makeshift clotheslines.

“Something smells . . .
bad
,” rumbles an angry voice from one of the lower berths. “
Really
bad.”