Post wiped the apple on his shirt then
sank his teeth in. The sweet juices rolled down his chin.
“Counting my pieces on the board will do
you no good, Sgt. Post, for they are here, there, and everywhere. Some ahead,
more behind, others elsewhere. This is our push, our thrust into the heart, and
I will not be denied. This has been some time in the making. I watched it burn
from afar, and now that the smoke has cleared she is mine for the taking. Just
a few loose ends to tie up.”
“You think soldier boy can get through
this round? Looks a little soft if you ask me,” said Keaton. His face was
littered with scars, and his flat nose placed him as a brawler. A rough
character out of the seedy bar scene back when the world was somewhat normal.
Post marked him as the man that lead the
column into their flank. “Come a little closer and see how soft.”
“Ho-now, got a little bite. A little
bite is good, or it could be bad for you, soldier boy.” Keaton laughed. It
reminded Post of his father, of whiskey and smoke and things he’d rather
forget. “There’s that spark. You picked a good one as always, Miss Moya.”
“Naturally.” She winked at Post. “I
picked you didn’t I, Mr. Keaton?”
“Yes, ma’am, yes you did, and not a day
goes by I don’t thank ya for it. We’re ready.” Keaton drew the reins up and
rode off to the right.
Miss Moya put her fingers between her
lips and whistled, piercing the air, and in that instant the entire column
halted.
“It’s time for a little reprieve! We
have some serious fighters among the beaten, but will the newcomer outlast
them? This remains to be seen!” Miss Moya leaned close to the bars.
Post tensed then lashed out, reaching
through but catching only air.
“The sooner you learn not to hate me the
sooner you’ll be free of everything, Sgt. Post. Keep that anger and it will
tear you apart, and you will not make it past this round, and that—” she
sighed—“would be a terrible shame. Boys.” She waved a hand over her head.
Several men moved on the wagon and
unlocked it. The prisoners eating their apple cores exited without so much as a
word from the club-bearing men. Post rocked back and then exploded at the man
closest to the door. He took him low and they tumbled through the open door.
The other men began to close in.
“Do not!” Miss Moya shouted. “Well, Sgt.
Post, it’s a little early, but I won’t keep you from defending yourself. Fight
or die!”
Post barely heard her. While the
club-bearer and his mashed face stared in awe, Post moved. He came low and
drove the flat of his hand into the man’s face. Bone and cartilage crunched
from the impact. Post grabbed the club out of the man’s loose grip. In a quick
series of steps, Post lashed out with the club, smashing kneecaps then
finishing the man off with a sharp blow to the head. He spun to face the
others.
“Nicely done,” Miss Moya said,
applauding. “The rest of you will do well to pay attention to Sgt. Post. Never
let your guard down. Now get him in the pit!”
Post tensed, ready to strike out, but
the men kept their distance. He turned to face the thunder of approaching
hooves, but as he did the rope was already over his head and Keaton pulled it
tight, pulling him off his feet.
“All flash and no finesse. Shoulda
listened to Miss Moya’s advice.” Keaton laughed.
Post sat up, reached for the rope, but
Keaton kicked his horse in the flanks and they were off. The wet grass whipped
at his face. He tasted dirt and then he was falling. The sky overhead, a box of
dingy gray. He slammed into muddy earth. He was in a deep pit. Faces began to appear
around the rim, cheering, shouting, cursing faces. Spit and piss rained down on
him. The rope slackened then disappeared.
Keaton leaned over the edge of the pit
and spit a wad down. “Better get up, soldier boy. They comin’ for you! They
comin’ to eat you up!”
Post rolled over. As he got to his feet,
he heard their distinct moans. Miss Moya stared down at him from atop her
horse. “Sgt. Post, do not disappoint me.”
Post gripped the club. Rotten breath
filled the air, along with wet crunching, clacking teeth, buzzing flies, but
Post knew he wasn’t about to face the enemy. He was about to face the victims.
Those that in life could not protect themselves. He was to face the fallen, and
it was either them or him. He had failed them, but if ever there was a chance
at redemption, he’d have to crack a few skulls first. He turned.
The wall of Creepers did not last, but
they had done enough, scattering the riders, forcing them to break away from
the angle of Baylor’s grenades. Bobby broke contact and started picking
targets. He was having a hard time adjusting to shooting from the train. The
beast rattled along the tracks while the wind whipped, roaring in his ears.
Metal on metal whined, gunshots whizzed, along with the hiss of steam. Full
blown chaos traveled at an alarming rate of speed. The last curve had nearly
sent him over the side.
Injured men lay scattered about the
rooftop. Some had seen their last sunrise. Bobby sighted a man coming up along
the back of the train, but his shot missed the mark. The rattle of Pathos One’s
AK shredded the man’s chest. A bullet zipped past his ear. Bobby dropped to the
roof, staying behind the iron plate while he reloaded. Shell casings bounced
from the return fire, like fleas on the back of a dog. He watched them twist
end over end and disappear in the blur of orange red.
“Ammo is kicked!” Baylor shouted.
“Hoss keeps putting coal in the fire
we’re going to be kicked!” Bobby shouted back, racking the bolt. He popped up,
fired twice, dropped back in cover.
“Speed is good. Keep these fuckers going
hard and we’re just aiming and firing,” Baylor said.
Bobby’s eyes locked with those wide and
crazy ones. The rush of the battle had the Mad Conductor sweating, panting like
some animal with a mouthful of bloody prey.
“They kicked the nest, kid. Kicked my
fucking nest!” Baylor leaned over the edge with his revolver, firing and
screaming. “Can’t keep those horses going. Not at this speed! Hoss! You keep
the beast well fed,” Baylor shouted down through the cage.
Hoss did not respond.
“Hoss?”
Bobby was up before Baylor could react.
He jumped past the wide-eyed lunatic, slipping the rifle over his shoulder in
the same motion. He dropped over the side, grabbing one of the iron spikes
before twisting his body down and into the cage. He slammed feet first on the
iron grates. Hoss lay slumped over the controls. Twin red blossoms grew from
his shoulder and back.
“Hoss,” Bobby said, reaching out to turn
the man.
“Fucking don’t!” Hoss said. “Kid, don’t!
I’m fucked. Shit’s blurry, man. Grab that shovel!”
Bobby paused for only the briefest of
seconds. Hoss looked over his wounded shoulder and screamed, “Bobby, grab the
fucking shovel!”
Bobby began to slake the fire’s hunger
with big chunks of raw coal. But he kept stealing glances at Hoss. The man was
using the weight of his dying body to keep pressure on the controls, biting his
lip, leaking blood. Bobby’s training had him wanting to dress the man’s wounds,
but he knew if he stopped, if they allowed the train to stop now, they were
done for.
“Hoss.” Bobby had hated the man for so
long and never really had the chance to make amends, neither of them did, and
now it was too late.
“Shut the fuck up, Bobby! Keep her warm
and glowing. Like that. Good! Been a hell of a ride!”
“Yeah.”
“Fucker that got me is still out there.
You kill him for me! I stop talking, you throw my ass to the side
and-an-an-aaaahh,” Hoss fell into a catatonic trance, his mouth wide open,
moaning.
A single monitor snapped on in Bobby’s
head.
Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,
Hoss said
within the confines of his mind. Bobby tried to reply, to ask something,
anything, but he froze. After being the conduit through which so many Creepers
passed, he knew this was different. He could feel it stirring inside like an
insect walking across the surface of his brain. It wasn’t something special, he
knew then. It wasn’t chance. It was distance and time. Like the man trapped in
the beast’s jaw so long ago, like the woman the night before Ecky died,
distance and time. Like the confused men of Wyoming Blue.
Bobby, kill me, please kill me,
Hoss begged.
Bobby trembled.
“Bobby!” Baylor cried from above.
More monitors snapped on.
“Bobby!”
Bobby, kill me,
Hoss pleaded,
his voice like warbling feedback through a broken speaker.
No,
Bobby said. Then he ordered the
Creeper’s hand to control the train. Handing it the shovel, he headed for the
door.
No, Bobby, no,
it cried, but
Hoss was gone. He’d been replaced by one of them. Bobby ignored the protests as
he tried to grasp the new Creepers coming to life.
Their voices filled his mind. He tilted
sideways, stumbled, but he kept running. He reached the door, welcoming the
fresh blast of dry desert heat. The tracks squealed, the train bucked, and he
gripped the handrail with sweaty palms. The ground blurred beneath him, and the
tracks ran into a pinpoint on the shimmering horizon through Hoss’s eyes. He
looked at Baylor through three more sets of eyes. He nearly fell then,
confronted by the overwhelming display of viewpoints, like living life through
fractured mirrors. He thought of the living, always the living, and it was
enough to keep the dead in check. He was about to take the ladder when a flash
of bright red caught his eye.
The man leaped from his horse and crashed
into him. Bobby’s arm twisted and they tumbled back through the open door. The
man reached for Bobby’s throat with one hand, brandishing a curved knife in the
other. A long red scarf draped over his back. His face lay hidden behind a dark
hood.
Bobby slapped his hand away and landed a
stiff right to the man’s neck. He kicked out, but the man recovered with a
punch of his own. The monitors flickered. The man brought the blade down, but
Bobby felt his body tense before the strike and he rolled to the side. He
slipped his Auto Stryker from the sheath on his wrist, driving it upward in one
swift motion. His swipe sliced the man’s face open from jaw to deep dark
eyeball.
The man fell backwards but got to his
knees. He swayed, blood pouring down his ruined face as he swung the blade back
and forth wildly.
Bobby flipped his rifle around like Ol’
Randy taught him, rolling it under his arm, and before the stock even hit his
shoulder he fired. Whatever thoughts were swirling in the man’s mind were
scattered out the back of his hooded head.
He went to jump over the man when an
explosion sent him flying backward.
* * * * *
Baylor had Tim Shepard under the arms.
He dragged the man behind cover and helped put pressure on the wound. Then he
watched him die. He felt the man move on then he felt the body come to life
again, teeth gnashing, eyes looking into oblivion. It was not gradual, no
fever. It was almost instant, and Baylor backed away when he realized there
were more. All around him, the wounded stumbled about.
He kicked the lunging Tim out of the way
and jumped to the next car. The train was moving at a good clip, and it took
all his years of experience riding on her to keep him from falling over the
side. The riders trailed behind in a column, but they were not losing ground.
Some even rode ahead along the sides of the train. Baylor cracked a few shots
but the angles were wrong. His dead comrades stumbled after him. He ran.
A pair of hands gripped the edge of the
next car and a dingy face appeared, yellow teeth and a gray-black beard. Baylor
kept the pistol low and cracked off two shots. The man’s skull broke apart and
fell away in ropey red mist. Two horses broke from the column and charged
ahead. Their mouths were white and wild, their muscles silky and defined in the
bright desert sun. Baylor fired again then dropped down to his belly to reload.
He watched the men gain ground, and then he watched as one of them, a boy
really, with curly red hair, pulled the pin from a grenade with his teeth. The
arc of the throw was perfect and Baylor heard it clatter behind him. He rolled
forward. The hot air of the explosion propelled him into the gap between the
cars.
He crashed back first into the door. The
metal warped from the impact. He saw sky, saw ground, and then he saw nothing
at all.
* * * * *
Pathos One poked the barrel of his AK
through the bars. He emptied the entire magazine into the column, but the
riders were barely fazed. They rode hard, weapons stowed, as they concentrated
on nothing but speed. He reloaded, set the weapon to burst, and dropped the
lead rider. The man fell from the saddle, jerked the reins hard, pulling the
horse into the one next to it. The others scattered to avoid the mayhem.
“G-good one,” Price said beside him. The
massive man had at least four gunshot wounds that he could see. Blood coated
his muscles like a skintight suit. It dripped from his mouth with each labored
breath. “Keep them busy.”
“What are you doing?”
“What the boss wants me to.” Price
turned and headed towards the next car. A rider crashed onto the small platform
before him. Price picked the man up as if he were a feather and tossed him out
into the desert sun.
Pathos One watched the man flash by then
fall beneath the thundering hooves.
Jaime and Sophie were busy popping shots
at the riders trying to get close enough to jump. They were doing a hell of a
good job, but for every one they dropped another filled the void.
Pathos One tried to keep track of all of
them, but a good number of riders arced out wide and moved past the rear car.
The train suddenly shuddered, jumping off the tracks and slamming back down.
The hot coals cast sparks about the car, and they all screamed as the train
leaned hard to the side.
* * * * *
The car was there one moment, then it
was gone, taken by the explosion. A torn hulk of smoking metal bent and curled
like charred fingers. Bobby kept Hoss’s body at the controls. Every few steps,
he ordered the protesting Creeper to throw more coal into the fire box. The
hiss of the engine assured him of their pace. To slow down now was to die. He
moved through the ruined car, hoping with each breath Baylor was not on top
when it exploded.
A pair of riders closed in from the
left, angling hard towards the head of the beast. One of them reared back, arm cocked,
and Bobby snapped a quick shot, but it did nothing more than make the rider
flinch. He dropped low between warped steel plates, the scent of burnt plastics
stinging his nose and eyes. He aimed far ahead of the rider, accounting for the
speed and wind, ticking the calculations off in his head like a robot. Bobby
fired. The round caught the man in the chest and his body slumped over the
saddle. The other rider was in the act of breaking off when both of them
disappeared in a cloud of blood and sand. Parts of men and horses alike tumbled
along in bloody spirals carried by their momentum.
He got up quick and bolted for the next
car. He found Baylor halfway through the door. The Mad Conductor’s hands
dangled over the edge and his legs were twisted, but twitching.
“Baylor,” Bobby said, shaking him.
The Mad Conductor’s wide eyes snapped
open. They seemed to spin in their sockets for a moment before focusing on
Bobby.
“Who the fuck’s driving my train?” He
coughed.
“I am,” Bobby said, letting the words speak
what he could not. His stomach twisted just thinking them.
Baylor stared hard at him. “Get me up.”
He clawed at the ruined door for purchase.
“Don’t.”
“Fuck don’t, kid. Fuck all of that shit.
Another set of assholes taking shots at my family, my girl. It’s not going to
end like this. Get me up!”
Bobby grabbed Baylor under the arms and
hefted him to his feet. The back of his head was wet with blood and he wouldn’t
put any weight on his left leg.
“Bitch, bastards, bitch bastard whores.”
Baylor gripped the backs of the seats as they passed. “I got one more trick up
my sleeve. These fuckers are in for it. Get us going faster,” Baylor said
through clenched teeth.