Authors: Norman Dixon
But he couldn’t
just leave the man to the stomachs of wildlife.
Ditching the
pack for a moment, Bobby searched the side of the road for wood and dry brush.
He began to form a crude pyre around Ecky and with the man’s lighter he set it
ablaze. As the orange flames licked at Ecky’s pants Bobby looked to the bloody corpse
of the long-haired man. The animals would have their fill of that one, but not
Yannek, and the same went for the rest of the savages dotting the road. They
could all rot.
Without looking
back Bobby donned the heavy pack once more. He had seven miles to go and not a
lot of daylight left. His uncertain future opened up before him as he broke
into a jog towards Dostero. Seven miles, maybe eight, judging by what was left
of the mile markers on the defunct highway.
* * * * *
Under the cover
of night Dostero was quite ordinary, but as Bobby watched it from afar the
morning light painted a different picture. Lush green pines dotted the top of
the volcanic mountain like hairs standing up on a tanned arm. Bits of
bright-white snow lingered along the peak tucked neatly in nests of dense
trees. Stretches of tall, swaying evergreens tapered off midway down the
mountain before stopping entirely at its base. In between the runs of trees,
like earthen veins, were rich, brown, and natural formations that seemed to drip
down the mountainside.
The beauty of it
reminded Bobby of the dense, sweet cake they used to make once a year on the
Settlement; ruddy earth like icing melting in every nook and cranny. Had he any
breath left from the run it would’ve been taken away by the stark randomness of
such a creation. Before, well . . . everything, the earth had coughed up its
inner fire, scorching the land, eradicating everything in its path. It left
nothing, though, Bobby knew that wasn’t exactly the case. He had been taught
about what had happened. Not here, but the concept of places like this. The
earth left the richness of its self, the essence at its core for the
future—much like Bobby’s mother had done for him. The minerals and Time, a
perfect marriage, made this sight of ancient ruin a fertile land of life that
thrived in the present.
Remnants of
houses skirted the mountain’s base, but the natural formations were slowly
reclaiming what was rightfully theirs, with one exception: the patchwork series
of railroad tracks bending around the mountain and into the distance like the
belt of an earthen god.
Bobby wanted to
run right to the tracks, however, experience dictated caution. He studied the
open areas for movement. He listened for anything that would alert him to
danger, and he also listened within—for
them.
Since leaving Ecky he’d
encountered only wildlife, a few birds, raccoons, and deer. But the dead, if
they were out there at all, remained silent. He waited for hours, watching the
empty windows of the houses, watching the road, until, at last, he was
satisfied nothing would spring on him. Slowly, Bobby advanced on the tracks.
Where were the
other survivors? Where was Ol’ Randy? Had he missed the train altogether? The
questions pestered him like buzzing mosquitoes, causing him to swat the
stinging doubt with optimism. However, the closer he got to the ghost town the
further away hope seemed to be. Just as he was about to collapse and give in he
heard it. Low at first, like thunder booming in a far off storm.
Chug-chug-pppssssshhh,
a
sound of slow effort, but it wasn’t the only thing he heard.
In the back of
his mind, vibrating at the base of his skull he heard the plea. It shook the
teeth in his head, set his eyes trembling, as if they were being boiled in
their sockets.
St-stop . . .
please . . . stop,
the
voice cried. Bobby dropped the CAR-15 as his hands pressed on his temples. This
wasn’t a subtle warning like the last time. His head was about to burst like a
sausage dropped in hot oil. He tried to hold on, to keep his brains safely
within his head, but each word sent his eyes rolling back.
Just kill me . .
. I didn’t ask for this . . . Terry just wanted some water. Kill me, please.
Just went to get water and then . . .
The voice stopped, as if trying to
remember what exactly it was talking about. Bobby gasped, thankful for the
reprieve. His stomach lurched as he tried to regain focus. Picking up the
CAR-15 he headed for the tracks.
No, stop that .
. .
bombs
ripped through the space between his ears.
In the middle of
the painful words the train’s steady movement powered on. Bobby focused on the
steady progress and the hiss of steam, matching his strides with it, as he
tried to block out the horrible cries. He imagined the steam sweeping over the
swelling of his brain, soothing it, shrinking it.
God why?
The voice
continued its pleas. Although this time Bobby administered a measure of control
through concentration. The more he focused on the sounds of the engine the
easier surviving the cries became, but all of that changed when he looked down
the tracks . . . down the tracks to Baylor’s train.
The train was
nothing like those he’d learned about from the Folks. It did not gleam of
brilliant silver like a knife cutting across the land, in fact, it didn’t gleam
at all, instead, it seemed to absorb all light like the hungry, yawning void of
oblivion. Baylor’s train was a thing of mismatched metals dirtied with use and
age. Sharp points jutted out at weird angles like some elongated porcupine, a
defensive shape that sent Bobby stumbling back. Everything about it was wrong,
a metal dragon of fables, resurrected in this dark age to stalk the countryside
once more, and the steam leaked like liquid fire from its sharp iron mouth.
It roared, a
high whine that sent steam ripping from the cage of its mouth, a dog’s rabid
froth, and trapped in that ragged maw was the owner of the voice in Bobby’s
head.
The upper torso
of a Creeper stuck out, arms waving, mouth agape, pleading for an end to the
torment. But the group of rough looking men standing on the platform above it
had not the capacity for mercy. They taunted the Creeper with words, and one of
the men sent a stream of piss onto its rotting head.
Bobby raised the
CAR-15 over his head, waving it back and forth.
The men
continued their taunting, oblivious to him.
Slow, slower
still, the train crawled towards him, but he remained unnoticed. Even shouting
did not draw their attention. Bobby fired a round into the sky.
That got their attention.
Weapons snapped up, searching for the source of the shot. The men ducked behind
panels of iron on the platform for cover.
“It’s a damn
kid!” one of them shouted.
“I don’t like
it, boss.”
“He looks dead
to me.”
“Shut the fuck
up, Hoss, you ever seen them hold a weapon like that?”
“Can you see me
now? Or do I have to waste another bullet to get your full attention,” Bobby
shouted.
The train was
closing slow, twenty yards away at most, but as slow as it moved, it was not
stopping. The dead man continued his pleading, arms waving wildly. What was
left of his lower half had been peeled away by the churning of gears. Stark
white bone bounced off the wooden beams that held the rails.
“Well, kid, if
you want a ride you better start running—cause we aren’t stopping. Hoss, ready
the crane." The voice shouted. Bobby could not identify its owner. All he
saw were the shapes of men moving about in hurried steps, quick actions that
spoke of repetition and familiarity. “We got a passenger up ahead. ALL ABOARD!
LAST CALL FOR DOSTERO! ALL ABOARD!”
Bobby looped the
CAR-15 over his shoulder his palms sweaty with anticipation. He didn’t know how
many men were on board, or what their intentions were. He knew only the stories
of winters’ past, and the assurances Ecky laid on him. And for a moment he felt
elated by the prospect of not being alone. However, he made sure to slip the
Auto Stryker from its sheath and slip it up his sleeve.
The Creeper
continued its assault on his mind, but there was nothing he could do for it, at
least, not yet. A long metallic arm swung out over the train’s side with a
groaning screech. A rope ladder dangled from it.
“Get ready, kid,
and I hope you brought something we need . . . otherwise we’ll kick your ass
right on off this train. ALL ABOARD!”
Bobby’s heart
thudding with what might be, he reached for the ladder.
“He looks like
he’s going to hurl,” Hoss said with a cheer. The man’s features were far too
small for his flat face. Eyes set close and perched atop a crooked nose that
had seen many a drunken fist, along with his small, yet big mouth told Bobby
the whole story: a wiseass kid trapped in the burly body of a man, an idiot
with muscles. An unkempt beard speckled with red and brown and dried bits of
animal fat rounded out that disgusting face. “Where’s your ticket, kid?” Hoss
said, holding out his hand.
Bobby hated him
already.
The motion of
the train had him vomiting up half-digested pieces of rancid meat. Hoss aside,
Bobby’s first impression of the train was the soot covered floor and the boots
of five men, and one woman. At least, he thought it was a woman.
“Let the kid be,
Hoss, fucking weirdest damn thing we’ve seen since Kentucky.”
“Can’t be more
than a day over ten or eleven,” a rough female voice added. “Suppose it’s a
miracle in this day and age.”
“Some nice guns
he has. I could use a new hunting rifle. Not much for that CAR though, never
really liked that action,” Hoss said greedily.
“You think he’s
that old? Shit, Jamie, probably don’t even have hair on his nuts. And one look
at you, and whatever little nuts he has will go screaming for the safety of his
stomach like a turtle finding the safety of his shell.”
The men howled
with laughter.
“You weren’t the
turtle last night, Baylor, if I recall rightly you said, ‘Oh, Jamie, my god . .
. I love you!’ Ring a bell?”
Help . . . help
me . . . someone please. . . .
Bobby’s head
rocked heavily, as if his neck had become the thick chain of a morning star in
mid-swing. Their stares burned into his back like hot blades. He breathed deep,
wiped the spittle from his mouth and stood.
“I’m fourteen,”
he said, shifting nervously.
The group of
faces put every gruff veteran of the Settlement to shame. Even Ol’ Randy,
though, he hated to admit that. They were the strangest group of people he’d
ever laid eyes on, and none stranger than the man in the odd purple coat that
stood at the center of the group, pointing the barrel of a heavy caliber
handgun at him.
Bobby went to
lift the CAR-15.
“Uh-uh, kid, I wouldn’t
do that if I were you. You’re on my ship now. It wouldn’t be wise to go
pointing guns at people. But if it’ll make you feel comfortable go ahead and
point it at Hoss over there,” the man in the purple coat laughed.
“Boss, what the
fuck?”
Bobby obliged,
though, he kept his finger well off the trigger. It was all show. They were
testing him. He had to tread carefully if he wanted answers.
“I like this kid
. . . he’s got balls.”
“Yeah, and I’ll
cut
’em
off for pointing that gun at me.”
“Hoss, can it will
ya?" The man in purple coat laughed uncontrollably, a wild, mad cackle
like a beast with a sick mind. Bobby expected the man’s mouth to drop open to
reveal a bloody maw of fangs and froth. He didn’t have to guess. This was
Baylor. The man Ecky had called the Mad Conductor.
The purple coat
was not the strangest thing, in fact, it was quite normal when compared to the
rest of the package. Baylor’s skin held a smooth ebony sheen, a mixture of
sweat, soot and its own rich brown hue. His big, dark eyes looked as if they
were held in perpetual fright. He dabbled at his bald head with a pink kerchief
that he quickly returned to his breast pocket. A well kept beard, braided to a
point, accentuated a broad and powerful jaw. Just above the left pocket of his
purple coat were four rabbits’ feet in garish colors: flaming pink, neon blue,
fluorescent yellow, bright green. Scattered around the rest of the purple coat
were pins with strange faces, drawings, and medals, but whose origins Bobby
could only guess. Capping off the oddity whom people called the Mad Conductor,
a pair of black and white checkered-patterned pants.
If it wasn’t for
the gun Bobby would’ve laughed at the absurdity of the man.
“Now you’ve gone
and frightened him, Baylor.”
“Jamie, this kid
is a lot of things, but he isn’t scared. Are you, kid?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir? Bwahaha!”
Baylor roared. He let the gun dip momentarily but never took it off Bobby. “You
see—you lousy bunch of vagrants that’s how you treat your captain. I told you I
like this kid." Baylor leaned in close to Bobby and sniffed. “I smell
fresh blood on you, kid.” His wide eyes seemed to block out everything.