A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  He pushed up on an elbow and looked back at the station. A wall of fire stood in place of the pump. The car beside it was a heap of burning twisted metal. Several of the men lay sprawled against the asphalt.

  There was no sign of the man with the rifle.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SITTING UP ON his knees, Cross felt a pinch at his left shoulder blade. He winced and rubbed his fingers over the area. A finger slipped through a hole in his dress shirt, and he recognized the familiar mixture of blood and exposed muscle.

  That monster had actually shot him.

  A graze, not unlike a handful of other wounds Cross had sustained in the field. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Through the crackle of the burning gas pump, he made out the faint sound of a police siren.

  His eyes snapped open. He couldn’t be here when the police arrived. There would be too many questions. He pushed himself up and surveyed the wreckage.

  The hulking man who had fired at Cross sprinted straight for him, the rifle left behind somewhere. Black ash covered the man’s face, arms, and clothes. The whites of his eyes reflected the glow of the fire and intensified the snarl cutting across his visage.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cross muttered under his breath. He turned and ran for the trees. The sizzle of the blaze spreading through the filling station grew faint. The wail of emergency vehicles overpowered all other sounds.

  He crossed the border of the tree line and picked up speed. The ringing in his ears subsided. Cross focused on the trail ahead until even the sirens were a whisper. One wrong step and he would lose his footing to a rut in the ground or an exposed root.

  The crunch of underbrush.

  Controlled breathing.

  Another set of footfalls.

  Cross parsed the ambient noise in his ear and pinpointed the sound of his pursuer. Each step through the forest louder than the last. The monster was gaining.

  Another sonic boom shifted his concentration. Did another pump fail? Was the entire station leveled?

  No, not an explosion.

  A train.

  Cross strained his eyes to see through the trees and spotted the telltale break the railway left in the landscape. A faint glow speared the darkness across the track, and a second roar of the train’s horn shook the surrounding tree trunks.

  The air swirled as Cross approached the track. The locomotive came bearing down. The power of its bulk pressed against the vegetation on either side. Trees, bushes, even blades of grass hid their faces from its terrible path.

  Cross emerged from the forest as the engine flew by on a northbound heading. Each freight car passed in a blur, and though the weight of its cargo meant the train couldn’t be traveling more than thirty-five to forty miles per hour, it resembled a rocket skimming the surface of the earth, looking for a target to eliminate.

  Cross ran as fast as he could alongside the track. The motion of the train slowed by half, though his odds had not improved by much.

  He suspected the man chasing him was out of the trees and ready to follow, but chose not to steal a glance behind to confirm and risk losing speed. Instead, Cross maintained focus on each successive freight car as it passed.

  By fortune the train slowed, perhaps in reaction to an intersection with a road ahead. Or was it divine intervention again? Either way, he took the chance. As a boxcar passed, he jumped and grabbed the rungs of a ladder fastened against its side.

  His legs swung inches above the stream of gravel flowing beneath the carriage. He hoisted himself to the next rung and wrapped a foot around one of the ladder’s side rails. Squeezing his body against the side of the freight car, he paused for a respite. He took a deep breath, then looked back down the length of the train and spotted the other man leaping for a ladder three boxcars down.

  The man slipped off the first rung but caught the second. His feet bounced against the ground. Gravel threatened to wrench him free and claim his body. With inhuman strength, he heaved himself to the top of the ladder one handed.

  Cross groaned. Couldn’t it ever be easy? He bounded up his own ladder and onto the roof of the freight car. He stood and looked behind him as wind pummeled his back. The man stood on top of his boxcar and glared. Cross detected a clenched jaw and indignation in the man’s eyes in spite of the dark distance between them.

  Cross studied as much of his opponent as the brief moment allowed. He was big, unnaturally so, and wearing dark stained cargo pants with the leather jacket. Tiny pricks of hair yearning to grow long again obscured the shine you might expect from the man’s bald head. Hard muscle bulged beneath his jacket arms, though a knife or small handgun could still be hidden in any number of discreet areas.

  The train whizzed across a bridge, and the landscape opened to display all eight lanes of Interstate 295 bathed in a blue shade of moonlight. The train slowed to a crawl, traffic froze, and the moon doubled in size as Cross evaluated the possible escape scenarios.

  Or battle.

  Darkness swallowed them as swaths of tree leaves and branches blocked the moon. Cross ran and took a flying leap from the rear of the freight car. The man jumped as well and landed in step on the opposite carriage. Neither diverted their gaze as they ran full speed toward each other.

  Cross was convinced he could take the man in a fair fight, his speed an adequate match to the man’s size. But he had a personal opinion that Mao Zedong was wrong.

  A shrewd defense was the best defense.

  The distance to the gap in the two boxcars closed at a rapid pace. The other man lowered his head, likely in preparation to gain first strike in a flying leap. Cross mirrored the move to sell his intent.

  The man’s boot slapped against the edge of the carriage and pushed away. He sailed into the air, the force of his jump intensified by the forward momentum of the train, and stretched out his arms like giant cat claws. A fierce war cry escaped his mouth.

  Cross let his own feet slip out from under him and fell on his back against the roof of the train car. His momentum carried him off the edge, and he slipped between the two boxcars and landed on the coupling. He looked up and witnessed the man’s feet disappear from view as he surely tumbled across the roof empty handed and stunned.

  Cross shifted his weight, pushed off the coupling, and grabbed the edge of the opposite car. With brute force, he launched his body up and over the edge. He rolled to stop on his hands and knees and looked back at the car he had just vacated.

  Already on his feet and fueled by rage, the other man charged again. Cross took off across the roof and scanned the carriages ahead for any sign of his next move. The train carried only goods and was devoid of human activity. Bulk commodities were his only allies.

  He jumped to another boxcar and kept running. In the moonlight, he glimpsed a bulkhead flatcar with a load of downed tree trunks. Treacherous footing would mean a loss in pace.

  But it could also mean an advantage.

  Cross glanced over his shoulder to spy the man leaping onto the same boxcar. The window of opportunity was tight. Increasing his speed, Cross jumped from the boxcar to the top of the log stack.

  His foot slipped on the volatile surface area. He crashed against the trunk and pinned his bad shoulder under his own weight. He swallowed a cry of pain and forced his eyes to remain wide open.

  Jumping to his feet, he picked his way across the top of the wood with the care of a high-wire artist and brainstormed another plan. Two thick straps bound the logs to the flatcar. Two metal bars at either end of the car provided an additional layer of security. An idea formed. The strap would be easy.

  The metal bar not as much.

  Two steps from the end of the stack of logs, his foot slipped again, this time by design. Cross twisted his body against the trunks and grabbed hold of the taut strap. He rode the strap to the bottom of the flatcar. His shoes planted firm against the metal flooring.

  He found the ratchet at the base of the strap and released the mechanism. The rocking of the train
shifted the logs toward him a scant inch as the opposite strap held firm and the metal brace performed its solitary function.

  Cross glanced back to judge his timing and saw a bend in the track ahead as well as the man leaping from the boxcar to the top of the logs. Time was running out. Grabbing the metal bar, Cross swung himself around and searched for the release lever.

  The man kept his balance against the trunks as he ran.

  Cross found the lever and kicked it as hard as he could. Nothing.

  The man was halfway there. The bend in the track closed in.

  Cross kicked again, harder, but the lever refused to budge.

  The man was on top of him now, the boxcar ahead taking the turn.

  Cross brought the full force of his weight down on the lever. It broke free. The metal bar fell away just as the flatcar rounded the bend. It tilted, and the free end of the logs rolled off the edge of the car.

  Cross leapt to the bulkhead and out of the path of the crashing tree trunks. He looked up to see the man flailing as the logs disappeared beneath his feet. A trunk slipped off the flatcar and impaled the soil.

  The force of the moving train against the solid earth ripped the log in two. Splinters rained around them, and the remaining logs tumbled about in a chaotic attempt to find rest.

  Cross heard the man cry out and saw him slip between two logs, his torso pinned by the weight pressing against him. Cross had gained his advantage.

  A tank car was next in the freight line. Cross jumped across and scaled a ladder to the top. He turned back to survey the damage.

  The logs couldn’t settle, and to his disappointment they shifted again, freeing the man. Propelled by sheer adrenaline, the man leapt across the moving tree trunks and headed straight for the tank car.

  Cross took off again. Who was this guy? No man had that kind of stamina. His hunter must be a government experiment turned super solider. Cross realized a shrewd defense against the man was futile. Which left him only one other option.

  As he jumped from the tank car to the next boxcar, Cross slowed his pace. He looked back and took measure of the distance between them. He needed to ensure the timing of the confrontation if he had any chance of taking the man by surprise.

  A hopper was next. He jumped to it and slowed again. A last glance gave him the information he needed, and he shortened his stride once more before his leap to the proceeding car.

  The thud of boots alerted him to the man’s proximity. Halfway across the car, he dug his heels and rotated his body. With his head lowered, Cross tackled the man around the waist. They crashed against the metal roof. The man bellowed in pain as Cross pressed his weight down on top of him.

  The man thrashed against Cross’s embrace. Slick blood smeared across his abdomen, an injury from the logs no doubt, made holding him still difficult. Cross shifted his weight to one side. The man rotated his body to try to break free. Digging a knee into the man’s back, Cross shifted an arm up and around his neck.

  He stood and pulled the man to his knees. He braced his choke-hold with his other arm and pressed his bicep into the man’s throat. The man dug his fingernails into Cross’s arm, his mouth open in an inaudible gasp for air. Four more seconds and the man would be lying unconscious on the roof of the boxcar.

  Three.

  Two.

  The man grabbed Cross’s bad shoulder and pinched down. Cross cried out, and his chokehold relaxed. His opponent pushed off the roof of the train car and used his back to lift Cross into the air.

  Cross flew over the man and landed hard on his stomach against the metal, sliding at a high rate to the edge of the boxcar. He clawed at the tin in a frantic attempt to halt his momentum, but the boxcar refused to help.

  The roof disappeared beneath him as he plummeted toward darkness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CROSS STARED WITH open eyes as the ground welcomed his death with open arms. So this was how he’d go out. Useless, his hands spread before him. They’d offer no salvation.

  Tentacles wrapped around his ankle, his freefall jerked to a stop, and his body collided with the boxcar. He grabbed for anything that would help him back on. He saw the handle to the door of the boxcar within reach and thrust his hand toward it. Too late. The handle slipped away as he was pulled back onto the car’s roof.

  Cross twisted onto his back and saw the big man holding his foot. A fog fell over his brain as he failed to comprehend the reason for his deliverance. The big man still looked ready to rip Cross’s limbs clean from his body.

  With his other hand, the man grabbed Cross by his shirt collar and pulled his torso close. Releasing Cross’s foot, the man balled his fist and punched Cross in the jaw.

  Cross took two more blows to the face before he could react. The man’s fist hurtled toward him for a fourth time, but this time Cross caught it against his open palm. He twisted, and the man cried out as a ligament in his elbow snapped.

  The man lifted Cross from the roof and threw him across its length. Cross rolled to his feet and met the man charging him again. Fists and knees exchanged blows; neither fighter wavered.

  Cross aimed his most aggressive strikes at the man’s lower stomach underneath his weakened elbow. He found a wide opening and shoved his kneecap into the spot. The man grunted in pain and fell backward.

  Cross jumped on the man, pinned his good arm with a foot, and punched him across his nose. The man’s body relaxed, but he managed to remain conscious.

  “Who are you?” Cross shouted above the rushing wind.

  The man babbled broken sentences in a different language, but Cross couldn’t pick out a recognizable word.

  “Slow down,” he said. “I can’t understand you.” The language sounded familiar, and though he could recognize major dialects, this particular one remained foreign. “Why did you save me? Who sent you?” The questions proved pointless as the man spouted more intelligible words.

  Suddenly, a word stood out among the others. He’d heard it before. What did the man say? Kalin? Caleen? It sounded Haitian, possibly Romanian. No, the man had Western Asia features. Cross focused his mind on the region, marking off country after country until …

  “Kadin.” That was the word. A Turkish word. It meant …

  Rage filled his heart, the beast buried long ago reaching forth from its emotional grave. His eyebrows tightened and nostrils flared. Cross clenched the leather jacket in his fists and pulled the man closer as his lips parted and he bared his teeth.

  “What do you want with her?” Cross demanded.

  “Kadin.” The woman. The man continued with a furious string of unfamiliar words followed by another Cross recognized all too well: “ölecek.”

  Die.

  The anger seized Cross by the throat, and he yelled, “No!” The temptation to heave the man from the roof and throw him from the train consumed him. Something hard impacted his chest. All the air escaped his lungs.

  The man’s body tensed underneath him, and a leg slipped between them. A quick shove sent Cross sprawling. Still on his back, Cross looked up expecting to see the sole of a boot aimed at his nose.

  Instead, the man stood near the edge of the boxcar, an arm wrapped gingerly around his waist. The blood from his earlier injury spread in a wider circumference, and the moonlight highlighted the sudden pallor of his skin. His chest struggled to expand with each heavy draw of breath.

  The man’s head turned and stared ahead. Cross followed his gaze and saw a short break in the trees, the gap spanned by a bridge.

  The man looked back at Cross and emitted a sputter of laughter. “You may have won this time,” he said in English, “but I know where she is. See you soon.” He spun and jumped from the train as it passed over the bridge.

  Cross stood and ran to the edge of the boxcar in time to see the man treading water in a shallow river below the bridge before more trees obscured his view.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed Cross, and he dropped to his knees before falling backward, prostrate against
the roof of the boxcar. He watched the countless stars set in motion at the beginning of time.

  His heavy eyelids slid shut as the last ounce of adrenaline drained, and he slipped out of consciousness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A SUDDEN JOLT woke Cross from his slumber. He opened his eyes and noticed the stars were invisible in the warm glow of artificial light filling the sky. The boxcar beneath him no longer rocked to and fro.

  In the stillness, he heard a distant voice. Then another. Now some footsteps against gravel. Cross strained his ears to perceive the words, expecting to hear Turkish, convinced his assailants had tracked him.

  Not Turkish. English. The crass kind. The words reminded him of his own pre-conversion vocabulary. In his new life, he preferred abstaining from such language as much as possible.

  The conversation grew in strength.

  “I get the bar failure, but the strap?”

  “I don’t know, Jerry. Some clown probably didn’t bother securing the ratchet, and it just worked itself loose.”

  The train had reached its destination while he was unconscious. Cross slowly edged his body away from the side where the conversation was taking place. He felt along the roof of the boxcar until his fingers touched air.

  Gripping the edge of the car, Cross slid his legs over the side and hung against the cold metal. The rumble of an approaching truck disguised the exchange on the opposite side of the train. Cross waited until the truck passed behind the train, then released his hold on the boxcar and dropped to the gravel.

  The car blocked his view into the train yard on his left. Two more tracks lay on the right, followed by a service road and a line of trees. Cross sprinted across the two open tracks and the service road. He hit the forest and pressed his body against a wide tree trunk. He stole a glance around the tree but saw no alarm raised. He drew a few deep breaths, then rotated his wrist until he could read his watch by the moonlight.

  One o’clock. Four hours since he fell asleep.

  Cross kicked the tree and shook his head. Without knowing the speed of the train, other stops, or how long it had sat in the yard, there would be no way he could measure the distance he had just traveled.