by Unknown
“Forty.”
“No.”
“Thirty-five?”
“I said no.”
Morton slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the shot glasses and mug, sloshing alcohol onto the table. I stifled a laugh as his fat little face turned bright red.
“Thirty,” he said. “Final bid.”
My laughter died. Morton seldom went below forty percent of the haul, but could be talked into thirty-five if the take was big enough. To go to thirty, even if he planned to come up with a way to swindle you out of the whole thing in the end, was unheard of.
Morton was a slime bag, and his efforts to cheat runners of their findings usually never worked, but he was good at getting the big jobs. If he was willing to go to thirty percent, there was something behind the stories.
I lowered my feet and sat up slowly. Morton gloated.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “Meet me in an hour. We go by airship.”
* * *
Morton’s hired airship was smaller in size than most and easily crewed by about forty men as opposed to the larger ships that needed a hundred. It was a cargo ship, built for travel and, as Morton proudly hinted, smuggling fine goods into the country from France and Spain. It was well into the night by the time I reached the docks and boarded, not two hours before the strike of midnight, according to my pocket watch. We’d been sailing for an hour, and I was already wondering if the money was worth the salvage.
“This will make us both wealthy men,” Morton said, approaching me with a drunken swagger, his breath reeking with the sweet licorice stench of absinthe.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“Always,” Morton said, smiling.
“That shit will rot your brain.”
“Or make me do something I’ll regret?”
I fought back the urge to throw him overboard. He’d struck a nerve.
I’d wait until after I had my cut.
I wrapped my long coat tighter against the cold and swallowed bile. I was about to speak when the lookout perched on top of the dirigible shouted something about the wreckage being a mile away.
The captain gave an order to kill the engines and come to a stop. Morton turned and stormed towards the captain’s helm.
“Belay that order!” he slurred, angrily. “We paid you to take us to the Angel. She’s still a mile off!”
“I’ll go no further, ya’ drunken braggart,” the captain said, not hiding his disgust with Morton. “Ye paid me to take you as far as I would take ye.” The large black man pulled his goggles off and tipped his top hat to Morton. He smiled at the fat man under his large bushy goatee. “I do care about the lives of me crew, good sir. I’ll not bring a curse upon my ship or my men.”
“Stow that nonsense in your hold, Captain,” Morton spat. I moved away from the rail. “Ghosts. Hah! What a load of—”
I grabbed Morton and yanked him around to face me.
“You’re going to get us thrown off the ship,” I said. “Then you get to come get dirty with me. I’d advise you keep your drunken mouth shut.”
Morton’s eyes were wide, glazed over from the drink. He nodded understanding. I let him go and turned to the captain.
“Apologies, Captain,” I said. “Lower enough for me to disembark, and I’ll walk from here.”
“Aye,” the captain said, nodding at me. “That I can do, my lad. That I can do.” He barked another order to his men. They hit the lines and turned valves, releasing some of the pressure in the gasbag. The airship lowered slowly, the captain maneuvering deftly between thick trees. A couple of crewmen tossed a rope ladder over the side.
I slung my satchel over my shoulders, checked the goggles around my neck, and readied the rounds in my revolver. The small gears in the gun needed some oil, but they would do for the night. It could wait.
The captain approached me as I climbed the railing and stepped onto the rope ladder. He held his hand out, a brass compass sitting in his large palm.
“Keep to the north,” he said. “Be sure the needle always points to the moon. Deviate and ye’ll lose your way in the dark.”
I nodded and reached for the compass. He held fast to the instrument as I grabbed it and leaned in closer to me.
“It’ll be a piece of trash once you get to the train, lad,” he said, his voice low. “Trust it not, lest yer soul be of little worth.”
* * *
I wasn’t far from the airship before the gas-lit floods on the hull weren’t enough to see by. I lit a small gas lamp and prayed it wouldn’t run out before I reached the Angel. The woods were black, the only visibility being the tiny area that fell within the blue light from the lamp as I walked on. I checked the compass, making sure the needle was pointed at the full moon symbol to the north. The sun was south, and a half moon and a half sun represented east and west. The air was cold, dense, hard to breathe, as I made my way through the thick mass of trees. Everything was dry, the plants beginning to show the telltale signs of winter approaching, as the cold air began to bite through my clothing.
My skin began to crawl a little, my senses sharpening as I looked around the area, trying to catch whoever was watching me. Something moved in the shadows at the corner of my sight, but there was no sound of rustling leaves and breaking sticks. I sensed something was behind me, and my heart began to beat slightly harder as I stole a glance over my shoulder. Nothing.
I sighed, rolling my eyes. I was letting Morton and the captain’s talk of ghosts get to me.
Stupid.
I plodded on as snow began to fall. Dammit, I’d figured it would happen. Any ambient sound I originally thought I could hear was swallowed by the silent white as the snowfall began to thicken and coat the woods and ground around me. My gaslight burned strong, the protective metal cage around the glass almost too warm, and I forced myself to turn it down a little to conserve fuel. Soon the trees gave way and I was in a clearing. Something large and dark lay in front of me, a wall blocking my path, tall and ominous.
Damn. I knew I was close to the mountains—rock walls would be common. I supposed I would have to turn back and strong-arm the captain to fly me beyond the wall.
I moved closer to see if there was a way to climb over it before taking my chances with the captain. I held up the gas lamp, looking closer at the face of the wall, and felt my breath release in a large, impressed sigh.
There was no rock. No handholds. Only the metal side of a coal-burning steam engine, large and threatening in the dark as snow piled up on the tracks and around her wheels. The smell of oil and rust was heavy in the air. Her iron was black and scarred, the back end off to the side where the other cars had derailed and jerked her rear off the tracks. The conductor’s car was a twisted wreck, high above the ground to look over the full twenty feet she stood to the top of her three stacks. The round engine was cracked open, her gears and rotors rusted and bent.
The Angel Express loomed over me in the night, terrifying and derelict.
I walked down the side of her, looking down every now and then at the snow-covered ground to watch my footing. A few disassembled parts lay here and there, and there were small piles of coal from where the large coal car had tipped over. I moved past them and on to the dining car, where the fire had started.
The car was a pile of charred wood and metal, nothing much left but the wheels. The fire had continued on, burning down through the passenger cars. Beds and bunks were burned and broken, a few skeletons here and there from people who’d been sleeping when the accident happened, possibly drifters who’d snuck onboard and stowed away for the trip. One hundred and thirty-two official passengers on her maiden voyage, twenty crew, including the conductor.
And all of the ticketed passengers insanely rich. Morton might’ve actually found something big for once.
I picked up my pace as I passed more passenger cars. The cargo car was ahead, still intact and on the rails. The fire had to have died down by the time it reached that far. I slowed only
when I was close enough to read the words scratched into the paint.
“‘Not yours,’” I read, chuckling. “Now that’s rich.”
I turned and looked back down the rest of the train. Something was off. I’d seen derailed trains before. It was always a mess, cars and debris everywhere. The Angel was off the rails in places, but she wasn’t scattered. In fact, it was the neatest derailed train I’d ever seen, other than the burned cars and tipped coal cart.
An alarm went off in my mind. I half-ignored it. It was better to go in a little on edge, anyway, but I wasn’t turning back until I had laid claim on the salvage. Then it was back to the airship to call in my collections crew and haul everything off. I’d need an airship captain willing to come closer than a mile away.
The door to the cargo car was partially open. I reached into my backpack. My crowbar would do. I set the gas lamp down, put the crowbar in the opening, and yanked. The door slid a few more inches with a loud scraping sound. The snow picked up, and it was getting colder and harder to see. I picked up the gas lamp and set it inside the opening, then climbed aboard, and out of the weather.
The inside of the car was darker than outside, and it seemed like the dark was pushing against the blue glow of the gas lamp. The air from outside was getting colder. I slid the door shut to block the wind. It didn’t help much since the door wouldn’t shut all the way, but it was enough to take the edge off a little. The door was still open by about a foot, but it was better than nothing. I shook snow off my shoulders and startled at the sound of something shuffling at the far end of the car. I held up the gas lamp, pulling my revolver.
“Who’s there?” I said into the dark.
Nothing.
I sighed and holstered my weapon. I needed to hurry up. The place was already working on me.
The stillness was oppressive. I held up the gas lamp and looked over the tumbled suitcases and crates that were probably once piled up neatly along the back walls of the car. Some of them had come open during the wreck. Clothing, mostly. Nothing impressive. I pulled off one of my gloves and picked up what turned out to be a small dress. Silk and lace. Would probably fetch a few hundred at the underground. It wasn’t that dirty, and not ripped. Good. I put it back down and started to pilfer through the rest of the suitcases.
My skin began to crawl as the sound of fingernails on steel scratched down the wall at the far end of the car. I was on my feet at once, my gas lamp up, but it was too dark to see. I moved forward slowly, drawing my revolver again.
“You’re trespassing,” I said into the dark. “By Salvage Union policy, this train is mine. Leave now, and there won’t be trouble.”
Something shifted in the dark, barely visible as I got closer to the wall. The shape had its back to me, long wavy hair in tangles down its back. It shook its head slowly as I moved closer to it.
Her.
The girl looked young, maybe eleven or twelve. She was in a charred nightgown with flowers stitched into it. She reached up and ran her fingernails down the metal wall again, slowly, her arm twitching as if the motion was painful. Her skin was also burned. She moved her head slowly, as if to look at me over her shoulder, but her hair covered her face except for a few features. Or what was left of them.
I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat as the temperature dropped even lower. I could smell burning wood and ash mixed with the sickening stench of scorching meat. I lowered the gun and held the back of my hand to my nose as the smell got stronger, thick in my nose and mouth.
The girl turned the rest of her body, pulling her fingernails the rest of the way down the wall as she faced me. Her nose was missing, burned away—along with one of her cheeks and her lips. She’d lost an eye, and the other glowed like a blue gaslight as she took a step towards me. The parts of her skin that weren’t blackened were a light olive tone. The cold went right through me, chilling me from the inside out.
“I’m too hot,” she said, her voice seeming to come from inside my head. “Mommy, I’m too hot.” She took a step towards me, and I pointed the revolver at her again, smell be damned.
“Stay back,” I said, aiming at her forehead. I took an automatic step backwards and slipped. I was on my back instantly, the gun out of my hand, the gas lamp a few feet away from me. I tried to get to my feet, but the girl stood over me, looking down.
“Who is this man? Is he a bad man?” she asked as she lunged down, putting her face close to mine. I rolled away and jumped to my feet, turning with my hands out to keep her back.
Nothing. I was alone.
“What the hell?” I breathed.
I searched the car with my eyes. No trace. I saw the small box I’d tripped over, my revolver on the floor near it, the gas lamp a few feet away, its light fading. I picked it up quickly and set it upright. The light grew only slightly brighter.
I needed to hurry before it ran out. I wouldn’t make it back to the airship in the dark, and I sure as hell wasn’t thrilled about the idea of sleeping inside the train car.
I shook my head. It was the cold getting to me. That was all. Maybe Morton had slipped some absinthe into my drink at the bar. He knew I hated it, but he was also a bit of a prankster at times. I made a note to relieve him of a couple of molars later.
I looked around at the cargo. Nothing immediately visible. Nothing of real value, anyway. What the hell was Morton thinking he’d find? The Angel had wrecked over a year ago. If there’d been something of huge value, it would’ve been taken by now.
The car lurched under my feet. The sound of a steam engine chugged outside, loud and rhythmic. The floor vibrated as the wheels began to turn.
My mind spun. It wasn’t possible. The train was off the rails. The cars were hollowed out, burned away. She couldn’t move.
I went to the door as the car lurched again, the forward motion unmistakable. The train sped up, the pace not normal. I ran to the door and looked out to see the snow blazing by me at an angle as the train gathered speed. The ground was going by too fast. I couldn’t jump. I backed away from the door and turned, tried to make it all make sense in my confused mind. I looked up and stopped short.
Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed. I stepped away from the door, the floor vibrating under my feet. I rushed to the end of the car, looked through the window in the access door that had once led to the first passenger car. The snow was heavy, falling fast and thick, obscuring my view to the point where I could barely make out the wreckage of the next car. Nothing was moving. Snow piled on the tracks and the wheels and axels that lay strewn haphazardly across the rails.
The car moved again, the vibrations coming harder. The force jarred the door, and it slammed shut. I held on instinctively, as I felt my weight shift. The long, low moan of the steam engine up front sounded in the night, the horn loud but weak from carnage and fire followed by the stone-cold silence of the snow-covered woods.
I slumped against the wall, rubbed my sore neck and shoulder. I removed the satchel from my back, but still felt weight. Must’ve pulled something, I thought.
I sat there for a moment, letting my heart calm down, letting my mind process what’d just happened. The cold was worse, the ice and wind outside turning the train car into an icebox. I didn’t have long. I needed to get out of here before I froze to death. I glanced at the pile of cargo again and saw a small wooden box perched neatly on top of a large crate.
One quick look. I had to leave with something. I sat the gaslight down and opened the box.
A small clockwork canary lay inside the red velvet interior. Its tiny eyes were lenses, not all that much different from my goggles, and the wings were detailed with etched feathers. The gold body was pieced together with the breast open, the tiny cogs and gears inside exposed. The beak was silver, also carved to perfection.
Easily worth a few thousand. Easily.
I reached for it, my open sack in my other hand. Something clicked inside the thing, and the small gears began to turn inside the little body with a
faint whirring sound. The wings flapped slowly as the eyes began to glow like tiny blue gaslights. A small puff of steam blew out the carved nostrils on the beak, and the head turned as it looked at me and gave a weak, metallic whistle. The sound was almost offensive in the silence of the car.
I stood straight, smiling. A working clockwork bird.
“Looks like Morton wasn’t completely off,” I said, almost forgetting about the ghost and the moving train. Time to take my proof of salvage and get the hell out.
A light whisper sounded in my ear. I stopped, looking hard at the bird. Had it said something? I leaned in closer.
“Not…yours…” it whispered, its voice harsh and canned.
I backed away as the little thing began to speed up, its wings flapping faster as the head turned back and forth. It whistled again, louder, as it wiggled and moved inside the box. I heard something else move on the other side of the pile of cargo. I reached down, picked up my gas lamp, and held it up to the pile.
The girl stared back at me from the other side of the luggage. Her eye flashed, but she regarded me as if she were an innocent child. Her face was still a mess as she tilted her head to the side, the burned flesh stretching.
“Bad man,” she muttered. “My bird.”
She moved away, disappearing behind a crate. I stepped forward, trying to follow her. A few suitcases and small crates fell over and blocked my way. I climbed over them and reached the crate where she had stood.
She was gone.
The whirring from the bird grew louder, the small whine starting to make my ears uncomfortable. I climbed back over the pile, reached the small box, and shut the lid over top of the bird. The sound stopped instantly, the silence returning like a dull roar in my ears.
“Time to go,” I said. I put the box in my sack and pulled out a small metal plate that had my name etched into it. I set my lamp down on the floor, pulled out my hand-riveter, and shot the plate to the wall. Claimed.
Satisfied, I went to the sliding door and threw the lever. Time to leave.