On Time

by Paul Kozerski

  Jim raised puffy eyes to the odd silence.

  “Sure is quiet out there.”

  “Too quiet,” Ulees agreed. “Like just ‘afore a real bad storm. Ain’t seen but one other train go by since we got here and that was just an engine, headed east.”

  “Probably my dad,” said Jim. “His crew is working the clean-out at Rahl.”

  The other man turned and locked.

  “That weedy place, just off the viaduct curve?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ulees stiffened and swung back to the door.

  “Listen! You hear that?”

  Jim strained beyond the ragged thumping of his hung­over temples.

  “No. What?”

  “A steamer whistle blowin’. Long and hard, like from one in real trouble.”

  “I don’t hear . . .”

  Ulees flung open the caboose door and jumped outside. Clenching its wet handrail, he went up on his toes, confirming something still beyond Jim’s senses.

  “Come on!” He yelled, jumping free. “Joe’s in trouble!”

  Jim squirmed out from under the soiled canvas and clambered to swaying feet.

  “My dad? How?”

  “I just know. Come on!”

  Then Ulees was off. Powerful strides drove him through the belligerent fog while Jim scampered feebly after.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Roundhouse! Gotta get us somethin’ to help out your pa!”

  The only thing even resembling a useable locomotive was the weary saddle-tanker. Still straddling the ash pit, the last of its dying fire was nearly gone.

  Ulees shot out a hand.

  “THERE! Can you run that?”

  Jim squinted at the man’s prattling.

  “Why?”

  “Like I said! To get to your pa!”

  “We can’t just take an engine. And go where?”

  “CAN YOU RUN IT!”

  The young man didn’t argue further.

  “I s’pose. But, it doesn’t look the best.”

  “Then you get aboard and make her right. No time for more!”

  Jim drove himself beyond the jarring tempo in his head and mounted the tiny machine. He kicked open the firebox doors and rubbed a clenched fist against its filthy water glass. Only a shriveled bed of coals and barely measurable liquid level remained.

  Ulees hiked up behind.

  “She still holden’ fire-n-water?”

  Jim’s prognosis was bleak.

  “Yeah. But not much of either.”

  The big man pointed toward the caboose repair track. Beyond, was a mountainous heap of dry-rotted boards, torn from the old crummies.

  “If we stoke her with that thin wood, will she steam-up fast?”

  “Maybe. But, also burn through it pretty fast. And its water’s got to be borderline. I don’t know how long it might hold a full head of steam. Or, even blow up.”

  “A chance we gotta take,” Ulees declared. “‘Asides, we don’t need much. Just enough to get us a mile or so down that line.”

  Jim squinted beyond his headache, asking again.

  “And do what once we get there?”

  But again, Ulees was off without reply. He lunged his powerful arms deep into the litter of castoff planks, bear-hugging a first load free. Splinters and rusted nails dug at his flesh. Yet he ignored all, racing back to the tiny, old engine.

  “There! Toss that in, for starters! I’ll get us more! And I seen some old tires over there. I’ll get them, too.”

  Jim did as ordered. The remnant fire awoke and grew with its new fuel. A sluggish twist of bitter smoke appeared in the old switcher’s stack. Thin feathers of new steam toyed about the loose and tired plumbing. Even so, he couldn’t forget that its water was marginal.

  Sunday Guzmán appeared and nearly collided with Ulees in the fog. He rocked to a dumb stop as the bigger man scampered by, some bald tires slung over a shoulder and case of red signal flares under arm.

  “Ulees?”

  The spare hand ignored Sunday, heaving his odd fuel mix aboard the locomotive and calling to Jim.

  “That’s alls we got time for. I’ll make the switch and you start her down the line.”

  Jim gestured to the boiler in protest.

  “It’s still way low on water. We need to get a little, at least.”

  “No time!” Ordered Ulees. “GO!”

  Sunday arrived from behind and scaled the dewy engine steps. Jim’s manic fire building bewildered him even more.

  “Jimmy? What’s going on here? Why’re you building steam back up in this old sow? I’m dropping her fire for the scrap line.”

  “Can’t now!” Argued Ulees, climbing passed. “We need her to go help Mister Joe.”

  Sunday squinted, sharing in Jim’s bewilderment.

  “Joe? What about him?”

  “He’s doing the Rahl clean-out, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “We heard an alarm whistle come from out thataway.”

  The hostler shuddered.

  “The hell’re you talking about? I’ve been out here all the time and haven’t heard a damn thing!”

  Jim replied with his own question.

  “Is there anyone around to help us at least go and see?”

  “Hell no. Only me, Boots, and Rocky for the next couple of hours. And we just can’t leave here on some wild goose chase.”

  Sunday’s eyes shot wide with an even bigger realization.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Neither can you! There’s fast traffic due on that main real soon!”

  “Then you get ‘em stopped!” Ordered Ulees.

  Done with talk, Sunday lunged for the controls.

  But, the spare hand swept him easily from the cab. He fell backwards, landing hard in the ballast and painfully jamming an ankle.

  “Sorry.” Apologized Ulees from above. “But iff’n you ain’t with us, you can’t stay.”

  Sunday clenched his hurt foot, bellowing beyond the pain.

  “DAMMIT! THIS IS CRAZY! YOU TWO STOP! YOU’LL GET KILLED!”

  The train-jackers paid no attention. Plowing their little four-wheeler out into the fog, they headed blindly down the yard’s outside fast track.

  Sunday struggled erect. A storm of icy bolts tore through his ankle, hobbling toward the nearest yard phone. Reaching it, he slapped open the battered steel box, screaming at the tower.

  “Boots! This is Sunday! Graczyk’s kid just stole an engine!”

  Like everyone else, the man’s reply was understandably dumb.

  “What?”

  “Yeah! And Ulees is back, too! They grabbed that new junker from downtown and headed down the eastbound main, saying something about Rahl Brothers and helping Joe.”

  Sunday felt Boots stiffen at the other end.

  “Fast freight 43 . . .”

  “I know, is due any time now!”

  Boots strained at the absurdity.

  “What the hell’s happening here?”

  “No idea. But, I do know that creaky old yard goat was nearly out of breath when they took off. Even if they can build a head of steam, it’ll never make enough speed to clear the main.”

  Sunday plucked at a wad of loose thoughts.

  “The outside run still has a pair of old switches from its passing track days. If we can divert 43, could it ride down here on the inside and then back out?”

  Boots rifled through his schedule sheets.

  “There’s no opposing traffic. But, it’d be a pretty stiff crossing.”

  “Have we got any choice?”

  “Guess not. I can try throwing the signal to approach speed out at the 12th Street overpass and at least give 43 some warning.”

  Boots remembered a fatal point
and his quick hopes withered.

  “Hold it! Remember? Both switches are locked! And they’ve been shut a long time!”

  A nerve shattering PING! chimed in the office. Train 43 had already closed the Austin Boulevard approach circuit. On the phone’s other end, Sunday also heard it and turned helplessly away.

  “Better call the fire department,” he moaned. “There’s gonna be one helluva wreck.”

  A faint gleam of old chrome winked out from the distance. Forgotten beside the coal dock, it belonged to the yard’s derelict utility truck - and with it just maybe a slim chance of making that far switch.

  “Boots, get down here and work this turnout! I’ll bust ass for the other!”

  Sunday dropped the phone and braving his twisted ankle, clomped off, toward the ancient flatbed. It cranked through a half dozen obstinate tries, finally grumbling to smoky life. Gearshift jammed in low, he revved the engine and dumped its clutch. The truck’s balding dual wheels shot-gunned a spray of loose gravel, in the start of a lumbering charge toward the lifesaving switch, an impossible half-mile beyond.

  Farther on, Jim’s antique switcher trembled along. Dragged from its deathbed and given the whip, his junker hustled on as gamely as its stubby legs would allow. Ulees dressed the fire with his remaining planks, now jamming in a last-ditch mix of signal flares and old tires, as the final yard signal burned through the fog.

  Its demon’s eye glared down in blood red trespass, while from the darkness beyond, a throaty, approach-station whistle erupted. Still buried deep in the heavy fog, Train 43’s pounding chugs were the respirations of a lathered titan, one fatally set to free rein and expecting its fouled path to be clear.

  Jim stiffened at the nearing wail. His hands slumped from the controls and he went numb.

  “We’re done.”

  But Ulees wasn’t about to surrender. He seized an arm and yanked his paralyzed young friend upright.

  “Ain’t you the same guy, was ready to bare-hand a whole pass train alone, just last night? Now, here, with your own pa in trouble, you’re gonna up and quit?”

  A backfiring smudge appeared beside the cab window; Sunday arriving with the old stake truck. Its high beams were barely more than dull coins as the flatbed nosed to a ballast-plowing stop. But, its timely arrival helped thaw Jim’s funk. He slammed on his own brakes, shrieking the little engine to a skidding halt, before both the Rahl junction and gathering hulk of Train 43.

  Ulees dove off the locomotive as Sunday launched from his truck. One man charged the siding switch. The other raced for the passing track.

  Dropped to his knees, Sunday grabbed up the lever’s hefty Yale lock. Its chilly-slick brass squirted around in his quaking grip - dodging trembling fingers and dancing key, while the drumbeat of nearing exhaust grew exponentially.

  Lock and key finally mated. The shackle sprang loose and Sunday tore it free. He jerked the stout, counterbalanced lever head to his chest then heaved backward, riding over with it. Long idle switch points stiffly obliged. They swept across, contacting adjacent bypass rails as Train 43 arrived.

  With no chance of escape, Sunday flattened out and dug in. He buried his face in the cold, abrasive ballast, forearms bundled protectively about his head. Right beside, several thousand tons of red ball freight slammed through the diverting turnout.

  Cinders and steam doused the hostler. A damaged old tender stirrup, sprung loose and bent low, skimmed just overhead. It glanced off the wedding ring of the man’s laced fingers as the tender swung wide behind its detoured engine. A jutting corner caught the old truck’s spread door, tearing it free before thundering away.

  CHAPTER 52

  Sunday dared open his eyes and raise his head. Train 43 was already in the distance and moving on. The nearby stake truck was pretty much a loss. But otherwise, he saw no damage. He kissed the scuff on his wedding band as Jim called from across the main.

  “You okay, over there?”

  “Yeah!” He answered. “Now what?”

  “Downhill! You feel good enough to make it?”

  “On my way!”

  The hostler sucked a long breath, climbed to his feet, and limped over. Almost immediately, the trio were intercepted by the previously bored security man. Now though, he was pathetically animated, huffing wide-eyed and charging wordlessly passed.

  Jim grabbed a wad of the retreating man’s shirtsleeve, nearly spinning them both off their feet.

  “What happened?!”

  The chubby rent-a-cop indignantly yanked himself away. He spared just enough time to tear off and throw down his shiny brass badge.

  “I don’t get paid for this!” He bleated. “You can have it!”

  “Hey!” Jim shouted. “There’s men trapped down there! Come back here! We need help!”

  But the disinclined hero was already out of sight.

  “Forget ‘em!” Ulees hollered. “Let the worthless fool go!”

  Shortly, two more forms appeared. Supporting each other in a drunken stagger, they emerged from the lower hill’s poisonous swirl, then toppled to their hands and knees.

  “Spike! Vint!”

  Both were smeared in phlegm, eyes tearing and swelled nearly shut. Their drooling mouths worked the sharp air like fish kept too long from water.

  Vint managed enough breath to speak first.

  “. . . was like a gunshot.”

  Spike gazed fearfully behind.

  “A rail must’ah broke. Your old man - he made us jump when the rig went over. We thought he’d be right behind. But, he must still be down there. We gotta go back and get him!”

  He twisted forcibly about, prepared to lead their way downhill. Instead, the normally powerful brakeman simply spun in a woozy half-circle. His feet gave way and Spike plopped kitten-like, to his rump. He could only gawk in horrified silence at his failed strength.

  Jim patted the man’s thick shoulder.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. You guys stay here. We’ll find him. We’ll get him.”

  A gathering howl of far-off rescue units brought all heads up.

  “That’ll be the boys from Station Four.” Declared Sunday. “Boots was calling for help when I left.”

  Certain police sirens would be among the mounting wail, Jim looked to Ulees, who merely aimed his chin down the murky hillside.

  “Come on. We got us work to do.”

  The beckoning ruinscape was a thing born of dark fantasy; a yellow-green cloudbank congealed from charred creosote, sulfurous coal smoke, and greasy paraffin. Capped off by the heavy fog, a bitter aerosol now locked down in claim of the lower ground.

  Just a few unprotected seconds inside were staggering. But Ulees managed a quick fix from a clean spot of heavy dew. Stripping off his shirt, he dampened the cloth, then looped it about his face as an improvised gas mask.

  The other men followed and all resumed their caustic descent, now looking much like big city nomads.

  “PA!” Jim bellowed. “WHERE ARE YOU!”

  “MISTER JOE!” Added Ulees.

  “JOSÉ!” Called Sunday.

  Stories of old train wrecks fueled Jim’s anxious steps. At their least, they were the scene of undignified clutter; scattered loads and drunken arrays of derailed freight cars. At their worst, they were a place of utter devastation, with rolling stock smashed, piggybacked, and telescoped. But it was always the locomotive that another trainman first searched for. Was it upright and intact? Nosed over? In pieces? And what of its crew? Here though, those questions remained unanswered.

  Flaked paraffin drifts appeared near the hill’s bottom. Elsewhere, the false groundcover might’ve been taken for a picturesque dusting of early snow. But it only made for even more treacherous footing today, and peppered about, smoldering firebox clumps continued feeding off the wax, pumping out more noxious smoke. Still, no one considered a retreat
.

  “PA!”

  “MISTER JOE!”

  “JOSÉ!”

  A spot of level ground rewarded their persistence. With it came some precious eddies of cleaner air. The pockets were random and brief. But, they did help dilute bits of the clawing stench and allowed snippets of better vision - as bleak as that vista was. The surrounding turf might’ve been a battleground. It was a plain of sheared weeds, uprooted saplings, and gouts of slashed earth; unsettling evidence of the gross tonnage cut loose here.

  A hazy apparition rose at their flank. Darker than its surrounding gloom, the dingy spot thickened into a huge rectangle and became the angled box of a locomotive tender. It stood alone, partially derailed and canted steeply sideways. Most of its fuel load had been spilled tearing free of engine 2105, compounding the loose footing even more. But the many thousand gallons of boiler feed water it carried remained sealed within, otherwise locking the tender in place.

  Ulees’ voice tore through the fog.

  “HERE! OVER HERE!”

  Jim and Sunday made their way for it. Edging between the wreckage and debris field, they found the big man on his knees at a corner of the tender’s up-angled side. There, Joe was on his back, head cradled in Ulees’ hands. His thick scalp was slit to bone, clotted with a syrupy mix of dirt, ash, and thick, venous blood. His face glowed in the waxy flush of carbon monoxide poisoning and though open, the man’s half-shuttered eyes were remote and detached.

  Jim dropped to a knee beside his father.

  “Pa?”

  Joe didn’t respond. But, Ulees was encouraging.

  “This head-cut ain’t bad. Needs some stitches, though pretty much stopped bleedin’ on its own. I didn’t feel no broke bones. But, he’s got a tore-up, burnt shoulder stuck under this here coal box corner. And we gotta get him some clean air.”

  The three men raked barehanded at the hard, pinning earth. After only a minute’s furious effort, though, they knew it was pointless. Ulees sank back and stared at Jim.

  “This ain’t no good. You gotta go up and bring that other engine on down. Nudge this here coal box up-n-round, so’s me and Sunday kin slip him free.”

  Jim regarded the dangerously angled tender and its stenciled capacity. The twenty tons of coal indicated was mostly spilled out. But, ten thousand gallons of far more dense water remained locked within.