Transcontinental

by Brad Cook

  “Eleven-twenty,” she said, handing him a ticket. “Your train will be on track three when it arrives.” She smiled at him. “Thanks for your business.”

  Leroy sat in an empty, isolated area far from the gleeful children and the stressed parents trying to calm them down. He felt dumb for paying to ride a train. Thoughts of how easy it’d be to slip through a back door and hop aboard one played in his head. Easy as it might be, the risk was steep. He didn’t want to end up like Ant.

  Guilt cut away at him. But what choice did he have besides keep going?

  Leroy’s eyes dropped to the floor, to the two bags he carried. His bags, now. He emptied his backpack onto the seat beside him then dropped it. After, he eyed Ant’s rucksack. He felt guilty before he began, but gently he removed the contents and placed them on the seats to his other side. From the small outside pockets, he found a Swiss Army knife, lighters, a compass, double-A batteries, a pen, a laser pointer, a paperclip, and a worn hood ornament for a Mercedes, the chrome stripped in spots. From inside the rucksack, he removed trash bags, a flashlight, Gerald’s bayonet knife, the tip still stained with blood, squashed wonder bread, chunky peanut butter, a notebook, a first-aid kit, a pair of flip flops, vitamins, a wallet, and three books: Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens, On the Road, by Jack Kerouac, and Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Well, at least he’d have something to read on the train.

  He hurried to stash the knives in the rucksack, then regarded the mass of possessions. He wasn’t going to get rid of any of it, not even the bread and peanut butter. But it was counterproductive to carry two bags. Leroy worked to fit the items, his included, into the rucksack by weight, shape, and need for accessibility. His Tetris proficiency via a kids’ meal toy, the only game he’d ever owned, came in handy. How about that—his mother’s penchant for fast food had paid off. As he was finishing up, an announcement over the building’s intercom caught his attention.

  “Final boarding call for eastbound service to Missouri, now on track three. Final boarding for service to Missouri, track three.”

  Leroy furrowed his brow and looked up. That forty minutes had flown by. He shouldered the heavy bag and slipped his empty backpack into a trash can before exiting onto the concourse.

  The familiar clacking of the moving train made his hair stand on end. It was as exhilarating as ever, but with a fresh dimension of hazard. He trotted over to track three as the commuter came to a stop, the hot hiss of the air brakes tickling his ankles. A musical two-note bell tone rang out as the doors opened, and a handful of people filtered in and found seats. Leroy found his in the back of the rear car and set his bag down. It still felt wrong to consider Ant’s bag as his own, as if it was some sort of betrayal.

  Leroy peered through the window to the spot across the yard where Ant had been beaten, nothing more than a patch of bent grass, now. He was one of only a few people who knew of the brutality that’d occurred there. Anyone else would think nothing of it, if they even noticed. A grave injustice had taken place, and the only person who’d face the consequences was the victim.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He took his eyes off the spot and the anger dulled. Turning his head, he surveyed the rest of the yard, until his gaze stopped on none other than his enemy, schmoozing with crewmen. Bile rose in his throat, the burn nowhere near as strong as his hatred. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  The bell rang out again, and the doors closed. He couldn’t wait to put this all behind him. Leroy looked away, then dug through the rucksack and pulled out a book to soothe his nerves.

  On the Road. How appropriate. He opened the cover and a slip of paper fell into his lap. Scribbled at the top was the name Rehema Shepherd, above a Tampa address. He hadn’t even thought about her actual address, only that she lived in Tampa. Anxiety and relief passed through him in one confusing moment.

  He folded the address and slipped it into Ant’s wallet, then stared hard at the cover of the book. A crude outline of the United States featured prominently, with a sketch of the path evidently taken in the story, which almost matched his own—it ran up through California, then headed straight to the east coast, but up to New England rather than the southern states, and looped around west, back to California. He wondered what other parts of the country were like—the midwest, the northwest, the northeast, Texas—but after this, Leroy figured he was pretty much done traveling.

  A man came through to check his ticket, then left just as quickly.

  As he turned the page, the train rolled forward. Leroy glanced out the window one last time at the cop who’d taken Ant away from him as he grew smaller in the distance until he disappeared. Just the way Leroy wanted it.

  Chapter 9

  Washington, MO

  With the book flipped open in his lap, Leroy regained consciousness. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed off, but he supposed that was how it worked. Sleep had been rare last night, and taken effort, but the emotional stress, the weight of it all, was what fatigued him.

  He lifted his gaze and found himself looking straight into the eyes of an older man a few rows down, hair slicked back and wearing a suit. The man didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Leroy averted his gaze. The last thing he wanted was trouble.

  Leroy thumbed through the pages of the book, catching only random words and phrases. He was starting to regret falling asleep; he had no idea how long he’d been out, and his head was groggy.

  “Going back to sleep, you lazy animal?”

  For a moment Leroy didn’t realize the man was speaking to him, then he sent up a cautious glance. “What?” he asked in a low voice.

  A sneer parted the man’s lips. “You heard me.” His eyes burned cold.

  Leroy’s fists clenched, before he noticed and loosened them. It was one thing to think something so disrespectful, but to say it aloud was indefensible.

  A recorded voice over the intercom alerted him that they were approaching Washington station, to his relief. He couldn’t wait to get away from this crazy person. Leroy hoped the guy wouldn’t follow, although even with a sore ankle, he imagined he could outrun him. Still, he felt uneasy.

  He placed the book in the rucksack. He had to be prepared for anything. Then, he remembered the knives Ant carried in his bag. The bayonet knife was a bit much, but he slipped the Swiss Army knife into his pocket. It was small, but if wielded effectively, could probably deal some damage.

  Reality smacked him in the face. He was thinking about stabbing someone. Obviously he didn’t want to, he told himself, but if it came down to it, he would have no choice. The guy had clearly shown hostile tendencies. He wasn’t about to be taken down by some cranky old man after crossing half the country.

  The man stared him down.

  Leroy let his gaze drift off in an attempt at a neutral response.

  Through the window, he could see couplets of idle train cars tagged with amateur, squiggly graffiti, crewmen heaving freight into boxcars, silos dispensing ton after ton of grain in a thick, steady, rushing stream like a huge faucet, and then the parallel rails of the concourse as the bell sounded and the train slowed to a stop. Leroy hopped up, one hand grasping the knife in his pocket, and rushed toward the exit.

  On the opposite side of the exit, the old man stood. As Leroy neared the door, the man charged him. Clutching his bag, Leroy jumped through the door just as the man’s hand reached out to grab him.

  “That’s right, go, monkey! Back to your tree!” he cried, hanging in the open doorway, clutching the walls beside him. “Monkey! MONKEY!”

  Leroy hurried through the sparse crowds of commuters, down the concourse, around the station, and into the parking lot. He weaved between cars, the rucksack swaying, then, as he turned to look back, he crashed into a man in a black shirt and slacks, knocking him down before falling onto his butt. He searched for a sign of the racist old man, but saw nothing.

  With the heavy rucksack weighing him down, Leroy felt like an upturned turtle,
but before he could find his footing, a large hand presented itself. He grabbed it and was swiftly pulled to his feet by the man he’d knocked down—a minister, if the white square of his collar meant what Leroy thought it did. His skin was nearly as dark as his clothes. He was tall and taut, with wiry glasses, hair cropped close, and a bright smile. His frame reminded Leroy of Ant.

  “Sorry,” Leroy panted, “I was just… There was—”

  “That’s quite alright,” the man said in a baritone voice that burrowed under Leroy’s skin, but was not altogether unpleasant. “God has decided we must meet, and so we have. I’m Pastor Demonde Mercer. What’s your name?”

  “L— Marcus. Marcus Jackson.” He shifted his weight off his sore ankle.

  The pastor looked him up and down. “Going somewhere?”

  “Uh, yeah. Thanks. For, you know… helping me up. I gotta go.”

  The pastor chuckled as he brushed off the seat of his pants, the elbows of his long-sleeve shirt. “Not a problem. Where are you going?”

  “I’m just kinda going. Nowhere particular,” he lied.

  “Well we’re just about to leave, ourselves. Let us give you a ride.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The Bishop and I, as well as a few kids, just about your age.”

  Leroy weighed the proposition. He didn’t know them, but they were clearly religious men, and thus couldn’t pose much threat. It was about as safe a ride as he’d find, he figured, unless a bus of nuns showed up. Maybe they could just take him to the next station. He wasn’t feeling this one.

  “Ah, there’s the Bishop now.”

  Following Pastor Mercer’s gaze, Leroy saw a lighter-skinned man in a snappy brown suit and cowboy hat, flanked by three boys and a girl, swaggering toward them with a wide grin and arms outstretched.

  “Like Jesus after three harrowing days, I have returned,” he said with a vivacious cackle as he neared. “Who’s this? Hello, young man.”

  “This is Marcus Jackson,” said Pastor Mercer, scratching an ear. “I offered to give him a lift. I hope you don’t mind, Bishop.”

  The Bishop shot a furtive glance at the smiling Pastor. “Course I don’t mind! That’s why I started SpiritWood—to help underprivileged children. Bishop Wardell Wood. Pleasure to meet you. Whereabouts are we taking you?”

  “Just up the road, maybe to the next train station. If you can, I mean.” He tried, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl in the Bishop’s group. She had a full, toned figure, chestnut skin, and soft eyes that would look away every time they met his. He could swear, though, he saw the seed of a smile in her face.

  “Well, Marcus, I believe we can accommodate you.” The Bishop interlocked his fingers and glanced again at the Pastor. “I know just the place.”

  * * *

  “So, Marcus, have you heard of us?” Bishop Wood asked, turning back from the front passenger seat of the van to face Leroy. The Pastor drove, the boys sat in the back seats, and across the aisle sat the girl who wouldn’t even look at him. “SpiritWood. Have you heard of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good, good. Gives us a chance to make the right first impression. You see, SpiritWood has its detractors, its critics. Of course, their accusations are complete nonsense. Right, children?”

  The other kids verified his claim, if slightly unenthusiastically.

  “For pete’s sake, we just came from a charity event for abused youths—one of many we engage in annually, I might add. We have our own school, church, farm, clinic, affiliated businesses. We give back,” he stressed, ostensibly debating himself. “Every time a black man is successful, they wanna bring him down. Every time. Call it what it is, children: racism. Pure and simple.”

  His gaze trailed off.

  “But that’s a whole other conversation. You believe in God, Marcus?”

  Leroy pulled his eyes away from the girl and onto the Bishop, or at least his general vicinity. “Never thought much about it, honestly.”

  “Well sure you have. You just didn’t know it,” he reasoned. “Every time a bird sings its tune, that’s God you’re hearing. Every breeze across the trees, that’s God. Every drop of rain, every starry night, every speck of sand on the beach—it’s all God. And God is beautiful.”

  Leroy didn’t know what to say. That was one way to look at it, he supposed. Not one he’d considered, but there weren’t many he had. His mom hadn’t been religious, and if his dad was, he never knew about it, although he doubted many Christians went to prison. Religion was a mystery to him.

  “That’s the way God should leave you—speechless,” the Bishop grinned.

  Leroy forced a smile. He had to admire the Bishop’s zest. The man seemed to believe in what he was saying, through and through. Leroy wished he believed in anything so wholly.

  Watching the trees and meadows pass outside the van, he wondered if it all really was God, or from God, or however it worked. The notion was so profound he couldn’t fully comprehend it.

  “I see the gears turning,” the Bishop snickered. “Got you thinking. That’s good, thinking’s essential. But you see, God operates on faith, not logic. You have to feel it. And, once you open your heart to him, you will. Let me ask you something, Marcus. Do you feel lost?”

  The question shook him. “What do you mean?” But he knew.

  “You know it as well as I do—you’re searching for something. It’s alright to feel afraid, worried, confused; it’s only natural, when you haven’t yet been baptized in the Holy Spirit. Salvation is not a given, young man, but it calls for us, available to those who seek it. Only then can God build you up and help you abstain from sin so you may live the life you were meant for.”

  “A normal life,” chimed the Pastor.

  It was disconcerting to Leroy how much sense the men were starting to make. And why would the Pastor use that phrase, specifically? A normal life… that was always the goal, wasn’t it?

  “Being unsaved is a tremendous burden on mind, body, and soul, but there is a cure. Jesus said to the citizens of Galilee: ’Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.’ Marcus, we can give you that,” Bishop urged. “SpiritWood can give you that. A new birth. It’s the reason we exist, and it’s the reason we’ve been so successful.”

  Leroy could see the passion flaring in the Bishop’s eyes; it brought Ant to mind, and excited Leroy as much as it terrified him. It really seemed like the man wanted to help him. Things were pretty dire. He had fifteen dollars, and who knew how many miles left to Tampa. It put knots in his stomach to think about. It was also possible the Rehema Shepherd in Florida wasn’t the right one, either. Maybe she was unlisted; his mom had been for the last few years of her life. It wasn’t uncommon.

  “Think about this: the SpiritWood family consists of over one-hundred children of all ages. That’s a lot of brothers and sisters! And we have just as many parents, each of whom help care for the family. SpiritWood members get three hot meals a day, they get to work a variety of fulfilling jobs, plenty of free time at the gorgeous compound, safe and comfortable housing—”

  Leroy thought he heard a faint, dismissive snort from the girl.

  “Oh, and of course, freedom from eternal damnation.”

  Leroy had to admit, the pitch didn’t sound half bad; in fact, it seemed like what he’d been searching for the whole time. He supposed it was possible that fate had been guiding him to SpiritWood all along. He’d never really bought into fate, but then, he wouldn’t know fate if it killed his mother.

  It occurred to him how quiet the other kids had been the whole ride. They hadn’t spoken a word, unless prompted by the Bishop. If nothing else, they were well behaved, maybe even shy, like him. The more he thought about it, the more refreshing interacting with cohorts rather than adults seemed.

  “The question, Marcus, is… do you have what it takes to be saved?”

  “I thought that was the point of SpiritWood?”

  “That’s correct. As I said,
though—salvation is not a given. Not only does it take a strong will, enduring faith, and perseverance, but also hard work, repentance, and baptism, both physical and spiritual. I won’t lie to you, son; I have seen lesser boys and girls, even men and women buckle under the strain. It’s not a pretty sight to behold, I assure you. But he who makes it to the other side comes out a new person, one who is competent, confident, and most importantly, content. If you choose this path, you will be forever changed.”

  Leroy cast his gaze again at the girl across the aisle. Her eyes darted the other direction. There was something magnetic about her, but fearful, too.

  “I’m going to ask you again: do you have what it takes to be saved?”

  “I’ll try it out,” he said, lacking confidence in himself.

  “Do you have… what it takes?”

  “Yes.” His logical half protested. But God operated on faith.

  “Good, because we’re here,” said Bishop Wood.

  Chapter 10

  Pacific, MO

  The van crunched to a stop in the dirt before a towering wooden gate, anchored by stone columns. A wrought iron fence extended from each side, vanishing into the thicket of trees and bushes. The vegetation made it impossible to see inside the compound. The mystery of it all piqued Leroy’s interest.

  “To keep the press away, naturally,” the Bishop smiled.

  “And the animals,” said Pastor Mercer.

  “Like I said, the press.”

  The three of them laughed, though Leroy didn’t fully get the joke.

  The entrance reminded him of the gate to Jurassic Park—the one movie his mother had taken him to see despite his pleas in protest. Although he’d savored every second when it premiered on TV two years later, he’d been just ten when it came out, and was scared out of his mind for the rest of the evening. But Adalynne had wanted it, so one way or another, it had to happen. Leroy had to give her credit for her determination, even if it was wasted on petty issues.

  Obscured by the clouds of dirt the van had kicked up, Pastor Mercer dialed a four-digit number on a keypad through the window, then there was a beep, and the gate groaned open. The van started down the forested trail.