During that interval, there was enough time to run or counterattack. However, Claire’s eyes wouldn’t allow it. It felt to the victim, though, that if he tried something like that, it would invite results more painful than death.
For just a moment, the finger paused.
“Oh, right. Here’s the rest of my story. To keep the Rail Tracer from coming, you have to believe this story, and if he’s already there, you have to get away from him until the sun rises… Although it’s too late now.”
The ingenuous way he’d talked up until a moment before was gone. He spoke dispassionately, in a tone that was rough and endlessly cold, like blades of ice.
“The Rail Tracer will definitely appear for you people. This gunshot will wake him. Your death will wake him.”
He began to squeeze the trigger again. At that point, finally, the middle-aged conductor opened his mouth to scream. He raised his hands to resist.
…But it was all too late.
“Die, sacrifice.”
A gunshot.
The sound traveled along the rails, echoing sharply…
Traveling far…
Very, very far away…
A spray of deep-crimson blood spattered over the wall in the narrow conductors’ room.
In almost the same moment, the door opened.
“What the hell?”
When someone spoke behind Claire and he turned, a conductor was standing there, his eyes round.
He wore the special Flying Pussyfoot conductor’s uniform, whose basic color was white.
“Who are you?” Claire asked the man. His face was expressionless.
There should only be two conductors on this train: me, and the guy I just killed… Come to think of it, what was this middle-aged conductor’s name, anyway?
As he was thinking these things, the man in white waved both hands and said:
“Easy, easy, put that dangerous thing away, please. I’m not your enemy.”
The man smiled brightly as he spoke. Quietly, Claire turned the gun on him.
“Like I could trust a guy who isn’t panicking in a situation like this? Tell me who you are and what you want.”
With that reasonable statement, he began to put pressure on the trigger.
“Wow. Busted already?”
Promptly changing his tone, the fake conductor warped his lips into a smirk. On seeing it, for some reason, Claire threw the gun to the floor.
The fake conductor watched this, looking mystified. Possibly because he hadn’t yet made eye contact with Claire, his expression still held absolute confidence.
“What’s the deal, huh?”
Confident wasn’t quite the word for Claire’s answer. It sounded more like a fragment of routine conversation.
“You seem like the type who wouldn’t tell the truth if all I did was turn a gun on you, so I’m going to torture you a little.”
Upon hearing that, the fake conductor burst out laughing.
“You’re gonna what?! Torture, he says! What era are you from, huh?”
Ignoring the cackling man, Claire released the lock on the door that led to the outside. When he opened it, a cold wind blew in, searing its way into his body.
“C’mon, pal, what’re you doing? I mean, I’m tickled you threw your piece away for me, but…”
Smirking, the fake conductor raised his voice, putting a hand into his jacket.
“Even if you’re unarmed, I’ve got a gun— Huh?”
But Claire had vanished.
It had looked as if he’d walked right out the open door and fallen off the train, but that had to have been his imagination…right?
Drawing his weapon, the fake conductor slowly approached the door.
Leaning out slightly, he pointed the handgun to his left and right, but up ahead was the side of the train, and to the rear was a dark, receding landscape, and that was all.
Was he still inside, then? He hastily turned back around, and in that instant, something tremendously strong yanked the cuffs of his trousers backward.
“!”
In spite of himself, he pitched over, falling forward, but the force didn’t ease up. It kept pulling the fake conductor out.
“Waugh, wah-wah-waaah-AAAaaaaAh!”
Even from his prone position, he managed to turn his head to look back, and then he saw something unbelievable.
The sleeves of the conductor’s uniform had sprouted from below the open door, and their ends had latched onto his legs.
Th-the conductor? That’s nuts! He’s down there?! How—?!
As he was thinking this, his body was dragged outside all at once. The cold wind rushed past him, and he felt himself fall a short distance.
In the instant he thought, I’m falling, his body stopped with a jolt in midair.
The next thing the impersonator knew, Claire had him in a full nelson hold.
“??????—!”
The man was confused. He couldn’t even imagine what was happening, or how.
Claire had his legs hooked around the metal fittings under the car and was holding the phony with his free-hanging upper half.
From this completely crazy position, he was gradually lowering the other man toward the ground.
In the midst of a roar that combined the sound of the moving train and the wind, Claire murmured in the man’s ear:
“All right, I’m going to ask you again… Who are you?”
The fake conductor had regained enough presence of mind to be able to respond, but as a result, he refused to just tell him the answer. He began to struggle, trying to point the gun in his right hand behind him.
“Too bad.”
The man’s body lurched, tipping down, and his right arm made contact with the ground.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
The shock and pain were far greater than what he’d imagined. He tried to raise his hand, but Claire was holding his arm, and he wouldn’t let him up.
The gun in his right hand was knocked away in the blink of an eye…along with his hand, up to the wrist.
“Who are you?”
The question came again, but the man only screamed in pain.
Claire lowered his body, pressing his arm to the ground again.
By the time the fake conductor’s right arm was gone up to the shoulder, Claire had gotten him to tell him everything about himself.
He said his name was Dune and that he was a member of the Russo Family. More accurately, he was a direct subordinate of Ladd Russo, and part of a faction that had broken off from the Russo Family that very day.
In addition, he told him Ladd’s group was planning to hijack this train, kill half the passengers, and then crash the train into the station.
On reflex, Claire doubted their sanity, but apparently, sanity for this guy Ladd was the equivalent of insanity for ordinary people.
First, they’d throw the bodies of the passengers they’d killed onto the tracks; a “collector” who wasn’t on the train would inform the railway company, and in the hours before the train arrived in New York, they’d squeeze as much money as possible out of the company.
Then they’d stop the train at a designated spot, meet up with the collector—who would arrive by car—and make their getaway. When they did, Ladd would probably kill all the passengers who’d seen their faces.
And, in order to take over the conductors’ room, Dune had gone out of his way to wear a fake conductor’s uniform.
“Why would you do that? It’s pointless. If you just wanted to get control of the train, all you had to do was shoot us. There’s no need to wear a uniform and pass yourself off as one of us.”
As he answered Claire’s question, Dune smiled; it was as if the prolonged exposure to extreme pain had fried the connections between his nerves.
However, what was truly worthy of disgust lay in what he said.
“Heh, heh-heh, heh. It’s atmosphere, fella, atmosphere! Ladd loves games like that. Dressing like a conductor puts you in the right mood, an
d when I walk around the train later, the passengers will look at me with hope in their eyes. He says he likes killing ’em right after that—after their hope. I’m partial to it myself. Hee-hee, hee, hee-hee-hee-hee-hee…”
In response to the man’s answer, Claire fell silent for a little while. Then, quietly, he spoke. The brutal color that had been in his eyes a moment ago was fading, and their former color was returning. However, those eyes seemed to hold a slight unease, and as Claire continued his interrogation, his expression clouded.
“How did you get those clothes so you could create this ‘atmosphere’ of yours? Those are Flying Pussyfoot exclusives. Only a few people have them.”
“Hee, hee-hee. I picked ’em up at the station this morning! I got ’em from the conductor who got off this train when it pulled into Chicago and you got on! A pale guy with short hair!”
Tony. The face of the fellow conductor whose duties he’d taken over that afternoon rose in Claire’s mind. He was a cheerful Italian conductor, and he’d taught Claire the ABCs of the job.
“What…did you do with him?”
“Hee-hee, he’s probably feeding the rats in the Chicago sewers right about now!”
After blurting this out all at once, Dune realized it was something he should never have said.
The pain was keeping his brain from working, and he’d forgotten he was in a desperate situation.
“H-h-hang on, I lied!”
It was already too late. Claire’s right hand was on the back of Dune’s head. His eyes were filled with something even deadlier than before, and the bearing he’d worn, that of a conductor, had vanished completely.
With enormous strength stabilizing his head, Dune’s body—along with Claire’s upper body—was approaching the ground.
“Wa-wa-wait! You just killed a conductor yourself! What the hell are you?!”
Even at that protest, the force didn’t let up. Claire only lowered his body slowly toward the ground. The afterimages made the gravel ballast look as if it was flowing like a river. At the speed this train was traveling at, if you scraped something against that gravel, it would turn into an excellent grater. He’d already proved this using Dune’s arm.
In the interval before his nose touched the ground, Dune listened to Claire’s long murmur:
“Me? I’m Claire Stanfield… Or ‘Vino.’ That might be easier for you mafia types to recognize.”
Vino! I’ve heard of that! I’ve heard of him! He’s a hitman who does jobs all around the States, and he picked up the nickname “Vino” because his kills are messy, and there’s always a ton of blood left behind after he does a job. Who’d have thought he was really a conductor?! No wonder he does jobs all over the place… But honestly, I couldn’t care less about that, help me, let me go— Oh shit, shitshitshitshit—
“But it’s different now.”
Different whatever who cares just save me I’m begging you savgyaugalflaryuleuryeruru
rururururrrrrrrr
His face reached the ground, and in almost the same moment, Dune lost his sight, his consciousness, and his life.
Pulling the corpse back up, Claire tossed it into the middle of the conductors’ room. His victim’s blood had sprayed over him, dyeing his clothes bright red.
The corpse’s head was twisted at an impossible angle, and its face and right arm had been completely ground off. The cut surfaces were extremely dirty and gruesome. If someone who didn’t know any better saw this corpse, they’d probably think its face and arm had been chewed off…by some cruel, brutal monster far outside the realm of humanity.
Claire didn’t try to wipe off the blood that had splashed over half his face. Instead, he used his fingers to draw red stripes below his eyes.
In a way, he might have meant it as a ritual, a prelude to what he was about to do.
Quietly, to himself, Claire murmured the rest of the words Dune hadn’t been able to hear:
“—To you, I’m a monster. A monster who’s going to devour all of you.”
He looked up into empty space and grinned.
“Starting now, as far as you and this train are concerned—I’m the Rail Tracer.”
EXPRESS: THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T DIE
The dining car was filled with an amiable commotion.
Czes ran among the tables, chasing a girl who seemed to be close to his apparent age.
He and the girl were in the same first-class compartment on the train, and the girl had innocently suggested, “Let’s explore the train together!” Czes hadn’t been at all interested, but if he was going to act the part of “the boy the whole world liked,” going along with her would probably be a sound move.
He’d thought things like that for more than two centuries, and in situations like this, he was able to naturally present himself as a child.
Following a girl whose name he didn’t know, he ran to the middle of the dining car.
Come to think of it, I remember doing something like this when we crossed to this continent from Europe. I was the only child. When I said, “Let’s explore the ship,” I wonder who went with me. I just can’t seem to remember… Well, it doesn’t matter. Someday, when I “eat” them all, the answer will probably be lying around somewhere.
Czes had been thinking too many pointless things. His concentration was scattered, and his shoulder rammed into the back of a man who was sitting at the counter.
“Mghk-ghk-gak!”
The man seemed to have had his mouth full; the food had gotten stuck in his throat, and he was panicking.
When he looked, he saw it was the same tattooed guy he’d run into before boarding. Running into the exact same person: That was unlucky. Czes didn’t feel particularly bad about it, but he decided to apologize immediately.
“Aah! Mister, again…! I’m really sorry!”
The guy had tears in his eyes, but even so, he forced a smile for Czes.
“Oh, no, it’s okay. It’s fine. I’m completely fine. What about you two? Are you all right?”
Czes nodded, smiling just the way he had earlier. For someone with a tattoo on his face, this man was a real soft touch. A guy like this, all flash and no bang, will probably go his entire life without gaining anything. That was what he was thinking, privately, but he didn’t let any of it show in his expression.
After that, the girl’s mother came up as well, and they started to make cheerful small talk.
Then a girl who wore glasses over an eyepatch looked at Czes and said:
“Is the little boy by himself?”
“Yes, he’s—oh, good gracious. I haven’t asked his name yet.”
Ah yes, she’s right.
Czes had decided to introduce himself to everyone by a pseudonym. He’d had to use his real name when reserving his train ticket, but when talking to ordinary people, he could give a false name without any trouble. It would be better to avoid having strangers know his real name as much as possible.
Having made this decision, Czes had settled on the pseudonym “Thomas.” It was the name of Thomas Edison, the “King of Inventors,” who’d died that year. He’d thought he wouldn’t be likely to forget that one before they reached New York.
However.
“My name is Czeslaw Meyer—”
Giving that hard-to-pronounce name, Czes paused for a moment. During that short interval, his brain moved at dizzying speed.
What’s going on?! I know I moved my mouth to say “Thomas” just now! It was almost as if my body refused to…
He remembered a similar situation. It had been back when he was still alive. At a market in town, someone had asked his name, and when he’d tried to give a false one on the spur of the moment, his mouth had blabbed his real name all on its own. At the time, that guy had been standing a short distance away, and he’d known that had been the cause, but…
The restraint the demon had given them. A price that was far too light for immortality:
Immortals will be unable to use false names with one another.
Right now, that restraint had informed him of a very important fact:
There is an immortal very close to me—
Czes was speechless, but it would do him no good to panic here. If the immortal hadn’t noticed him yet, there was no sense in making himself stand out and attracting their attention.
He regained his composure and continued, saying something suitable. Except for giving a false name, he could tell any lie he wanted, so he made up a reasonable explanation for his journey.
“—Please call me Czes. I’m on my way to New York to see my family.”
Next, the lady and the girl paid their respects as well.
However, Czes only registered their names; he was keeping his attention focused on the people in the dining car.
Thinking in terms of earshot, they were probably here in the dining car. That said, he didn’t recognize any of the faces. He didn’t see anyone who seemed to be in disguise, and the gunman and the girl with the eyepatch in front of him were more “in costume” than “disguised.”
Who on earth is here? I can’t see into the kitchen; could they be in there? Or else—
If possible, he wanted to deny the thought that came to him:
Is it another immortal entirely, someone who wasn’t on that ship…?
As far as he was concerned, that was a truly terrifying idea. If there was an immortal other than the people who had been on board the ship, it would mean he no longer knew how many immortals were left, or what they looked like.
One day, a man he didn’t know would walk up to him, smiling, and abruptly set his right hand on his head.
That was all it would take, and Czes’s life would be absorbed and gone.
This was the one thing Czes couldn’t allow. It wasn’t the dying he minded. He thought he’d lived long enough already. The problem was that some third party would know about the distortion that had existed between that guy and himself. That would be the most unbearable humiliation there was. It was terror itself.
That was why Czes had chosen to live as he did now. Even if he had to view all others as prey, had to devour them all…he had to become the last immortal in the world.
If the other person was an immortal he didn’t know, he needed to discover how they’d become immortal and how many others there were. The easiest way to learn would be to find and “eat” them.
1931 The Grand Punk Railroad: Express Page 3