The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past

by Dixon, Norman

Their voices filled his mind. He tilted sideways, stumbled, but he kept running. He reached the door, welcoming the fresh blast of dry desert heat. The tracks squealed, the train bucked, and he gripped the handrail with sweaty palms. The ground blurred beneath him, and the tracks ran into a pinpoint on the shimmering horizon through Hoss’s eyes. He looked at Baylor through three more sets of eyes. He nearly fell then, confronted by the overwhelming display of viewpoints, like living life through fractured mirrors. He thought of the living, always the living, and it was enough to keep the dead in check. He was about to take the ladder when a flash of bright red caught his eye.

  The man leaped from his horse and crashed into him. Bobby’s arm twisted and they tumbled back through the open door. The man reached for Bobby’s throat with one hand, brandishing a curved knife in the other. A long red scarf draped over his back. His face lay hidden behind a dark hood.

  Bobby slapped his hand away and landed a stiff right to the man’s neck. He kicked out, but the man recovered with a punch of his own. The monitors flickered. The man brought the blade down, but Bobby felt his body tense before the strike and he rolled to the side. He slipped his Auto Stryker from the sheath on his wrist, driving it upward in one swift motion. His swipe sliced the man’s face open from jaw to deep dark eyeball.

  The man fell backwards but got to his knees. He swayed, blood pouring down his ruined face as he swung the blade back and forth wildly.

  Bobby flipped his rifle around like Ol’ Randy taught him, rolling it under his arm, and before the stock even hit his shoulder he fired. Whatever thoughts were swirling in the man’s mind were scattered out the back of his hooded head.

  He went to jump over the man when an explosion sent him flying backward.

  * * * * *

  Baylor had Tim Shepard under the arms. He dragged the man behind cover and helped put pressure on the wound. Then he watched him die. He felt the man move on then he felt the body come to life again, teeth gnashing, eyes looking into oblivion. It was not gradual, no fever. It was almost instant, and Baylor backed away when he realized there were more. All around him, the wounded stumbled about.

  He kicked the lunging Tim out of the way and jumped to the next car. The train was moving at a good clip, and it took all his years of experience riding on her to keep him from falling over the side. The riders trailed behind in a column, but they were not losing ground. Some even rode ahead along the sides of the train. Baylor cracked a few shots but the angles were wrong. His dead comrades stumbled after him. He ran.

  A pair of hands gripped the edge of the next car and a dingy face appeared, yellow teeth and a gray-black beard. Baylor kept the pistol low and cracked off two shots. The man’s skull broke apart and fell away in ropey red mist. Two horses broke from the column and charged ahead. Their mouths were white and wild, their muscles silky and defined in the bright desert sun. Baylor fired again then dropped down to his belly to reload. He watched the men gain ground, and then he watched as one of them, a boy really, with curly red hair, pulled the pin from a grenade with his teeth. The arc of the throw was perfect and Baylor heard it clatter behind him. He rolled forward. The hot air of the explosion propelled him into the gap between the cars.

  He crashed back first into the door. The metal warped from the impact. He saw sky, saw ground, and then he saw nothing at all.

  * * * * *

  Pathos One poked the barrel of his AK through the bars. He emptied the entire magazine into the column, but the riders were barely fazed. They rode hard, weapons stowed, as they concentrated on nothing but speed. He reloaded, set the weapon to burst, and dropped the lead rider. The man fell from the saddle, jerked the reins hard, pulling the horse into the one next to it. The others scattered to avoid the mayhem.

  “G-good one,” Price said beside him. The massive man had at least four gunshot wounds that he could see. Blood coated his muscles like a skintight suit. It dripped from his mouth with each labored breath. “Keep them busy.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What the boss wants me to.” Price turned and headed towards the next car. A rider crashed onto the small platform before him. Price picked the man up as if he were a feather and tossed him out into the desert sun.

  Pathos One watched the man flash by then fall beneath the thundering hooves.

  Jaime and Sophie were busy popping shots at the riders trying to get close enough to jump. They were doing a hell of a good job, but for every one they dropped another filled the void.

  Pathos One tried to keep track of all of them, but a good number of riders arced out wide and moved past the rear car. The train suddenly shuddered, jumping off the tracks and slamming back down. The hot coals cast sparks about the car, and they all screamed as the train leaned hard to the side.

  * * * * *

  The car was there one moment, then it was gone, taken by the explosion. A torn hulk of smoking metal bent and curled like charred fingers. Bobby kept Hoss’s body at the controls. Every few steps, he ordered the protesting Creeper to throw more coal into the fire box. The hiss of the engine assured him of their pace. To slow down now was to die. He moved through the ruined car, hoping with each breath Baylor was not on top when it exploded.

  A pair of riders closed in from the left, angling hard towards the head of the beast. One of them reared back, arm cocked, and Bobby snapped a quick shot, but it did nothing more than make the rider flinch. He dropped low between warped steel plates, the scent of burnt plastics stinging his nose and eyes. He aimed far ahead of the rider, accounting for the speed and wind, ticking the calculations off in his head like a robot. Bobby fired. The round caught the man in the chest and his body slumped over the saddle. The other rider was in the act of breaking off when both of them disappeared in a cloud of blood and sand. Parts of men and horses alike tumbled along in bloody spirals carried by their momentum.

  He got up quick and bolted for the next car. He found Baylor halfway through the door. The Mad Conductor’s hands dangled over the edge and his legs were twisted, but twitching.

  “Baylor,” Bobby said, shaking him.

  The Mad Conductor’s wide eyes snapped open. They seemed to spin in their sockets for a moment before focusing on Bobby.

  “Who the fuck’s driving my train?” He coughed.

  “I am,” Bobby said, letting the words speak what he could not. His stomach twisted just thinking them.

  Baylor stared hard at him. “Get me up.” He clawed at the ruined door for purchase.

  “Don’t.”

  “Fuck don’t, kid. Fuck all of that shit. Another set of assholes taking shots at my family, my girl. It’s not going to end like this. Get me up!”

  Bobby grabbed Baylor under the arms and hefted him to his feet. The back of his head was wet with blood and he wouldn’t put any weight on his left leg.

  “Bitch, bastards, bitch bastard whores.” Baylor gripped the backs of the seats as they passed. “I got one more trick up my sleeve. These fuckers are in for it. Get us going faster,” Baylor said through clenched teeth.

  “I can’t. We go any faster and we’re in for a world of hurt.”

  Baylor spun and grabbed Bobby by the collar. “You fucking listen to me, kid. You listen good and hard. We don’t do this, we all fucking die! All our efforts wasted! It’s not going down like that! Been too long. Been at this too long! This is our last resort, and it either works or we die! All of us.”

  Bobby thought of Sophie and Randal, of Baylor’s story, of all the people lost this day, and in that chaotic moment he saw the future stretch out before him. A future that depended on what he did now. He forced Hoss’s animated corpse to dump more coals on the fire. The beast roared. The tracks began to squeal louder, louder, louder still.

  “Get me to the ass end,” Baylor said.

  Together they moved through the cars. When they reached the kitchen car, they were met by a bloodied Price. Sparks shot up around his massive frame from the straining of metal on metal beneath. The pitch of the sq
ueal was out of control—a constant whine that threatened to puncture Bobby’s ear drums. Price looked unmovable, as if he’d become a part of the very steel of the beast.

  “Been a long time, Price. Been a long fucking time!”

  “It’s not over yet, boss. Not by a long shot!” Price nodded and knelt down. He grabbed the peg holding the cars together and pulled, his muscles moving beneath his skin like tectonic plates.

  “No!” Bobby reached out to stop him, but Baylor grabbed him and yanked him back. He swung his elbows back to free himself from the Mad Conductor’s grip.

  “It’s all right, kid,” Baylor shouted in his ear.

  Bobby tried to get loose. He reached for his knife, watching the massive man toss the chains aside, but Baylor had him wrapped up tight. Even with the Mad Conductor injured, he couldn’t break that grasp.

  With a nod, the giant man moved into the darkness of the doorway. Bobby screamed after him, but he was helpless. The cars began to drift apart.

  “Get them all, brother!” Baylor yelled. “It’s all right, kid. They’ll be all right.”

  “No, no.” Bobby fought, but his limbs grew so tired. He couldn’t break the hold. The rest of the train drifted farther away. He moved into Hoss’s dead mind, searching for the brakes, but if he stopped them now the back end would crash right into them. A loud hiss ripped from that line of thought. He watched the roof of the kitchen car explode outward. Long sheets of metal glinted in the sun then spun away.

  Suddenly the cramped kitchen made sense. What Bobby thought was machinery for the ovens was a different machinery altogether. A gigantic platform rose from the supply boxes, and Price sat atop it like a throne. The sun cast long gold streaks along the massive Gatling gun in his hands.

  “Do it!” Baylor laughed.

  “Sophie!” Bobby shouted as those huge hands pulled hard on a lever. The rear of the beast fell away, sparks screaming as the brakes bit into the wheels. The riders scattered up and around the train. As the last of them passed between the cars, Price opened fire.

  The noise was unlike anything Bobby had ever heard before. Even a good distance away, the building whine and eruption of bullets sent a trembling wave through his body. One moment the riders were there, scattered around the tracks, and the next, Price cut them down, evaporating some of them in clouds of misty blood. The big man aimed high to spare the horses. Bodies were cut in two. Cascading streams of ropey muscles and innards hung on the orange backdrop like beautiful brushwork before raining down on to the hot sand.

  The big man’s aim had been perfection. The horses were free of their burdens but coated in their blood. Bobby lost sight of the train and the carnage as they passed a rippling dune.

  “Price got them!” Bobby cheered. “We got them!”

  “Yeah, kid, we did. We got them.” Baylor finally let him go.

  The Mad Conductor slid back against the car, feet dangling over the edge. He scratched his stubbly scalp, staring off into the distance.

  “I’m going to stop us so we can put the beast back together.” Bobby stood, smiling. The weight of the fight lifted from him.

  Baylor put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Can’t let you do that, kid.” Baylor’s voice was utterly defeated. He carried the weight of his decision clearly, and the loss of his men even more so. “They’re heading home. Can’t risk it. Can’t risk your son. He’s too important. Can’t risk my ladies. Shit, can’t risk Price either.”

  “No,” Bobby said.

  “Conductor’s orders, kid. No exceptions, and it’s not up for discussion. I thought long and hard on this one. If we’re to have even the slightest chance of seeing this shit through, they need to be elsewhere. Hate me, fucking hate me all you want. Take your shot. I see it in your eyes. Take the fucking shot. I’m a piece of shit. I know. I’ve been thinking about this since we got the message. Shit’s not even about the fucking coast anymore. Fucking pipe dream. It’s different.” Baylor shook his head and laughed. Sweat and blood covered every inch of his weathered face. The end of things was a fucking badge of courage on that mug.

  Bobby flexed his fingers, clenched his fist, and unloaded on Baylor. His knuckles crashed into the Mad Conductor’s face. He had no intention of pulling the punch and he dug his knuckles in for full effect.

  “You’re right,” Bobby said robotically. The coldness settled on him. He stood and flipped the rifle from his back. He racked the bolt, checked the action, inspecting the weapon for damage, then counted his shells. He fell into the litany of structure, of order, the only thing keeping him from giving in and losing it all. It didn’t matter what Baylor was about to say to him. There were no words. There was only fighting, always fighting, always struggling. They were gone, and everything was wrong. He kicked one of Baylor’s bloody teeth over the edge with his boot.

  “I know, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now we figure out what the fuck is going on. I lost a lot of men today. Men that shouldn’t have died. Not from the wounds they had. How bad was Hoss?”

  “Bad.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. They were fine, and then there were—”

  “Creepers. Hoss was the same way. He was yelling at me to keep the fire going and then he was gone.” Bobby kept the details to himself. Baylor didn’t need to know what he’d heard, what he’d discovered. It was his burden now.

  “What’s he like right now?”

  “Hoss is gone. There’s nothing there.”

  Bobby… a familiar voice called.

  Suddenly a monitor flicked on for the briefest of moments then it was gone, snatched away by speed and distance. Bobby tried to catch the images but they’d come and gone so quick. Though there was no mistaking the voice.

  It was Price’s.

  CHAPTER 10

  Moya found the soldier fascinating. After more than twenty years, here he was. After his world had been annihilated, obliterated, and forgotten, here he was, still fighting. He battled not out of survival or instinct. He fought for belief, wearing his uniform proudly, neat, even covered in viscera. She silently cheered him on, but knew it was unnecessary. He would not fall to them.

  She watched him work the edge of the pit, always in motion, never in the same direction, a little clockwise, pulling the horde, then counter. He moved in measured steps and applied just enough force to drop them, and then he went to the next, conserving energy. He purposely pulled the fresh ones first, leaving the paper targets for the end. He always struck at the temple, horizontally, never down—a quick crack, sending shattered bone into the delicate brain matter. Brutally beautiful.

  Moya stirred in the saddle as she leaned over for a better view. The ropey muscles of his forearm glistened with sweat, flecks of blood, and bone hung from his hair, but he never wavered in his mission, in his belief. It was clear to her, as it had been since she’d first laid eyes on him. He believed he would see it through, that the old ways would win out, and he believed it with the same conviction she believed her army would pave the new way. She admired him on a level she never thought possible.

  Her men upped bets, cheering him on. That is, all of them but Keaton. She watched fear linger on her right hand’s wrinkled brow, but also noted a measure of respect.

  “Quite the prize isn’t he, Keaton?”

  “Soldier boy’s cut from a cloth they ain’t making no more. God and country. I know the type.” Keaton spat. “Tough son of a bitch too, like them boys I saw fight outside Cheyenne. Fucking walked into the lions mouth. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. Dying for the sake of dying is fucking stupid.”

  “Well said, Keaton. Well said. We know better.”

  “That’s right, Miss Moya. We do.” Keaton adjusted the brim of his hat. He traced the scrap of hair and scalp poking out from the band with a gloved fingertip.

  “Wise man you are, Keaton. You never forget,” Moya said with an understanding nod.

  “Fucking stupid to forget too. The re
st of my kin did and, well, you know that story, Ma’am.”

  Moya nodded. She knew the limits Keaton had gone to, and in some cases surpassed, to make it to this point. She’d heard the story many times, over many fires, and it never changed, not even a single detail. It was truth and it was why she could trust him.

  He’d been a part of another group once, but one fateful night, the night she met him, the night both their lives were forever changed, she knew him only as an enemy. She was much younger then. Somewhere in her mid-twenties. A lithe thing with the whole world wide open to her. She’d been scrounging out a living on the outskirts of San Antonio, raiding houses, slipping into the wilds, and returning only for supplies.

  She’d gotten quite good at it, but she made a mistake. She didn’t cover her tracks. She’d fallen complacent after months of having her fill. And it was that night that they caught her.

  They toyed with her at first, poking and trying to intimidate with all their bravado, using terror as a weapon, but Moya, even then, was unfazed. She’d been caught, though that did not mean captured. She needed an opening. A full on assault would only get her killed. So she waited. She feigned fright, played what they expected—the frightened little girl, the vulnerable maiden. And they ate it up.