Hell Train

by Christopher Fowler

  As she walked, she saw that the station windows were crusted with grime and cracked from one corner to the next. The building appeared to have been long abandoned. But according to the map it was on one of very few rail routes through the country.

  Pulling her jacket about her, she assessed her situation. She needed warmth, sustenance, medical help for her bitten shoulder, and it didn’t seem that she would find it here. But she couldn’t go back to the train, not so long as that thing was on board. Damn Scheffen—he must have known what could happen. That was why he’d been so willing to part with company cash—he hadn’t wanted to undertake the job himself. He had danced her about like a string puppet. And her husband had met the fate he most feared.

  Something scampered across the platform, vanishing into the fog. She tried to see what it was, but dismissed it as a fox or cat. She was a country girl, not easily disturbed by creatures whose appetites she could understand.

  She entered the wooden ticket hall, pushing apart cobwebs. Finding a dust-caked window, she peered inside. The room showed no sign of habitation, and yet something was moving about within.

  She peered closer, startling a great red-eyed rat.

  Stepping back, she let it pass, watching as its pink tail trailed across the floor, longing to beat it with a broom.

  It was too cold to stay here, and too dangerous to return to the train. She had no jacket, no bags, and her shoulder hurt like Hades.

  As much as she had at first felt safer at the station, she now also sensed something terribly wrong. An odd bitter smell of earth and animals and death, growing heavier by the second, and a faint sound, like a cow breathing. It was coming from above.

  Slowly she looked up.

  The Biter was hanging upside down from the ceiling. Its claws dug into the plasterwork, which sifted down onto her. Its shroud was folded about it like a great blanched bat.

  There was no more screaming now. Miranda ran. The Biter dropped in near-silence and scuttled after her, enjoying the chase. Back out on the platform, she reached the edge of the tracks, dropped down and set off over cinders and gravel. I can be too easily found on the station, she thought. It will be safer away from the lights. Royal family! Hunting its prey like vermin, so much for the dignity of fine breeding.

  It was not following. That was good. No—not good. Enshrouded by the mist, she had not seen that she was entering the station’s siding, leading to a dead end.

  Her hunter was in no hurry. It knew that she was trapped, and could close in for the kill at its leisure.

  She realised what was bothering her. It had been here before. It knew the station’s layout. But how was that possible?

  With the idling train still at its back, the Biter followed her at an ambling pace, raising its head to sniff the air, coming closer through the parting fog, waiting for the moment to strike. As it bore down on her, she looked up and saw it in magnificent triumph, stalking her with great patience, immensely tall and rotted, wreathed in scraps of glistening night air. There was an air of decayed nobility about it, as if even in life it had enjoyed preying on its subjects.

  Miranda had reached the end of the siding, where coal was stacked for the tenders. She saw with a sinking heart that there was no possible way out. Climbing the fence and the embankment would take too long.

  The etiolated creature was through with playing. It wanted to feed. It cartwheeled toward her, settling upon her like a vast bat, parting its needle teeth to take out her throat. It fidgeted to find the best position.

  As the ghoul prepared to feast on her blood, Miranda knew that these were the last moments of her life, lost in the darkness of a strange land, far from the country she loved, abandoned even by her cowardly husband, the man she had been foolish enough to marry. All she felt now was the disappointment of not having appreciated the rules of the game.

  Reaching down, the Carpathian buried one clawed hand into her wounded shoulder, causing her to yelp in pain while it snatched back the royal seal with the other. She saw its mouth, smeared with her blood. Its eyes were growing brighter.

  THE RAILWAY SIGNAL changed its position with a clang. Back on the train, Nicholas heard a terrible inhuman cry out in the night and ran to the window. ‘God, what is that?’ he asked Isabella. Unclipping a torch from the carriage rack, he shone it into the dark.

  There, in the siding, something white was hunched over, feeding.

  ‘Hey, driver,’ he shouted, leaning from the window, ‘more light!’

  The driver heard his call and raised the train’s fierce main beam. It caught the signal and the scene beyond it. The Biter reared up above Miranda, baring its bloody teeth, lost in sensual gluttony.

  Nicholas saw the raised light from the train hit the siding signal. It threw a huge crucifix of shadow over the ghoul, transfixing it. Miranda seized the unexpected moment, shoving the unholy creature back into the centre of the cross.

  The Biter flinched in pain and looked up to find itself trapped within the negative cruciform. Much to its surprise it burst into flame, as Miranda screamed with delight.

  The Biter’s body scarred in bloody segments as it shifted about, trying to free itself. The crucifix of shadow seared its skin. Miranda seized the moment to snatch back the seal. As the train curved towards her, she scrambled to her feet and ran.

  The Arkangel’s wheels turned more quickly as it began to pick up speed and leave the station. Miranda was losing blood, losing consciousness, but she had regained her booty, and now there was only one thought in her head—Get back on board before the chance is lost. In its death throes, the burning ghoul managed to roll free of its trap. Summoning the remains of its dying strength, it soared up and strode behind her.

  Hunter and pursued were caught in the glare of the train. As the Arkangel rolled forward, its headlight grew more intense. Miranda looked up in time to see the Biter’s flaming form come at her, its screaming mouth agape. It was in agony, and nothing would stop its attack.

  Isabella had seen the ghoul catch fire from her window. Now Miranda was running toward her, bloodied, wailing, the creature closing in behind her. Opening the door, she leaned out as far as she dared and outstretched her arm, calling to her.

  Miranda knew that if she could reach help she might still leave the Biter behind. But even now, when she had a slender chance to save herself, she fought to retain the monarch’s golden seal, gripping it tightly to her breast. It was all she had left.

  ‘Damn you!’ she yelled in the creature’s startled face as it appeared beside her, ‘Don’t you think I earned this? You’re dead, what do you need it for?’ But of course the ghoul had more need of it than she, for without it there could be no true rest.

  Miranda had managed to hang onto the seal, but its spikes were searing her palm. Still she would not relinquish it.

  She had almost reached the carriage.

  Isabella’s fingers touched Miranda’s—she had hold of her, but Miranda had the gold seal in her other hand, and the demon was reaching for it, its hands opening and closing in a grasping gesture, then seizing and dragging at the chain, determined now to remain attached.

  Miranda pulled at the golden rope but it would not come free. Pressing its advantage, the Biter used the chain to pull itself forward. The creature’s spindly legs kept pace beside the train. The righteous flames that tormented its skin had burned out, and it was starting to revive.

  Miranda tried to pull the chain toward her, but the Biter would not let go. Her greed had locked them both in place, conjoining their fates. The train was rapidly approaching the signal, which reared up before them like a great standing cross.

  The Biter swung in to avoid it, but there was another smaller signal behind. She saw it happen moment by moment. The second signal’s metal arm went through the Biter’s rotten flesh, slicing it open at the hand and the shoulder, severing its limbs and freeing its yellow head, which bounced and tumbled away from the train as its body collapsed. It was an undignified end for a man who had
once been a crowned prince of Europe. She wanted to laugh in the face that rolled over and over, still eyeing the seal.

  Suddenly released, Miranda fell back, covered in the Biter’s gore—she was free, still holding the burning chain as the train passed her. But why was it growing hotter? The seal was still in the control of its owner, it was as if it had a mind of its own. Looking down, she saw the Biter’s lopped-off hand, still tightly gripping the chain.

  She was free, and had managed to pace beside the train. Its doors and windows were tauntingly close.

  Miranda felt the chain move, and looked down as the end with the clasp snaked out into darkness and under the rolling carriage, lost from sight. She tried to stop in time to pull it free, but it was too late.

  It felt as if it was wrapping itself around the axle of the train’s wheels, and although she tried to let go her flesh was stuck to it now. The seal was holding her back. Suddenly the chain went taut, then pulled hard.

  It dragged her underneath the hurtling cars, slamming her body over the sleepers. The vicar’s little wife was quickly torn to bloody scraps of flesh and bone, until there was nothing recognizably human about her.

  And the Biter—

  —the biter—

  —the bite—

  —bite—

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE STUDIO

  ‘BITE.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bite. Look, just here. You brute.’

  Emma twisted about before the mirror and examined the small blue bruise on the back of her neck. The hotel bedroom was unbearably hot, but they had not been able to turn off the radiator.

  ‘Show me,’ said Shane. ‘Good God, did I do that? And on your arm. I didn’t mean to. I get carried away sometimes.’

  ‘Sometimes?’ Emma arched an eyebrow at him. She was wearing the most extraordinary brassiere, like ribbed white armour plating. He had given up trying to get it off. Perhaps all Englishwomen wore them. Emma was a different species to the kind of women he met in California: paler and calmer, with a confusing sense of privacy that stopped him from knowing which subjects were off-limits. Surprisingly free-minded in bed, though.

  She rose and went to the window, sliding it open a little while he lit a cigarette. The wood was damp and stuck in the frame. She could smell the trees, the river, the night. She picked up a dogeared paperback from the table and examined it. ‘Getting ideas from this?’

  ‘What, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the history of the First World War? Sort of. It all goes into my head and comes out into the typewriter. No idea appears by itself.’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll never really understand how writers work. I suppose this is a holiday fling for you. Five days to write a script. End of day one. What an awful lot you’ve achieved.’ He had let her read the pages, and couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him.

  ‘If the screenplay flies, I’ll stay,’ he said. ‘I have no reason to go rushing back to Hollywood.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I think you’d find it all a bit small here. And you’d probably end up hating me. I just don’t want you to feel trapped.’ She turned to him, radiant and resigned. ‘What I mean is, it’s fine as it is. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you would be.’

  She tried to frame her words a little more exactly. ‘I mean, your reputation precedes you. I knew what I was getting into.’

  Shane had been romantically linked with one of Corman’s leading ladies. He was surprised she had heard about it. ‘I guess word travels fast. Well, don’t believe everything you hear. And don’t forget we’ll be working together.’

  ‘I’m not sure the place is quite your style. If you only knew how the company worked.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Like God, in mysterious ways. Michael has a brilliant business head, like his father. But how anything gets done—well, that’s the question. We’ve always rather muddled along. Nobody saw the horror thing coming. It was the X certificate that made us, you know. We were making crime thrillers, potboilers, terribly tame stuff. Jimmy Sangster’s scripts were always good, but it was adding the big X into our title treatments that got the kids in. X The Unknown, The Quatermass Xperiment, such a simple idea. It made them feel they were seeing something their parents wouldn’t approve of, something forbidden.’

  ‘But reinventing Dracula and Frankenstein, that was clever—’

  ‘Those films were only around a sixth of our output. We didn’t know they’d work until the censor started complaining. And then the newspapers—well, now you can’t imagine the uproar but at the time you’d have thought we were inciting teenagers to commit murder. After that it was a red rag to a bull, and I suppose we baited poor old John Trevelyan a bit. You know, put a bit of extra gore into the scripts for him to remove. And all in glorious Technicolor. The vicars of Britain and their county wives were up in arms.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Michael’s more worried about the Americans than he lets on. They’re taking bigger chunks of the profit, taking more creative control. Every picture has more lawyers working on it than the last. And the box office admissions aren’t what they were. We can’t go on forever. It upsets Michael that we’ve never been able to crack American television. We tried a series in 1958—’

  ‘Tales of Frankenstein. What went wrong?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. The networks got nervous. Problems with the subject matter. The Americans remain rather a mystery to us. No manners, our producers reckon, all in it for the money. They hold the purse strings. The rising empire always lords it over the fading one. Michael doesn’t think they’ll have the upper hand forever, though. He thinks the East will eventually make the West look like paupers. Hong Kong has a very robust film industry. He’s already looking for an output deal with them. You could help to turn our fortunes around, Shane. We need new blood.’ She laughed. ‘Rather appropriately.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ve nailed the first part of the script. If I can get the rest right and deliver by Friday, maybe we’ll make a hit and save the company.’

  ‘Things aren’t quite that desperate yet, but one can see which way the wind is blowing. They don’t know where to go next, you see. I think our films need a bit more oomph. We don’t have much success with our young male leads. Some of them have the right look, but they never really seem to come alive, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Did you go to film school?’

  ‘I did a course at the LFS, but I think I got the job because I could type and I have good legs. Women don’t think of coming into a business like this. They haven’t got the confidence.’

  ‘Would you help me?’ Shane rose from the bed and looked around for his shirt. ‘Read a few pages back, make sure I’m following the house style.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ A smile touched her lips.

  ‘If I get the job, I get to stay.’

  She pushed at his bare chest, shoving him back onto the bed. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘We have all night.’

  ‘You need your sleep. Besides, I know the landlord here and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. He puts a lot of our talent up. I have my reputation to think of. Not that I make a habit of this. I’m a nice girl.’ She rose and dressed, pushing her hair back in place. ‘I’ll pick you up at around eight thirty and bring you to the studio. I want you fresh and full of ideas by tomorrow.’

  After she had gone, he closed the window to trap her scent in the bedroom, unscrewed the cap from a bottle of Haig whisky and removed the dust cover from the typewriter.

  Then he climbed back on board the train.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE CONDUCTOR

  THEY WERE ON the move again. Isabella ran back along the corridor, looking for Thomas. He and Miranda had started off toward the guard’s van shortly after their journey had begun, to undertake a mysterious mission that would pay their passage. Only Miranda had re-emerged, chased by some ki
nd of bone-yellow hell-demon, and now she was dead.

  Isabella rubbed her forehead, wondering if she was suffering from hallucinations. And yet even as the thought struck her, she felt sure that what she had witnessed was true. The train—they had accepted its invitation to board, and now there was no way off, and no way back.

  She reached the door of the guard’s van and opened it. Inside stood a battered, magnificent coffin wrapped in chains, but there was no sign of the little vicar.

  There were signs of a fight, though—something violent had happened here; splinters of wood, drag marks to the guard’s van door, which stood wide open. She slid it shut. The creature that had pursued Miranda must have emerged from this.

  But if it had come from the coffin, why was the lid now closed, and what was that noise coming from inside? She knelt down beside the casket, placed the flat of her hand on the wood, and listened. It must be Thomas who lay inside. Exhausted by his efforts to escape, he had fallen still, but she could hear him panting for breath. There couldn’t be much air within.

  Isabella felt a sting in her hand and looked down to see blood on her palm. A gold crucifix was sticking out of the crack in the lid. She wiped her palm and watched as it moved back and forth. In one last desperate attempt at freedom, Thomas had torn his cross from his neck and had jammed it into the seal of the lid.

  Rising, she frantically searched the van for something to use, and spotted the shovel. She raised it high and slammed it into the crack between the two halves of the lid. The shovel blade slid in easily and sank deep, stopping when it encountered flesh. There was a pained yell from inside. Isabella twisted the blade with all her might and felt the wood crack.

  Gasping and retching, Thomas burst from the splintered coffin. He clutched at his throat, trying to speak. He was sweating violently and white-faced, his terrified eyes starting from his head.