The Wrath of Wolves

by Kelley York

  “Suppose they let us off at the stop long enough to find out when the next train comes through?” I offer.

  Benji closes his eyes and sighs, bringing his forehead to rest against my shoulder. It’s as good an idea as any, and really the only one we’ve got. Barring getting onto another train…

  We had better get very good at making ourselves invisible.

  CHAPTER 6 - BENJAMIN

  I feel we’ve scarcely moved in the several days since we boarded the train. My joints ache from the inactivity, from sitting so much, from sleeping in such cramped quarters. Even though Preston and I enjoy being close, I think we’re both quite tired of having absolutely no space to do so much as roll over.

  Mostly, though, we’re exhausted.

  We take turns napping throughout the day because neither of us sleep well at night. Whether it’s because we’ve got the chest crammed at our feet or because we spot that man lurking about the car now and again, eyeing everyone with suspicion, I’m not certain. He’s not come through at night again, but that doesn’t mean a thing other than that he and his companions are likely occupied searching through other cars first.

  We’ve had plenty of stops and while we sat there, eyeing the doors and the passengers who both came and left, neither of us moved to disembark ourselves. The stops were short, crowded, and I was not confident if we got off that we would have a viable option for what to do next. The next train could roll through in a matter of hours or a matter of weeks and then what? We’d be stuck in a town we didn’t know with limited funds and a client waiting for us in California.

  One such stop is at a station directly on the border of Indiana and Illinois, where the carman announces we will be paused for nearly an hour should anyone wish to get off for a spell. Preston stands, flashing me a smile. “We might as well stretch our legs and grab a bite to eat since we’ll be here awhile, yeah?”

  I rise to my feet, joints aching in protest, and I hesitate, looking to the bag that had been sitting between us. Preston scoops it up and slings it over his shoulder, and together we file off the train with the other passengers and onto the station platform.

  It’s a much larger station than anywhere we’ve stopped at thus far. Multiple trains are crammed along several tracks and the platform is so busy that it’s difficult to make sense of where we’re supposed to go. In the end, Preston seems to follow his nose and I follow Preston. Not far from the queues at the ticket counters, we locate a string of vendors selling everything from newspapers to trinkets to food.

  Knowing it may be awhile before we have another stop that we feel comfortable getting off at, Preston purchases a few meat pies, some dried salted bacon, and two sandwiches. I peruse the pushcarts, having difficulty finding much in the way of meatless food selections.

  Just as I’m paying for spice cake and a cup of ginger beer, a nagging sensation draws my attention toward the crowds near our train. The man from the first night is difficult to miss with his hulking stature and stark blond hair. He’s far enough away that I’m not overly concerned about being spotted, but I lower my head all the same.

  This is going to be exhausting, worrying ourselves sick aboard this train for another seven or eight days.

  I find my way back to Preston to give him a nudge and a nod toward the man. He looks, frowns, then says, “I’ll be right back. Wait here.” He nips over to the nearby ticket booths to wait in the queue.

  I wrap my hands about my drink, trying to watch the man by the train without making it obvious that I’m watching. My heartbeat is picking up.

  The howling has returned.

  Fainter this time. So faint that I almost think I’m imagining it.

  When Preston returns, I’ve taken a seat near some of the vendors and have finished off my cake.

  “Next train to San Francisco comes through tomorrow evening,” he announces.

  That isn’t so bad. “Any idea if there will be available seats?”

  “No telling until it rolls through.” He sits beside me. “They said it’s coming from New York, and those tend to be fairly packed from here to Nevada.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “So… Either we take the risk or we keep our heads down. What’s it going to be?”

  Preston scratches a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I think we keep our heads down, honestly.”

  Something feels unsettling about that decision. It’s wrong and I do not know why. The howling has grown louder. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it to silence.

  “Benji? What is it?”

  The sound begins to fade just a bit. I exhale. “I don’t know. Something tells me we should stay and take our chances here.”

  He rolls his shoulders back. “There’s, what, two or three hundred people aboard this train and a handful of them? We can handle it.”

  Oh, I want to push back this time. I’m normally so content to let Preston take the lead, to simply follow where he goes. It’s far easier allowing someone you trust to make all the important decisions, to not have to feel guilty if it turns out to be the wrong choice, and yet… I find myself looking back to the ticket booths.

  I don’t like this one bit.

  And yet I relent with a nod and we board the train without another word of protest from me. As we take up a seat, the blond man boards not long after. I notice the way he pauses, the way his gaze seems to linger on us a moment longer than is necessary.

  Lord, I hope we haven’t made the wrong decision.

  ◆◆◆

  Every city and countryside we travel through is blanketed in snow. Inside the car, everything is hot, humid, and smells of sweat, so that when a window is cracked, the feel of the frigid outside air and rain and snow is welcome against my face. Sometimes I press my cheek to the glass; it seems to be the only way I’ve been able to sleep the last two nights.

  Preston fusses over me, over my lack of sleep and, more often, my lack of food intake. It’s true that without meat on the menu, I’m largely surviving off bread and a bit of fruit. Vegetables aren’t a luxury available on a cross-continental train. Hardly a filling diet. But it is what it is and the idea of ingesting meat has not yet begun to sound even remotely better than having near-constant hunger pangs in my belly.

  We pass through the remainder of Illinois and Iowa, and then into Nebraska. At times, the train crawls at a snail’s pace, put off by the influx of snow. More than once, we stop altogether while section hands scramble to shovel the tracks.

  Somewhere in Nebraska, we brave the cold again just to get away from the cramped offerings of the car. Everything aches. I miss the trains back home and I could cry for a proper cup of tea.

  Preston is sleepy-eyed and sluggish beside me. “This is almost worse than the ship.”

  I’m inclined to agree. At least there, we had privacy and some semblance of space.

  “A few more days,” I say gently. “That cart there has got rolls and coffee.”

  He casts me a most unimpressed look. “Will you really not try to eat something proper while we’re stopped? Look—that cart’s got boiled eggs.”

  “I’ll be fine once I’ve bought some more bread.”

  “You’ve been surviving off of bread, Benji.”

  “So have many of the other passengers, if you haven’t noticed. It’s likely all they can afford.”

  He opens his mouth and pauses, looking sheepish that he had not considered such a thing. “I’m afraid I can’t feed them all, but I can feed you.”

  I touch a hand briefly to his arm. “I’m fine, trust me. I’ll stock up on snacks here.”

  We walk the narrow platform for a few minutes, just to work some feeling back into our limbs and restore our food supplies—although I am growing quite tired of bread and potatoes. The station is maybe a tenth of the size of the one back in Illinois and significantly less crowded. I don’t believe anyone disembarked the train who does not intend to continue to the next town. The vendors are still plentiful, probably grateful for the business to come
through such a small stop.

  Before long, the whistle sounds and the attendants begin calling for departure within five minutes. Preston and I make our way back to our car, ensuring our tickets are still on our person, although the attendants recognise our faces by now.

  Yet as we near the train, the increasingly familiar sound of wolves pierces the air.

  I halt dead in my tracks, clamping my hands about Preston’s arm. I see the blond man near our car again. This time, he is not alone.

  Beside him stands a young, dark-skinned woman in similar trousers and shirt and coat as the man’s, with a Stetson hat atop her head. It isn’t the sight of her that has me frightened, though.

  It’s the hulking shape of a dead man directly behind her.

  “Christ, Benji, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Preston says.

  I can scarcely hear him above the howling. I can scarcely hear myself speak, for that matter. “There, by the train.”

  He follows my gaze. “What? What is it? I see him.”

  “We need to go,” I say, urgently, yanking his arm as I step back and away, annoying the crowd around us as they try to file past where we’re holding up the line.

  “What are you talking about—”

  “Preston, please, not back on the train!”

  Thank the Lord above he doesn’t try to argue with me or reassure me that things are fine. Maybe it’s the look on my face or the panic in my voice, but he relents, allowing me to pull him back through the crowd.

  I don’t stop until we’ve crossed the station, circled round the back of a ticket booth. There, Preston drags me to a halt, which might be good because I’d likely haul him halfway across town otherwise.

  “Benji, stop. Breathe. Talk to me.”

  I slump against the side of the booth, pressing a hand to my chest as though it will do anything to still my racing heart. “That woman… You didn’t see it?”

  He glances over his shoulder. Frowns. “I just see that man from the tram, and a woman with him. What am I missing?”

  I open my mouth, close it, at a loss for words. Then my ice-cold fingers catch hold of his hand and I turn him back in the direction of the train.

  Miss Bennett did this once before. She told me I could, too. She told me my presence alone was enough to help others see what I see, right? So I focus, I concentrate, staring at that woman and her ghost.

  The sensation is peculiar, like a wet, sheer cloth being pulled over us. It’s a queer feeling that I pinpoint as having experienced seated at Miss Bennett’s table with her holding mine and Preston’s hands. Her touch, her abilities, had opened our eyes to seeing more than even I have ever seen.

  Now, here in the middle of the train station, with my inexperience, I’m not certain how much Preston is able to see. Everywhere I go there are shadows and shapes at the edge of my vision, ever-present. Now and again I see more tangible forms lingering about in the shadows and I have learned to pay them no mind, to pretend they aren’t there. As Mother always told me to do.

  But this spirit is different. It isn’t malevolence I get from it, no, but the way it lingers near that woman, attached to her like a second shadow, is unlike anything I’ve seen before.

  And I can tell by the look upon his face and the tightening of his hand that now Preston can see it, too.

  “Preston, can you hear the howling? Can you see it?”

  His voice cracks. “Yes. I see it. Whatever it is.”

  He releases me. The woman casts one last look about the platform before trailing after the other passengers, with the blond man on her heels. A faint flicker of worry settles as the attendant calls again for last-minute stragglers to board. We’re supposed to be on that train.

  Taking stock of our situation, however… We’ve got our bags, we’ve got the chest, and we’ve got funds to purchase new tickets. God willing, in a few days we could be on another, safer train on our way to California without having our pursuers breathing down our necks.

  I remind myself of this as the train departs, rumbling away down the tracks. Only once it’s disappeared into the distance—and the howling fades—am I able to fully relax. I slump against the ticket booth, head tipped back, a sigh escaping my lips. Preston levels a concerned frown my way.

  “All right now?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I just… I’ve never seen anything like that. I’ve never seen a spirit attach itself to a person.” I pause. “If a ghost can latch itself to an object, I suppose there’s no reason it couldn’t do the same to a person.” I try to shake the unease of whatever it was we just witnessed. Preston squeezes my shoulder.

  “Seems to be the case, doesn’t it? But she’s gone now, hm? And we’ve got some new things to worry ourselves over. Like where we’re going to stay until the next train with open seating comes through.”

  “Right. Sorry about all this.” I bow my head.

  Preston promptly nudges my chin back up to look at him. “Hey. Don’t ever apologise to me for following your gut. I’ll trust it over most anything else any time. All right?”

  It’s a reassurance that I desperately needed. As I gaze up at him, our eyes locked, I can tell that he means it. He trusts me. He trusts that if I push, it means it’s something important. I only hope that my concerns aren’t unfounded, that my sudden, inexplicable panic doesn’t result in needless frustration and difficulties for us now.

  Preston allows me to linger a few moments longer, just to settle my nerves. We circle around to the front of the ticket booths to address a sleepy-looking attendant. The next train comes through in two days’ time, barring any delays. I wince, but Preston shrugs it off and asks if there are any lodgings nearby for us to pass the time. We’re directed to the only place in town to stay, which is a small inn just up the road.

  When I had imagined America, it was with significantly more deserts, ranchers, and Indians. Significantly less snow. The wild frontier, so to speak. Bellporte, Nebraska is small, undeveloped, and although there is snow on the ground here, it’s mostly slush and chunks of ice. It’s cold out, but the sun overhead feels lovely on my face as we walk down the dirt road.

  The inn doesn’t even have a name outside, simply an old wooden sign hanging cockeyed above the door that reads, aptly, Inn. Through the door is a small lobby, with a restaurant off to our right just past the stairs leading up to, I presume, the rooms. The entire place is relatively silent and devoid of people. Preston and I exchange looks before he steps up to the counter and rings the call bell atop it. A wobbly-legged woman emerges a few moments later and greets us with a toothy, kind smile.

  “Can I help you boys?”

  “We’d like a room for two nights, if you’ve anything available,” I say, as though this place looks like it would be full.

  She snags a key from behind the counter, placing it alongside a guestbook that she slides over for me to sign. “Passing through, eh? Missed your train?”

  I reach for a pen. “Does it happen often?”

  “Often enough. Out in the middle of nowhere like this, we don’t get many visitors otherwise.” She shrugs, extending an open hand. “Two nights will run ya fifty cents. Dinner’s served around six, but that’s an extra fifty each. Lot of the locals gather for music and drinks, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

  I rifle through my rucksack, procuring money to place into her hand for both the room and meals. “It sounds lovely. Thank you very much.”

  She smiles in a way that suggests she finds my polite demeanour refreshing. At my request, she also fetches us a jug of water for our room. Lord knows the pair of us could use some cleaning up.

  There is nothing remarkable about our room upstairs. It’s draughty and small, and given its placement, I would guess it’s directly above the pub. Not a problem for us at the moment, but it might be later if the gathering locals get particularly rambunctious.

  Still, it looks like a piece of heaven right now. Preston falls onto a musty-smelling bed with a groan. I collapse into the bed opp
osite his. After more than a week of sleeping on a train cot, it’s delightful. Neither of us move for the better part of ten minutes. When I lift my head to look over, Preston’s eyes are closed.

  A nap doesn’t sound bad, but I pick myself up to make use of our washbowl. There was little in the way of staying clean aboard the train. Not when we were cramped alongside several other human bodies for twenty-four hours a day.

  After I’ve cleaned up, I drape my shirt across the foot of the bed and take a seat. The bag containing the chest sits on the floor nearby. Howling aside, we’ve not had any further issues with it on the train, which is peculiar, although not unappreciated.

  I steal a glance at Preston, ensuring he is good and well asleep. My hands are clammy and a touch shaky as I reach for the bag and slide the box from inside, placing it on the bed before me. The intricate metalwork was done with great care, and the wood is polished and lovely. Whoever made this did so with a good deal of craftsmanship. Along with the dead woman attached to it, I’m even more curious as to what’s inside.

  That curiosity is enough to overcome my nerves, it would seem.

  I slide my fingers along the three small dials on the face of the box. Each one contains a series of pictures engraved into it—four in all. A bird, a wolf, a dog, and a sheep. To unlock it, I would need the correct picture combination. Wolf, wolf, sheep? No. Bird, wolf, dog? Also no. If I were truly determined, I could go through every single combination to figure it out. Tedious, but plausible.

  But what then? What good would it do us, beyond potentially annoying our client when we deliver the box if they realise that we’ve been snooping?

  Sighing, I place the box back upon the floor and lie down. It’s been a tiring couple of days and I suspect it will only continue to get more hectic. For the time being, I try to push the thoughts of ghosts and haunted women out of my head and catch up on some much-needed rest.

  CHAPTER 7 - PRESTON

  Dreams of home drift in and out of my consciousness, but it’s the howling that draws me from my nap some hours later. My eyes flutter open, puzzled by the sound. When I turn my head to check on Benji, he’s stirring, frowning as he lifts a hand to scrub at his face. By the time he opens his eyes, the howling has stopped.