Looking back on it, there were probably dead bodies littering the sidewalks, but how would a few dead bodies look any different from the litter of hobos he passed every day? It wasn’t until he’d reached Union Station that he realized something was seriously wrong. There was no mistaking the previous evening’s passengers rotting on the terminal floor.
Most people would have screamed and fled. But Horace saw an opportunity.
It didn’t take long to confirm that the conductors scheduled for the next Texas Eagle were either dead or no longer bothering with the 9-to-5. Amtrak needed a new conductor. Horace finally had his promotion; the murder of 95% of the U.S. population had made it so.
Now, more than three years later, he was thriving. An operational transportation service was incredibly lucrative in post-apocalyptic America. Refugees were willing to pay everything they had to escape the stench of death and the disappearing rations in their hometowns. Everyone thought somewhere else would be better. It was so stupid. Horace had directed his train all over the country. No city was any better off than any other.
After a time, the refugees became fewer and far between. It meant fewer fares, but that was okay, because Horace was nothing if not adaptable. Bertha’s main focus shifted from passengers to cargo. Survivors were willing to pay top dollar (figuratively speaking, now that the dollar was worthless) for cargo transport. Traders paid him to move large amounts of wares to some post or other a few hundred miles away. Railroad towns paid him to take loads of trash away from their newly erected city walls. Farmers paid to have food shipped to arid regions across the country. He’d hauled everything from carrots to corpses; anything people needed moved or removed.
The years had made him rich and powerful in the eyes of the weak and struggling. He had a legion of Red Caps, a full, capable train staff, an enterprising if not affable Assistant Conductor, complete reign of the entire Amtrak rail system, and a series of strategically placed food and supply depots situated across the country. And sweetest of all, he was acknowledged by everyone he met as Lead Conductor. These had been a good three years, and Horace wasn’t sure what he would do with himself if the well ever went dry.
He entered Chicago’s Union Station through the empty sliding glass door frames, sidestepping to avoid the pickets of glass stabbing out of the black metal. He flagged down one of the Red Caps, an earnest young man named Louis, who came hustling over. “Yes, sir?”
“Take Stevens and find our cargo. Two clients today; we got twenty-four full-size waste containers and a load of scrap metal coming in from that Loop woman’s people, and a pallet of books coming in from the library. Don’t know what the library man’ll look like, but shouldn’t be too hard to spot the cargo. Violet’s paying us in red, six cases, make sure it’s not schlock. As for the books, I want you to pay him from this.” He grabbed a small linen bag from his pocket and tossed it to Louis.
“What are they?” the young Red Cap asked, hefting the light pouch in his hand.
“Bone fragments, from saints. Taken out of church altars, apparently. Seems disrespectful to me, but I guess desperate times and all that. Elsewise, they’re extremely valuable. Rome’s not sending any more of ‘em stateside, so don’t give away more than you have to. Use your best judgment based on the number and quality of the books. Not looking for any specific titles, but you know what I mean. I’d say one fragment for thirty decent books sounds about right. Be fair with the price, but not generous. We only got those ten fragments, plus sixteen more. You got all that?”
Louis nodded. “Waste barrels and metal from the busboys, books from the library.”
“Good boy. Run along.” Louis turned and scampered off in search of Stevens. Horace checked his pocket watch. As always, he was right on schedule.
•
“Now, this bridge looks especially well guarded,” Patrick said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “And everyone on it is wearing a red hat. I received no memo about a red hat.”
“Haven’t you ever taken the Amtrak?” Ben asked. “Those guys are Red Caps. They help old people with their luggage and stuff.”
“Ah, yes! Now I remember. They’re like big Boy Scouts.”
“Sort of. But they don’t sell cookies.”
“Cookies?” Patrick shook his head. “Oh, Ben, your formative years must have been such an incredible train wreck,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “So! Do you think we just...cross...?”
Ben shrugged, looking at the legion of men and women in red caps swarming the walkway. There was a line of them spread out along the entrance to the bridge, with maybe three dozen more spaced out along the road behind them. Another twenty or so surrounded the Adams Street entrance to the Amtrak platforms. “Sure. There’s a lot of them, but they don’t seem particularly violent.” He approached the Adams Street Bridge and took a step toward a gap in the line of Red Caps. A heavily bearded guard one on his left drew back a fist and smashed him in the mouth with a right cross. Ben went toppling over backward, landing in a daze on his pack and looking more like a mutated turtle than ever. Patrick rushed up to him and helped him to his feet. “Nope. Nope,” he said, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I was wrong. They are particularly violent.”
“Huh,” Patrick said. “That guy just punched you right in the face.” He gazed in awe at the Red Cap, who had resumed his formal posture and gazed into the distance, like a British Queen Guard. “That was really nice form,” he said admirably. Ben shoved him away.
“Thanks for the recap. I don’t think they’re going to let us through.”
“Sure, not if we try to just barrel on through. That was a stupid plan. A stupid plan, Ben. Sometimes all it takes it a little honey. Follow my lead.” He turned and approached the line of Red Caps. He picked out a woman who looked especially small and pleasant, and said, “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you would be so kind as to let us pass.” Or that’s what he would have said, if she hadn’t interrupted him by bringing her boot hard into his groin before he could finish the word “excuse.”
“Crip on a crutch!” he shouted, holding a hand to his throbbing genitals and stumbling away from the Red Cap Guard. “They can’t be reasoned with!”
“Seeing your pain actually lessens my pain,” Ben observed.
“Criminy Christmas,” Patrick swore. “I haven’t been kicked by a girl like that since grad school.”
“Probably deserved it then, too.”
“Oh, I definitely deserved it then. I did not deserve it just now.”
“Well,” Ben said, crossing his arms in frustration. “Now what?”
Patrick patted his testicles and made sure everything was in order before craning his neck to see Union Station on the other side of the river. So close, but so far. There didn’t seem to be any easy entrance points into the river, and even if there were, they’d just run up against more Red Caps on the other side. Besides, he knew they couldn’t swim loaded down with all their gear. And he doubted Ben could swim at all, with those stubby legs. He looked downriver and saw what looked like a bridge far in the distance. Roosevelt, he guessed, or maybe Harrison. Whichever street it was, it was located south of a massive wall, easily thirty feet tall, that seemed to stretch from the river across the Loop, probably to the lake. If the train ran true to form, they only had a few more hours to get to the station and talk their way on before it departed. There just wasn’t time to try to go around. “Okay, I have a plan,” he said finally. “But I have to warn you. It’s not a very good plan.”
“I hope it involves you going first.”
“Unfortunately, it does.” Patrick said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Follow my lead. And watch out for fists.” He shook out his hands and cracked his neck. Then he turned back toward the bridge and approached once more. When he got close, about ten feet from the first guards, he pointed to a random Red Cap milling ar
ound just behind the line. “Hey!” he shouted, loud enough to get the attention of everyone in a thirty-foot radius. “It’s you!” He gave his best look of amazed bewilderment and jogged up closer to the line of guards, but out of arm’s reach. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it’s really you! It’s been ages, how are you?” The Red Cap stopped milling and stood rooted to the ground, absolutely dumbfounded by this apparent stranger who suddenly seemed to know him. He wasn’t quite sold, Patrick could tell by the way his eyebrows twitched uncertainly. He pressed on. “You look amazing! God, I never thought I’d see you again! I’m so glad you survived, I thought for sure the whole gang was dead. And here you are, of all places! If that isn’t the craziest--and you’re a Red Cap now!” He put both hands on his hips and gasped in wonder. “Good on you!”
The Red Cap had a crucial decision to make--lie, or risk personal embarrassment in front of his peers. So, of course, he lied. “Oh. Yeah! Hey! Wow! Look at you!” he said, trying to sound convincing. “This is so crazy! What has it been--gosh, I don’t know how long.” Then, brave soul that he was, he took a real chance. “Has it been since...Arkansas?” he tried nervously.
Patrick jumped on the opportunity. “Arkansas!” he cried. “That’s exactly right! My God, the times we had, huh?” he beamed.
“Oh, yeah,” the Red Cap nodded. “I still get...just...chills. Thinking about it.”
“Yeah! Wow! Just...just wow,” Patrick said, giving a low whistle. “Isn’t it crazy that after all these years, it took the apocalypse to get us back together?”
“Sure. When all it would have taken was a phone call,” the Red Cap said, laughing uncomfortably.
Patrick clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Wow, yeah, so, we need to catch up, we--actually, may we?” he asked, taking a careful tiptoe step into a gap in the line of guards.
The Red Cap looked conflicted, but now that he’d committed, it was better for him to embrace it. A lot of people were watching. “Oh! Yeah, yeah, come on through. Guys, let them through. These are old friends. From Arkansas!”
“Go Razorbacks,” Patrick said with a little fist pump. He slid between two stern looking guards. Ben followed close behind. “Go Wal-Mart,” he murmured.
“So,” Patrick said, clapping the Red Cap on the shoulder and bobbing his head encouragingly. “We should catch up. What’ve you been up to? What’re you doing now?”
The Red Cap nodded. “Right, right, well, you know, I work for Amtrak,” he said, pointing to the patch on his shirt.
“Oh, yeah, right, of course. Sounds like a great gig, great...you know...side benefits...and stuff.”
“Yeah, it’s good. It’s good. Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
The three men stood awkwardly, Patrick rubbing the back of his neck, Ben trying to look uninterested, the Red Cap rocking back and forth on his heels. The other Amtrak employees were no longer paying them any attention, and the Red Cap seemed desperate to get out of the situation. He smiled and continued to nod. “Yeah,” he said again.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Ahem. So. What do you think we—“
“Stevens!” came a loud cry from across the bridge. The Red Cap snapped around at the sound of his name. A young, reddish-haired Red Cap was jogging in their direction. Stevens looked mightily relieved.
“Louis! There you are! Great! Louis, these are, ah...my friends,” he said, indicating the other two men.
Louis nodded politely, but he was obviously in a rush. “Horace wants us on cargo duty, stat.”
Stevens let out a massive breath of relief. “Oh! Right! Cargo duty!” He turned to Patrick. “Listen, I am so sorry, but I have to run. It was so good running into you, I’ve got to go, ah...will you two be all right finding your way out? I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Oh, it’s fine! That’s fine, we’ll be fine,” Patrick said, waving him off. “Not a problem. Go on. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay, great. Well. So good to see you!”
“Oh, you too!” Stevens reached out a hand to shake. Patrick misread the gesture and moved in for a hug. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late; he was committed. He embraced the Red Cap slowly and stiffly. Stevens shouldered nervously away, but patted Patrick on the back three times quickly. Then he turned and ran off with the other Red Cap.
Patrick turned to Ben and tapped his finger against his nose. “Just like I planned it.”
“Not bad,” Ben admitted. “I thought I was going to have to go fielder’s choice on these sons of bitches.” He swung the bat lazily for emphasis.
“That’s not--you don’t know baseball, do you?” he asked. Ben shrugged. “Well, what say we go find ourselves a train!”
Now that they had breached the security line, they found the way basically free and clear. A few of the patrolling Red Caps gave them suspicious looks, but most had seen them talking with Stevens, and if some of them hadn’t, well, the fact remained that these two strangers had made it past their defenses, so there must be a good reason for it. It wouldn’t do to question the front line’s abilities before the whole squad. The two travelers hurried across the bridge and up the concrete stairs to the left, to the northeast corner of the 222 South Riverside Plaza building. They nodded politely to the Red Caps guarding the door and were allowed to pass through the doorway. Patrick thought back to a time when he and Annie had ridden the train to St. Louis, back before Izzy was born. They’d used this very entrance, and the doors had slid open at their arrival. Now, those doors were gone, replaced by a huge, ragged hole blown out of the wall. They stepped through gingerly, avoiding dusty, charred rubble, and found themselves on a short landing with four flights of steps directly ahead. The middle rows of stairs were technically escalators, though they weren’t doing much escalating these days. “Pffft,” Patrick said, shooing a hand at the broken escalators. “They didn’t work last time I was here either. I don’t know why I pay my taxes, nothing changes.”
They descended the steps slowly and carefully. The landing was at ground level, so the farther down they went, the farther underground they were. There were no skylights in the station, save a few fist-sized holes that had been blown into the ceiling. A handful of Red Caps scampered through the halls, running errands and paying no attention to the two strangers in the corridor. Every hundred feet of so, a candle burned on the floor along the wall, throwing dim, orange halos and long shadows. Patrick lifted the hammer from Ben’s belt loop. “Hey!” Ben cried, swatting at Patrick’s hand. But Patrick was adamant.
“You’re holding the bat, you can’t use it anyway.” Ben grumbled his assent. Patrick held the hammer in his left hand and took the baton from his pocket with his right, popping it open with a quick flick of the wrist. Behind him, Ben gripped the bat with both hands, ready to swing like Mike McGwire. Or was it Matt McGwire? Pat was right, Ben didn’t really know baseball.
They crept along the hall, passing between a ransacked McDonald’s counter on the right and the black, burned out husk of a Corner Bakery on the left. Something rustled across the McDonald’s linoleum. Patrick swung to the right and raised the hammer, his heart thudding in his chest. A rat raced out of the darkness and stopped three feet from where they stood. It raised its head and screamed at them, then turned and skittered around the corner.
“Jesus hell,” Ben cursed, breathing hard. “What are we doing down here?”
“It’s the only way I know to the platform,” Patrick said. “The train boards underground.”
“Shit, then let’s walk to Disney World. Above the underground, where there’s light.”
“It’s not far. Just be ready.”
“For what?”
Patrick shrugged. “For anything.”
They crept farther down the hall, coming to another set of stairs and broken down escalators. A huge adve
rtisement for Chase Bank covered the steps and the escalator rails. Chase had been Patrick’s bank. “Hey, Ben,” he said, easing himself down the stairs. “Remember money?”
“I remember people talking about money. I don’t remember ever seeing any for myself. Also, Rule Number Seven.” Money is no longer money. Food, weapons, shelter, and clothing are money.
At the bottom of the stairwell, they made a U-turn to the right. Through the gloom, Ben could just barely see the outlines of doorways. The hallway candlelight illuminated thin wisps of Monkey fog on the other side, making the dark air glow yellow. They nearly collided with a Red Cap as they turned the sharp corner. “Watch where you’re going, jackass!” she whispered, before taking off around the corner and up the stairs. Patrick turned to Ben. “Was she talking to you, or me?” Ben shrugged.
They moved cautiously down the hall. Patrick wished, not for the first time in his post-apocalyptic career, that he had an emergency survival flashlight. There was one in the emergency kit in the trunk of Annie’s car, the kind of flashlight that you powered with a hand crank, but it had gone up in flames like everything else. He’d searched everywhere for a replacement, but to no avail. Emergency flashlights were worth their weight in pre-M-Day gold.
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