Apocalypticon

by Clayton Smith

  Bloom signaled to Hammock. “You. You’re off the train. This stop is yours. Stay here, secure the campus. Start with the recreation building. Put down anyone who gets in the way.”

  Hammock beamed at the honor. “Yes, sir! And what do we do with these books?”

  Bloom lowered his calm gaze to the little pile. “Burn them.”

  •

  Ben felt pretty damn good. He had a full can of chili and almost a third of a bottle of vodka in his belly, and between the hot food, the booze, and the fire, he was warm, inside and out, for the first time in years. The company wasn’t so bad, either. Lindsay was right, the hippies weren’t really that hippyish, mostly just even-tempered college kids. No one seemed interested in discussing their favorite obscure Swedish indie band, and not a single one of them owned a Hacky Sack. They’d dodged a bullet there. A few of the kids at their fire were actually pretty funny, and it was nice to be outside, looking up at where the stars would be if they could see through the fog. Even a dark haze was better than the stucco condo ceiling. The air outside was fresh, by post-apocalyptic standards, and the way people laughed and told stories around the fire, hell, it was almost like old times. Just a few square miles from normal. His face still hurt like a mother, despite the alcohol, and he was still going to kick Patrick squarely in the balls as soon as he got a clear shot, but, all in all, things were good.

  The kids around their fire called it a night. They wished the travelers well, then scooted out into the darkness, toward the campus. Ben passed the vodka to Patrick, who took a long swig. He was turning red in the cheeks, a good sign that he’d had almost enough to start making a fool out of himself. That made Ben happy too. No one made a drunken fool out of himself like Patrick made a drunken fool out of himself. Patrick turned to hand the bottle to Lindsay, but she was suddenly gone. “Hey. Where’d she go?” he asked.

  “She’s over there, talking to the Ruby Slipper Gang,” he said, pointing to a group of girls around the fire, each one of whom wore her hair in braided pigtails.

  “Man,” Patrick said, blinking hard. “She talks a lot.”

  Ben nodded vigorously. “Yeah, she does. I thought journalists were supposed to be good at listening.”

  “I know, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s totally nice.” Patrick tipped back the bottle, then handed it to Ben.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, no, she’s nice,” Ben agreed wholeheartedly. “I just don’t really want her to talk anymore. Is that a mean thing to say?”

  “No-no-no-no-no,” Patrick said. “It’s the right thing to say, you know why? You know why? ‘Cause it’s the truth. And the truth is always right.”

  “Yeah,” Ben slurred. “We’re right.” He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, blowing across the mouth of the bottle. The low woooooooooo carried across the platform. Someone with another bottle at another fire answered with a higher-pitched wooooooooo. Ben raised the bottle to toast his new friend. “The Red Caps seem to like her,” he observed.

  “Who?”

  “The Red Caps.”

  “No, they seem to like who?”

  “Whom.”

  Patrick sighed. “They seem to like whom?”

  “Lindsay.”

  “Ah!” Patrick slapped his knees with his hands. “Yes. They do. You know why? Because she is a female who does not ignore them. That’s a Red Cap’s kryptonite.”

  Ben pondered this for a moment. “That sounds like my kryptonite,” he said.

  “It’s all men’s kryptonite,” Pat admitted. “If it looks like a woman, and smells like a woman, and talks like a woman, and is a woman, we like getting attention from it.”

  “Until we get too much attention from it,” Ben added.

  “Yes. There’s a fine line there. Not many women can walk it.”

  “I should date a tightrope walker,” Ben mused. “That would be stupid hot.”

  “Are you sure you’re not thinking about a contortionist?” Patrick asked, squinting into the fire. “That’s the hot kind of circus performer. Tightrope walkers are just regular people who can walk a straight line. They’re like sober versions of me. But contortionists! Ooo-wee!”

  “What do you think it would be like to date a fire eater?” Ben asked. “Do you think she would taste like gasoline?”

  Patrick squinted at his friend. “Why would she taste like gasoline?”

  “Because that’s what they put in their mouths. To spit fire.”

  “Wow, no, that is extremely wrong. Extremely wrong. Gasoline is definitely not what they use.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ben insisted. “It’s flammable.”

  “Yes, it is flammable. Highly flammable. If they put gasoline in their mouths and spit it onto fire, their heads would literally explode. They use paraffin.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do I know that?” he frowned. “Oh! I learned it! In Coney Island, at the freak show.”

  “I want to go to Coney Island,” Ben complained.

  “No, you don’t. No one wants to go to Coney Island.”

  “Well, whatever. Do you think she’d taste like paraffin?”

  “You mean...in the mouth? Or...?”

  “Yes, you moron, obviously, in the mouth,” Ben said. “Unless...hmm...” He sat back and sipped thoughtfully.

  Patrick shrugged. “She probably would. Unless you kissed her while she was spitting fire. Then it would still taste like paraffin, but really spicy paraffin.”

  Ben snickered. He didn’t know why that was so funny. It was probably one of Patrick’s least funny jokes. And the man told a lot of unfunny jokes. Still, Ben laughed. It just felt so good to be sitting outside, drinking by a fire. It reminded him of grade school.

  “Why do they let her move through the train?” he asked.

  “Who? The contortionist?” Patrick made grabby hands for the bottle. “Bemme.” Ben obliged him.

  “No, Lindsay. How come she gets to move around, and we don’t?”

  “I don’t know, Benny Boy, but I tell you what. That train car is boring.” Ben nodded. That train car was boring. He was glad they were only taking it as far as St. Louis. He wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to transport themselves the rest of the way to Orlando, but he was glad it wouldn’t be in the train.

  “Last time I rode Amtrak, they let you move around all you want,” Patrick said. “This new Amtrak is bullshit. No food service? Really? I demand my microwavable cheeseburger in a bag!” he cried, stomping his foot. A few kids from the other fires glanced their way, concerned. Patrick smiled and waved to them. He pointed to the bottle, then made the universal hand sign for Oh, it’s fine.

  Ben picked up a twig from the nearby woodpile and held it into the fire. When the tip caught, he pulled it out, blew out the flame, and waved the ember-tipped stick through the air, making streaking light patterns in the darkness. “It’s weird that we can’t move around. Do you think they’re hiding something from us?”

  Patrick crossed his legs and leaned forward. “I’m glad you asked. The thought had crossed my mind. Exhibit A. Did you see the load of books those Caps carted off when we stopped? Where did those books come from?” Ben shrugged. “I’ll tell you where. They came from that train.” He pointed dramatically to the engine behind them. “Do you know what that means?”

  Ben thought hard. The edges of his brain were starting to go soft, and reasoning was becoming a chore. “Amtrak employees are really well read?”

  “No. Well, maybe. Yes. Possibly. Also, one of these cars is being used to store things. Wonderful things, like books. And who knows what else.”

  Ben beckoned for the bottle. “What’s your point?”

  Patrick threw up his hands in exasperation. “My point is, our fearless leader has a car full of treasure, and he’s actively tr
ying to keep us away from it. And if spending several years as a child who anticipated Christmas taught me anything, it’s that if someone’s trying to keep you out of a storage closet, it’s because there’s a very wonderful present inside.”

  Ben sat up straight. “You think they have something wonderful inside?”

  “I do,” Patrick said smugly, crossing his arms.

  “Like a helicopter or something?”

  “Well, not that wonderful. Something a little more modestly sized.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I have no idea. But I think we’ve earned the right to find out.”

  Ben took a sip and realized that he thought they should find out, too. It wasn’t fair, their being quarantined to the one railcar, when literally everyone else on the train got to roam around as they liked. Even Lindsay! Why did she get to visit the storage car? She was a journalist, someone whose career was built upon being nosy and pushy and expository. But she could be trusted with the storage car, and they couldn’t? Absurd! It had to be an oversight. He said as much to Patrick. “Maybe we should just ask Horace if we can look around.”

  “No way!” Patrick shook his head so hard it practically fell off. “That’s a sure way to make him think that we want to take a look around.”

  Ben was confused. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. If he knows we want to look around, maybe he’ll let us look around.”

  “No, you clod! If he knows we want to look around, then he’ll try even harder to make sure we don’t look around. We’ll have a full-on Red Cap army guarding our seats. Is that what you want? To bring the entire Red army into our car? To ride to St. Louis in the Communist country of train cars?”

  Ben had to admit that nothing about that sounded particularly fun. He was having trouble remembering specifics about Communists at the moment, but he had a vague recollection that they wore military lapels and beat people about the face with large automatic weapons. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

  Patrick closed his eyes and tipped his round head back. With his legs crossed and his thin hands on his bony knees, he looked like a disproportionate yogi searching for enlightenment. He inhaled deeply. In doing so, he sucked down a lungful of wood smoke and convulsed into a fit of coughing and choking. Ben jumped up and started whapping him on the back. Patrick’s face turned bright red. His eyes streamed water. He pointed to the bottle of vodka. Ben handed it to him. He took a huge gulp and stopped coughing immediately. Lindsay craned her neck from across the platform and looked over with a combination of concern and pity. Patrick gave her the thumb’s up.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” Ben asked.

  Patrick wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m more than okay, Ben. I just had a spirit vision.”

  Ben looked around. He didn’t see any spirits. “What, just now?”

  Patrick nodded. “It came to me in the smoke. It was the spirit of the Illinois.”

  “The state?”

  “The culture.”

  “Did he smell like corn?”

  “She, Ben. It was a she.”

  “Did she smell like corn?”

  “No, she did not. She smelled like glory.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me that the last train car is the storage car, and that within that storage car, there are great wonders to behold. She told me I would see inside that storage car because it is my destiny. And she told me how I would do it.”

  Ben had to admit, he was impressed. “She said all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how do you do it?”

  “First, we get our hands on that cooking oil in the engine. You’ll need it to create a diversion.”

  •

  Horace flipped the page on his clipboard and continued down the list. Seven four-ounce containers of salt. Check. Two cases of 20 ounce red Solo brand plastic cups. Check. Five walkie talkies, sans batteries. Check. 57 packets of DeKalb corn seed. He counted 54. He counted a second time and got 55. He counted a third time. 55. He counted a fourth time. Satisfied, he made two red marks next to the line item on his sheet. Hopefully, the two missing packets had slipped off the shelves at a lurch. He’d check when he was done with the inventory. If he couldn’t find them, they’d have a round-up in Springfield, and that would put the train behind schedule.

  He moved to the next shelf. 15 used pocketknives, varying sizes and conditions. Check. One coil of wire, 7 feet long. The coil was present, but there was no way to measure its length without unspooling it. He picked it up and examined the tip. It showed a clean cut and was still black from where he’d burned it when he first entered it into the list. If someone had snipped off a length, he had done so with a sharp pair of wire cutters, the likes of which didn’t exist on the train, as far as Horace knew, and had duplicated the burn mark, something almost no one would even think to check for in the first place. The odds of it happening were slim. Satisfied, he scribbled a checkmark on the list.

  Horace enjoyed doing inventory. It calmed him. He didn’t need to think in order to check their stores, and that lack of mental machination was exactly what he needed right now. Because if he started thinking, he would think about his frustration with Bloom, and the more he thought about his frustration with Bloom, the more likely he would be to blow up at him in front of the men when he returned, and one thing a conductor does not do is belittle his Assistant Conductor in front of the Red Caps. He and Bloom would have a calm, civilized, and, most importantly, private chat when he returned.

  Horace checked his watch. Bloom and his men should have been back twenty minutes ago. It was a simple exchange, and the campus practically bordered the train station. His temper flared. He took five deep breaths, his heavy exhales fluttering the handles of his mustache. He still had a little over ten minutes before Bloom’s inattention to time would put them behind schedule. With time to load the new weapons, gather the passengers, secure the train, and fire the engine, they would be cutting it close. They could probably make up some time on the way, but you never knew what was waiting for you on the tracks these days. Not having a safety cushion annoyed him to no end.

  He moved on to the next shelving unit, standing on the tips of his toes in order to peer over the top shelf. He continued marking his marks but found himself idly wondering about the new passenger’s progress on the hydraulic battering ram. He’d hoped to sit down with the young man and have a chat during this stop, but he was so irritated by the argument he’d had with Bloom before he and his men headed to the campus that he decided to do an inventory instead. It was in need of doing anyway, especially if there were two seed packs missing. He’d grab a few minutes with Patrick--was that his name? Patrick?--during the Springfield station stop. If they could still afford a Springfield station stop.

  He finished the inventory quickly and methodically. He hung the clipboard on the hook by the front car entrance, then he returned to the middle row of shelves and lowered himself to all fours. He peered under the shelf but could see nothing in the darkness. He stuck his hand underneath it and wiped it along the floor, brushing away grit and dust bunnies and--ah! There! He slid the two rogue seed packs out and replaced them on their rightful shelf. He walked back to the list by the door and scratched out the two marks next to the seed entry. Satisfied, he crossed to the back of the car, where his cap rested on the stack of milk crates that served as his desk. He pulled out his watch once again and checked the time. His insides boiled, but he fought to retain his calm. One of the men might be watching him from the platform. But Bloom was far past the point of unacceptable tardiness. Horace had half a mind to leave him behind, him and his entire entourage, the handful of Red Caps that followed him like puppies wherever he went. He didn’t trust them, not a whip, and especially not that Calico. The Devil’s Eye, his grandmother would have called his ocular conditio
n. When he was a boy, Horace’s nana kept goats on her farm, and one of them had the same mismatched irises. “The Devil’s Eye,” she’d said, “a demon incarnate.” The goat had seemed calm enough, but Horace could see more than a bit of the devil’s work in Calico. Oh, he had half a mind to leave them behind, all right. He might do it, too, leave them all here to rot, if it weren’t for Louis and Stevens. They were good men, loyal to the train, and he wouldn’t leave them to the same fate.

  Besides, for all his thoughtlessness, Bloom was a capable Assistant Conductor. The train was safe in his hands, as long as Horace was around to keep an eye on him. He’d have a hell of a time replacing him from the current stock of Red Caps. Not that they weren’t able workers, but there was no conductor spirit about any of them. Wouldn’t hurt to start looking for a man to groom, though, he thought, staring at the watch. Just in case...

  He picked up his cap and fitted it snugly on his head. He checked his reflection in the mirror and straightened the brim. He was just about to button up and head back outside to prepare the platform crew for departure when a sudden spark of light flickered in the dead cornfield outside the window. The spark instantly roared into a full-fledged fire that spread across the stubbled ground with lightning speed. The flames flared into a billowing wall of orange and yellow heat that engulfed the entire window. The flames were close enough to the train car that he could already feel the window warming under his fingertips. He stared dumbfounded at the roaring fire for almost ten full seconds before one tiny sentence clicked in his head.