Apocalypticon

by Clayton Smith

  The cooking oil.

  Uncontrolled fire was always a serious threat to the train; there was enough diesel fuel in the engine to blow the thing to pieces. That was why the supply car was the last car, out of range of any serious explosions that might flare up front. But now there were 25 sealed barrels of combustible cooking oil in the supply car. If the fire got close enough to heat the fuel to its flash point, all their cargo, the entire train, Christ, the entire station, would go up in flames! He didn’t know the combustible temperature of cooking oil, but he sure as goddamn wasn’t going to sit here and find out.

  He hustled to the door, glancing off the corner of a shelving unit in his rush. He paused between the cars and assessed the fire. It wasn’t as close to the train as it had seemed from inside the car. That was good. But a stiff wind could change that in a second. If he could pull the train up a few hundred yards, they’d clear the danger zone enough to buy them the time they’d need to get everyone on board and lock up the train. Dammit, Bloom, where are you?

  He was just about to hop down from the cars and run to the engine when something snagged in his brain, something about the way the fire had grown. He looked out again, more closely. The flames had spread in a straight wall parallel to the train tracks. But now, looking carefully, he could clearly see breaks in the wall. Every fifty feet or so, the flames disappeared for a few feet, then started back up again, stretching another fifty feet. He could also see several lines of flames shooting back west, almost perfectly perpendicular to the main wall before him, but the field wasn’t completely engulfed in flame. The fire was burning in high, wild, but controlled lines.

  Horace’s eyes narrowed behind his lenses. He turned and climbed up the metal footholds stamped into the outside of the car. He pulled his way up to the roof of the train, cursing his poor physical condition. He scrambled to his feet when he reached the top and turned to look out over the field.

  He was right. The fire was controlled. Extremely controlled. Below him, spelled out in walls of fire eight feet high and stretching the length of an entire football field, was the word HELL.

  •

  Patrick watched the conductor’s feet disappear over the top of the train car. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. There were people everywhere, but they were all in such a panic over the fire, no one was paying him any attention. Red Caps and college students alike ran around calling for water and shouting orders and expletives at each other. Well done, Benny Boy. Well done.

  He leapt up onto the coupler and slipped into the last car. He quietly slid the door shut behind him, testing it to make sure he wasn’t locking himself in. Satisfied, he brushed his hands together and smiled confidently. James. Effing. Bond.

  “Ooo-wee,” he said, giving a low whistle as he walked through the car. It was built like the other passenger cars, but the inside carried some serious modifications. The seats had all been removed and replaced with stacks and stacks of metal shelving units, which lined both sides of the aisle. They were bolted firmly into place at the floor, the ceiling, and the outer walls. Patrick grabbed the edge of one and shook it with all his might. The metal didn’t budge.

  The shelves were all labeled on the aisle side like library stacks, A to K on the left, L to V on the right. Each unit held six shelves, and each shelf was divided into two compartments. Each compartment was numbered, 1 through 12. He inspected the shelves immediately to his right, M1 through M12, and instantly realized why Horace didn’t want them traipsing around the train. The M shelves were loaded with cases of alcohol. On further inspection, he found that the same was true for shelves N, O, and P. They were crammed full of booze. The cases were separated neatly according to type and, in some instances, subdivided by brand. He let his eyes wander over the shelves, involuntarily emitting soft, dreamy sighs as he reached out and touched sealed cases of Johnny Walker Black, Johnny Walker Red, Buffalo Trace, Bulleit, Early Times, Knob Creek, Gosling’s, Captain Morgan, Belvedere, Three Olives, Beefeater, Smirnov, Bombay Sapphire, Sauza, 1800, Casa Noble--he stopped when he felt his eyes getting wet. He scrubbed at them with the hem of his shirt, embarrassed to be getting so emotional over liquor. It’s not even that he wanted it that badly (though he did want it all, pretty badly), but he was just so glad a stash like this existed. Regardless of who would enjoy them, there were completely full, unbroken, unsmashed, unopened bottles of quality alcohol in this post-apocalyptic shithole of a country, and, dammit, that was worth a tear or two.

  Just then, a loud, panicked voice floated past the car, and Patrick realized that he was standing right in front of a window. “Cripes!” he said, diving to the floor. So much for James Effing Bond. More like Mr. Effing Magoo. He lay still on the floor, his ear pressed against a heap of hard dirt crystals. He screwed up his mouth in disgust. It was official; vodka still didn’t make him any smarter. But, hey, it had gotten him into worse scrapes, hadn’t it?

  He pushed himself slowly off the floor and crouched under the window. He peeked out through the bottom corner. He was facing the platform opposite the fire, and he guessed most of the people who had been sitting there around their friendly little fires had scampered around the train to watch the huge, terrifying, dangerously exciting fire on the other side. The platform was almost empty, save for a small group of Red Caps approaching from the north. He shied away from the window and whispered, “Shhhhh!” to no one in particular. He deduced that these Red Caps were Bloom’s men, mostly because he saw Bloom bringing up the rear. One of them was pulling the cart, now full of sticks and axes instead of books. Patrick began to turn back to the shelves when one of the Red Caps stepped into the light of a campfire. His white shirt was covered in blood. From the way he carried himself, it wasn’t his own. And was Patrick misremembering, or was the party smaller now than it was when they left? The vodka made his memory cottony, but he was pretty sure there should be more men out there. Something had happened on the campus. It probably had something to do with hippies.

  By the time he realized they were about to enter his car, they were already climbing the stairs. He cursed under his breath and dove across the aisle. The rows were darker on that side of the train, if only slightly. He kept himself low to the ground and disappeared as far into the shadows as the space would allow. One of the Red Caps entered just as Patrick pulled his legs up under his chin. “Let’s get them things stowed ‘fore that fire takes flight,” the man said. Patrick heard a scraping sound and several grunts. A second man was bringing up an armful of weapons. Patrick squeezed a hand over his mouth to keep his breathing quiet. The two men walked past his row without looking in. They walked down to row H. Patrick could just make our their movements through the spaces in the shelving units.

  “Put ‘em there for now,” the first Cap said. “We’ll inventory later. Between that fire and the clock, Horace is likely to shit.” The second Cap dropped the clubs and axes to the ground. There was a shuffling sound, then the first Cap said, “Leave it. We’re pulling out.” They walked back to the door, passing Patrick once again without so much as a hesitation, and closed the door behind them. Patrick exhaled. Thank God. Now I can get back to breaking and entering.

  He took stock of the shelves around him. They seemed to contain quite the mélange of cargo. Some of the items were impossible to make out in the dark, but he definitely recognized a bag of clothespins, half a dozen jars of either jelly or candle wax, a box of University of Miami - Ohio apparel, a first aid kit, an antique mantle clock, a fax machine, three blenders, a black bearskin rug, and...holy shit, was that a flamethrower? “This place is the world’s best, crappiest flea market on wheels,” he muttered.

  He got to his feet and explored the rest of the car. Most of the shelves contained items that made sense--stores of food, bottled water, handheld weapons, maps--but he couldn’t figure out why on Earth they were traveling with a Smurfs movie poster, or why a St. Alphonsus 1987 yearboo
k inhabited a place of apparent honor just one shelf above the red wine. Then, of course, there were the barrels of oil, 25 sealed drums that the Caps had somehow crammed into the back corner of the car. There were no shelves for the last twenty feet or so, just two restrooms and a stack of milk crates bolted to the floor in front of the only pair of seats left in the whole car. The cooking oil barrels filled both bathrooms and almost all of the open space in the back of the car.

  Having conquered the cargo hold, Patrick decided he might as well jump to the second-to-last car to see if any secrets lay hidden there. He started back down the aisle, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a dark silhouette approach the car door. The Red Caps were back! He panicked and ducked up and to the left just as the door slid open. By some divine providence, the scrape of the opening door covered the sounds of his scuffling into the corner.

  He closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

  •

  As always, Bloom appeared calm, even bored. It only made Horace’s anger boil all the more.

  Horace pulled Roland, the senior Red Cap, aside and told him to secure the train and pull out. The Red Cap looked justifiably confused. “Sir?” he said, not quite understanding.

  “Secure the train, get us moving,” Horace said again, through gritted teeth. He knew the Cap was capable of moving the train, at least for a little while. Besides, he only needed ten minutes, he told himself. It would take Roland longer than that to get the train secured. Ten minutes, and he’d be rid of Bloom, and they’d be on their way. He’d resume his conductor duties before they moved an inch. And if not, well, Bloom could sit down and shut the hell up until they got to Springfield. As far as Horace was concerned, Bloom was done.

  Roland gave a quick salute and ran off to round up the other Caps. Horace didn’t even look at Bloom; he couldn’t. He beckoned with one finger and stalked over to the cargo hold. He wanted privacy for this.

  He stepped up and into the dark car and stormed straight past the shelves to his desk. Bloom followed him in at an easy pace. Horace thought he saw a smile on the man’s face as he emerged from the shelves and took up a post against one of the oil barrels. God, he’d never wanted to brain anyone so badly in his entire life. He crossed his arms and tried to focus on the best way to approach the subject. Finally, he said, “Well. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Now Bloom did smile. “Are you my father now?”

  “I am your conductor!” Horace shrieked. Christ, didn’t that mean anything anymore? “You tell me what the fuck happened out there! Start with what happened to Louis and Stevens and end with why the hell Calico is covered in blood!”

  The smile disappeared from Bloom’s face. His lips became razor thin. “I should be asking you what happened,” he said, his voice taking a cold, ringing edge.

  “How the hell should I know?” Horace cried.

  “Because you’re the one who sent us out there, undermanned against an entire goddamn army!”

  Horace was exasperated. “What the hell are you talking about? Simms was one man, one man, and a philosophy professor, for Chrissake! What in God’s name happened out there? I won’t ask it again!” He smashed his fist on the milk crate, probably breaking his little finger in the process.

  Bloom placed his palms calmly on the lid of the barrel he was leaning against. His knuckles turned ghostly white where he gripped the edge. “He had us outnumbered five to one. We made the trade, and his men jumped us. They took off Hammock’s head and stuck it on a pike. A pike, Horace. Like Neanderthals. I saw them slit Louis nearly in half. They cut out Stevens’ heart and set it on fire. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? They savaged us. It was sheer luck the rest of us made it out alive. Your crew will mutiny when they hear. Fortunately, I’m prepared to take control of the train.”

  Horace literally shook with his rage. “Five to one?” he spat, his voice trembling. “They savaged you? They savaged you? Why don’t you tell me how it’s your men who came back covered in other peoples’ blood, and how you managed to get away with the full load of weapons, and why not a single one of you has a goddamn scratch!” He leapt up from the bench and flew at Bloom. The Assistant Conductor was easily ten inches taller than Horace, and in much better shape, but Horace’s fury surged through him. He grabbed Bloom by the lapels and shoved him backward over the barrel. “What did you do to them?” he screamed. “What did you do to my men?”

  Bloom grabbed Horace by the wrists and twisted. The two men went tumbling over the barrels, knocking them over as they kicked and thrashed. One barrel tipped off its perch atop another and slammed to the ground, missing Horace’s skull by three inches. Bloom punched the conductor in the mouth and used his loss of balance to throw him to the floor. Horace pushed himself to his feet just as the train lurched forward. Roland had gotten it moving faster than he’d expected.

  They faced each other across the car, both breathing heavily. Horace’s hands were balled into tight little fists at his side. He was ready to fly at Bloom again, but his assistant merely rolled his head on his shoulders and straightened his lapels. “Here’s the real truth, Horace, whether you’ll hear it or no. It was your contact, your deal, your ignorant shortsightedness that got our boys killed,” he said calmly. “I’ve got a team of Red Caps who’ll swear to it. I pray to whatever gods are left that the fact that your avarice sent those men to that meeting unprepared rips you apart. You’ll live with that knowledge, Horace, and someday you’ll die with that knowledge. Who knows when that day will be,” he added. “Personally, I hope you live forever, you self-righteous, pathetic, insignificant little dwarf, and I hope you see Louis’ weeping, bleeding face in your nightmares. It goes without saying that you’re no longer fit to conduct this train. I want you off before we hit Springfield.”

  Horace snorted. “Mutiny, is it? You think you can take the train by force? I’d like to see you try. The men know who keeps them fed. You can stage all the massacres you want, cry foul as hard as you can, you’re still nothing more than a shiftless, murdering coward! The men know it, and they’ll never follow you. You’re no more than a common cutthroat!”

  “You’d do well to remember that,” Bloom hissed through clenched teeth. Then he changed tactics, his voice once again becoming flat. “Let me tell you the reality, Horace. You’ve already lost the train. Two out of every three Red Caps are mine. I’ve got men controlling every station stop from here to Dallas. The stations are mine. The route is mine. This train is mine.”

  Horace guffawed. “The Red Caps don’t follow you,” he sneered. But even as he said it, memories of the past year flashed in his mind in machine gun-style rapid fire. They’d started the year with more than forty Red Caps, but along the way, they’d lost men, a lot of men, to attacks, to sickness, to accidents, to runners...he remembered those men clearly.

  Goddammit, how hadn’t he seen it? Right under his nose, for God knows how long, Bloom had been carrying out his coup. He relaxed his fists. He suddenly felt old and tired. If the men sensed a shift in power, their allegiance would flip quicker than the wind. Power was everything in this world, and Horace’s had just evaporated.

  Bloom smelled his victory. He smiled again, though his eyes remained flat and dead. “Time to disembark, Captain,” he said. He gripped the hilt of his sabre and took a step toward Horace, and Horace had no strength to object. Just as Bloom reached for him, they heard an “Ahem” from the stacks. They both whirled around to see that passenger, Patrick, standing in the aisle.

  “Er...sorry, am I interrupting something?”

  •

  Bloom hadn’t planned on the coup happening quite so quickly, but what the hell? Horace gave him an opening, so he charged through it. He had enough men in place both here on the train and along the route to make it happen. And, hell, if he had to put up with the conductor’s goddamned condescension one more day, he’d just
kill the bastard and be done with it. He couldn’t wait to throw him off the train. He hoped Roland was bringing her up to full speed.

  But suddenly, out of nowhere, was the stowaway. What was he doing back here? Who was guarding the door? Fredrickson? Whoever it was would be off the train with Horace. Bloom could not abide incompetency. On second thought, he should make an example of the guard, really cement his place as Lead Conductor of Horace’s men. He made a mental note to do so, but first he had to deal with the stowaway.

  “What do you want?” Bloom asked coldly. Was that a blender jar in the stowaway’s hand? If he was here to cause trouble, he was the least threatening figure Bloom could imagine, all bony arms and legs, and a head that looked like it would pop if you pricked it with a pin. And armed with a blender jar.

  “I need to talk to you about the battering ram,” he said to Horace.

  “Oh,” Horace said dumbly. “Uhm. Okay. What about it?”

  “I’ve worked out a few different possibilities for the trajectory infusion system, and I need to know which you want installed. They each have their own benefits, but it really depends on if you want focus on power, or quickness, or durability, or efficiency. Can I show you what I have in mind?”