1931 The Grand Punk Railroad: Local

by Ryohgo Narita

  However, Ladd hadn’t caught on yet.

  To the fact that there were all sorts of other people on this train with him as well.

  Or the fact that those sauces included strong poison.

  The Lemures—disguised as an orchestra—had split into groups of ten, with one group each boarding first, second, and third class. Each had been given a wireless radio to hide among their luggage; they would use these to stay in close contact with one another. They were articles created by using unique technology to further modify what was currently the smallest type of wireless.

  Their objective was to retake the person who had made those modifications: their great leader, Huey Laforet.

  If it was for that, they didn’t begrudge their own lives, or the lives of other people.

  “Comrade Goose. We’ve confirmed that Senator Beriam’s wife and daughter are on board.”

  “I see.”

  As they confirmed reports from their subordinates, Goose and Chané were headed to their own post in a first-class compartment.

  Then, just when they’d checked the coupling that linked the freight car with the passenger cars, they realized there was a woman on its other side. She was still young and wore women’s trousers and a top reminiscent of a coverall. On seeing her, Goose’s first impression was—

  That’s a functional costume. It’s similar to Chané’s everyday wear.

  —a very pedestrian one.

  Just then, abruptly, his eyes met hers.

  As if nothing had happened, the woman moved away from the coupling and disappeared into the shadow of the train.

  “That woman…”

  On seeing her eyes across the coupling, Goose had realized that the woman was not an honest citizen. Shoplifting or pickpocketing, or possibly murder. It had only been for a moment, so he couldn’t be sure, but it had seemed as though she’d had the eyes of someone who’d been through a scene of carnage in connection with some crime.

  Beside him, Chané seemed to have noticed the same thing: She was staring after the woman with narrowed eyes.

  Goose investigated the coupling carefully to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with. As a result, he managed to confirm that it had not been.

  “Just my imagination, hmm? All for the best, if so…”

  At that, Goose also left the scene as though nothing had happened.

  Even after that, Chané continued to watch the area around the train. Then, suddenly, a voice addressed her from behind.

  “Miss, we’ll be departing soon… Did you drop something?”

  When she turned, the Flying Pussyfoot’s original conductor uniform, whose basic color was white, seemed to jump out at her. A white conductor’s uniform, exempted from railway corporation regulations in order to show this train’s uniqueness. The young man who wore it was gazing at Chané, looking concerned.

  Silently, Chané shook her head. Then, walking quickly, she disappeared into the passenger compartment.

  “She was really pretty. Thinking there’s someone like her on board makes me suddenly eager to get to work.”

  Once he’d made sure that Chané had entered the carriage, the young conductor flung his arms up and stretched hugely.

  “All right: I guess we’re off. Nothing wrong with the train today, either.”

  Saying something that ran completely counter to the actual situation, the easygoing conductor headed for the last train car...

  …with no knowledge of the fate that lay in store for this train just up ahead.

  And then the departure bell rang out.

  LOCAL: THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T CRY

  One could say that the history of American growth had always coincided with the development of transportation and shipping methods.

  The era of westward expansion. Most of the people who crossed the continent had an unquestioning faith in the philosophy of the frontier spirit. The thing that most satisfied the desires of these pioneer-invaders was the development of the railway engine and the completion of the transcontinental railroad.

  Even after the frontier era came to an end, railroads continued to constantly evolve. The Great Depression notwithstanding, the 1930s would become the peak of the golden age of railways. This year, the number of people out of work surpassed eight million, and the “Hunger March” mobbed the White House. It was the job of the railways to transport the people who participated in that demonstration, and to carry what little food and products there were. As a result, the glory of this great age of railways would continue until it was replaced by the prosperity of automobiles and airplanes.

  All roads led to the rails. These eternal roads, which had been laid everywhere by the frontier spirit, still continued to transport the undying American Dream.

  At least, that was what fortunate people believed.

  The Flying Pussyfoot—a train built by a fortunate corporation that had been lucky enough to come through the Depression—could well be called a curiosity.

  Its basic build mimicked that of England’s Royal Train. All first-class compartment interiors were embellished with marble and similar materials, and the second-class compartments were built in a corresponding fashion.

  On a regular train, each carriage would have been divided into first-, second-, and third-class compartments. Ordinarily, the areas over the wheels, where vibrations were the fiercest, were kept for third-class passengers. However, on this train, the cars themselves were first, second, or third class: After the engine came three first-class carriages, then a single dining car, then three second-class carriages, one third-class carriage, three freight cars, and a car with a spare freight room and the conductors’ room. This was the internal breakdown of the train. Except for the dining car, all cars had a corridor on the left, according to the direction of travel, and it was possible to check the numbers on the door of each passenger compartment before entering. There was no freight car on this train; instead, there were three cars with spacious freight rooms. As usual, the corridors were on the left.

  It was an ostentatious nouveau riche train, one that prioritized design at the expense of functionality. The third-class compartments, which had been built in a perfunctory manner, actually seemed pathetic, and the flattened, sculpture-like ornamentation on the exteriors of each carriage made this even more striking.

  The train’s greatest distinguishing characteristic was that it was independent from the usual railway corporations’ operation. It was run by borrowing the rails from the railway companies and could truly be called a present-day royal train.

  Then came December 30, 1931. On this luxurious train, a tragedy unfolded.

  Several hours had passed since the train’s departure, and the surroundings were already wrapped in darkness.

  “How are you doing, newbie?”

  With his back to the landscape outside the window, the middle-aged conductor spoke.

  “Oh… Mm. I’m okay.”

  Giving a slightly delayed response, the young conductor looked up.

  Although they’d entered the middle stage of a long journey, it was the first time his more experienced colleague had spoken to him. Thinking this was odd, the young conductor examined the man’s face.

  Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d taken a good look at his face, period.

  The young conductor was a bit appalled by his own lack of interest. The face reflected in his eyes wore a smile that seemed somehow mechanical. It was as though the man was forcing himself to smile; it deeply warped the thin lines that had begun to be etched into his face.

  “I see… That’s good to hear. Sometimes, if you spend too long watching the receding landscape we see from here, it plants a terrible loneliness and fear in you.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “All sorts of terrors lurk in this unease. In the dark or inside tunnels, it’s even worse.”

  “That’s right! You’re totally right! The other conductors tell scary stories quite a lot, and man, it’s gotten so
I’m afraid to be alone at night!”

  The young man had latched on to the elder’s subject, and he began blabbing away about things he hadn’t been asked to discuss.

  “I tell ya, the other conductors are seriously mean. I keep telling them I’m no good with stories like that, but they say things about bee-men with talons, or how they keep hearing bells from empty passenger compartments…”

  For someone who was supposed to be “no good” with such things, his eyes shone very brightly as he spoke. His true colors—his desire to see scary things—showed vividly in his expression.

  “And then, let’s see… Stories about the Rail Tracer, and stuff.”

  “Hmm?”

  The older conductor had been traveling all around the country for a long time, but apparently he’d never heard the name of that ghost story before.

  “Oh, you don’t know that one? The story about the Rail Tracer, the ‘one who follows the shadow of the rails’?”

  To be honest, he wasn’t interested, but they were coming up on the “arranged point.” It wouldn’t hurt to listen.

  With a smile as though he were plotting something, and also as though he felt some pity, the older conductor decided to listen to the younger’s tale.

  “Well, it’s a real simple story, you see? It’s about this monster that chases trains under the cover of moonless nights.”

  “A monster?”

  “Right. It merges with the darkness and takes lots of different shapes, and little by little, it closes in on the train. It might be a wolf, or mist, or a train exactly like the one you’re on, or a big man with no eyes, or tens of thousands of eyeballs… Anyway, it looks like all sorts of things, and it chases after you on the rails.”

  “What happens if it catches up?”

  “That’s the thing: At first, nobody notices it’s caught up. Gradually, though, everybody realizes that something strange is going on.”

  “Why?”

  “People. They disappear. It starts at the back of the train, little by little, one by one… And finally, everybody’s gone, and then it’s like the train itself never existed.”

  When he’d heard that much, the old conductor asked a perfectly natural question:

  “Then how does the story get passed on?”

  It was a question considered absolutely taboo with ghost stories like this one, but the young conductor answered it without turning a hair:

  “Well, obviously, it’s because some trains have survived.”

  “How?”

  “Wait for it. I’m coming to that. See, there’s more to the story.”

  Looking as if he was having fun, he began to tell the crux of the story:

  “If you tell this story on a train, it comes. The Rail Tracer heads straight for that train!”

  At that point, the older conductor felt abruptly deflated.

  Oh, so it’s just a common urban legend. In that case, I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say next.

  That was what the man thought, and in fact, he did hear the words he’d anticipated.

  “But there’s a way to keep it from coming. Just one!”

  “Wait a second. It’s time.”

  Feeling annoyed by his colleague, who was enjoying himself far more than was strictly necessary, the older conductor interrupted him.

  It was time for the periodic check-in, so he flipped the switch on the contact transmitter. Then he turned on a lamp that would tell the engineer all was well.

  At that, bright light streamed into the conductors’ room from both sides.

  The tail lamps on either side of the very end of the train made it possible for people by the tracks to tell that the train had passed by.

  However, on this train, larger lamps had been specially installed below the tail lamps.

  Operating regulations for the Flying Pussyfoot stated that the conductors had to periodically contact the engineer. This was so that if the rear car was cut loose and the conductor stopped making contact, for example, the engineer would know that something was wrong.

  While it might have been an ostentatious, inefficient system, possibly it was also part of this curious train’s special presentation. The conductors followed this system without complaint, lighting the lamps on the end of the train at set times.

  …However. For the older conductor, this time held an even more important significance.

  After he’d seen the senior conductor turn off the switch, the young conductor cheerfully began his ghost story again.

  “Uh, sorry. So, to be saved, you”

  “Oh, wait, hold on. Hearing the answer first would be boring, wouldn’t it? I know a similar story; why don’t I tell that one first?”

  The young conductor happily agreed to the sudden proposal:

  “So we’ll trade ways to be saved at the end, right? Sure, that sounds like fun.”

  Looking at the young conductor—whose eyes seemed happy—with a gaze that was half pitying and half scornful, the older man began to speak…

  …about his own true identity.

  “Well, it’s a real common, simple story. It’s a story about Lemures… Ghosts who were so terrified of death that they became ghosts while they were still alive.”

  “Wha? …Uh-huh…”

  “But the ghosts had a great leader. The leader tried to dye the things they feared with their own color, in order to bring them back to life. However, the United States of America was afraid of the dead coming back to life! And, would you believe it, the fools tried to shut the ghosts’ leader up inside a grave!”

  The content of the conversation didn’t really make sense to the less-experienced railman, but anger had gradually begun to fill the face and tone of the speaker. The young conductor felt something race down his spine.

  “Uh, um, mister?”

  “And so. The remaining ghosts had an idea. They thought they’d take more than a hundred people hostage—including a senator’s family—and demand the release of their leader. If the incident were made public, the country would never accept the terrorists’ demands. For that reason, the negotiations would be carried out in utter secrecy by a detached force. They wouldn’t be given time to make a calm decision. They’d only have until the train reached New York!”

  “A senator… You don’t mean Senator Beriam, do you? Wait, no, you can’t— Do you mean this train? Hey, what’s going on? Explain yourself!”

  Maybe he’d finally realized that something was wrong: The young conductor took a step back, retreating from his senior.

  “Explain? But I am explaining, right now. To be honest, I never thought my cover of ‘conductor’ would prove useful at a time like this. In any case, when this train reaches New York, it will be transformed into a moving fortress for the Lemures! Afterward, using the hostages as a shield, we’ll take our leave somewhere along the transcontinental railroad. The police can’t possibly watch all the routes at once.”

  “Wh-who’s the leader?”

  Asking an awfully coolheaded question, the young conductor took another step backward. However, the train wasn’t very big, and at that point, his back bumped into the wall.

  “Our great Master Huey will be interviewed by the New York Department of Justice tomorrow. For that very reason, this train was chosen to become a sacrifice for our leader!”

  The train was scheduled to arrive at noon the next day. If the negotiations succeeded, they probably planned to put their leader on the train and flee with the hostages.

  The young conductor now knew what this man, the one who’d been his senior colleague, really was. As he gazed steadily into the other man’s eyes, he asked a question whose answer he already suspected:

  “…Why are you telling me this?”

  The answer was about what he’d expected.

  “Master Huey is merciful. I merely emulate him. Knowing the reason for your death as you die: You’re very lucky.”

  Then, taking a gun from inside his coat, he wrapped up his story:

&
nbsp; “Now then, regarding the all-important method of salvation… ‘Everyone who heard this story died immediately. There wasn’t a single way to be saved’!”

  As his story ended, he took aim at the young conductor’s nose and fired.

  A gunshot.

  The sound traveled along the rails, echoing sharply…

  Exhaustively…

  Across the entirety of the line…

  And so the monster awakened.

  The monster named…

  …the Rail Tracer.

  A short while earlier.

  The train had made it to sunset without incident, and people from a variety of passenger compartments were enjoying their dinners in the dining car.

  The design motif for the dining car had also been based on the Royal Train, and the calm shades of the woodwork formed an exquisite harmony with the overlay of gold ornamentation.

  The dining car was available to anyone, regardless of which compartment they were in, and while passengers from the third-class compartments ate, they too could feel like kings. This was one of the things that made the train popular.

  Rows of tables took up half the dining car, while the other half held a kitchen and counter seats. Several cooks bustled around busily in the kitchen, making maximum use of the small space to create rich flavors and fragrances.

  All sorts of food—from French dishes and Chinese cuisine to the Creole specialty jambalaya—were lined up on the tables, boldly asserting themselves.

  While people were engrossed in the food, there was one group of men who hadn’t gotten involved with the meal.

  “Look, I’m telling you, this isn’t the place for this conversation. You understand, Jacuzzi. We got customers here.”

  “He’s right, Jacuzzi. I know you get it. And actually: Get it.”

  At a counter seat in the dining car, two men were reproaching Jacuzzi. They were behind the counter; one was dressed as a cook, while the other was dressed as a bartender.

  The cook was an Asian man, and the bartender was a young Irish guy. Both were Jacuzzi’s friends, and the informants who had turned him on to this freight robbery.