1931 The Grand Punk Railroad: Local

by Ryohgo Narita

“Why you—!”

  From the back, the previously wounded man trained his gun on them, but his remaining comrade blocked the shot. Not only that, but Ladd had grabbed the man’s collar with his left hand and hauled him up—his feet now rose slightly off the floor. With a strength that was impossible to imagine from his slender frame, Ladd was suffusing the man’s face with blood.

  The black suit fought, kicking and struggling, but he didn’t know any effective techniques for combat this close. He tried to gouge Ladd’s eyes with his free hand, but Ladd anticipated the move and bit a chunk out of his hand.

  As he spat out blood and flesh, Ladd called to the wounded black suit at the back of the car.

  “Well, what’ll you do? Run for it? Shoot me through your friend? Kill yourself? Yack for a bit? Have some tea? Grab some food? How’s business? No way it’s good, huh? Well, what’re you gonna do? Reorganize? Run for office? Wage war? Kill each other? Are you scared? Sad? Or are you mad?”

  He rattled off a string of pointless questions, then cackled to himself. Abruptly cutting off that laugh, he poked a gun out of the shadow of the man he was using as a shield.

  “Answer at least one of ’em, why! Don’t! You!”

  In lieu of an answer, the wounded black suit turned his back on them both.

  The man dashed out of the dining car. Ladd didn’t follow him. Instead, he dropped his shield onto the floor.

  “Well, this got pretty interesting. It’s getting pretty damn interesting…”

  The lone remaining black suit coughed hard several times, then glared at Ladd and called out triumphantly:

  “You fool! To think you’d let my comrade escape! I don’t know who you people are, but don’t think you can make enemies of us and survive!”

  “Y’know, the mafia fellas I killed said stuff like that before they bit it, too. Not that it matters.”

  Without seeming particularly interested, Ladd tossed the machine gun onto the floor. The passengers who were near where it fell gave small shrieks.

  “Idiot!”

  Seeing this, the black suit suddenly stood up. Grabbing the knife he’d had hidden in his boot, he swung it in a powerful horizontal slash.

  According to the black suit’s prediction, the blade should have slashed the white suit’s throat, but

  “Wh…What?”

  Ladd’s head wasn’t there anymore.

  The moment he thought he glimpsed hair at the bottom of his field of vision, it was already too late: A heavy impact ran through his guts.

  “Booby prize.”

  The pain came to him dully, and an urge to vomit welled up inside him.

  Smirking, Ladd had rammed an uppercut into the man’s side. In contrast to his grinning face, the black suit was moaning and dripping with greasy sweat.

  “Y-you damn… Boxi…”

  As he fell forward, a loosely clenched fist flew up at him from below.

  “Nghaa!”

  “Nn? No worries. It’s fine. I’m tons weaker than Pete Herman.”

  As the man fell backward, Ladd grabbed the hem of his clothes and hauled him back up.

  “I don’t have the strength or techniques of Jack Johnson or Jack Dempsey, either.”

  Left hook. Followed by a weird, unnatural noise: gatch.

  “I wonder… Is the name Jack lucky for boxers or something? Huh?”

  Several blows were paid out, one-sidedly.

  “I said ‘Herman’ and ‘Dempsey’ all casual-like, but do you know boxers’ names? Of course you know; all Americans know.”

  Punch.

  “If you say you don’t know or something, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Punch.

  “I’ll never forgive you.”

  Yet another punch.

  “I’ll never”—punch—“ever”—punch—“forgive you.”—punch—“Well”—punch—“it’s not like”—punch—“I’ll forgive”—punch—“you”—punch—“even if”—punch—“you know, though.”

  Taking an uppercut at the end of a complete joker’s rush, the man lurched backward again. At that rate, he should have been down long before now, but Ladd had intentionally kept hitting his opponent in ways that kept him from falling.

  Now his head crashed back into the wall.

  The door was right beside him. In the midst of the repeated strikes, the black suit had been driven all the way to the end of the car.

  “Oh, you finally dropped the knife, huh? Man, I was so terribly, terribly scared that I hit you too much by accident.”

  The knife had been dropped way back at the very first attack, but Ladd spoke shamelessly, with a patently fake attitude.

  “Aah…”

  “Whoa. You’re still conscious? I guess I really don’t have any punch strength. That’s a hell of a shock, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?”

  Ladd grabbed the black suit’s collar with both hands and shoved his back right up against the wall.

  “Well, I was sure you wouldn’t shoot me dead on the spot. You wanted to know what us white suits were up to, right? Hmm? That’s why you came up close to me, right? To catch me.”

  Then he pulled the black suit to him and hugged him hard.

  “Thank you, seriously, thank you! Thank you for doing just what I thought you would.”

  Rubbing his cheek against the black suit’s head, he yelled out words of gratitude; his eyes looked set to tear up any second.

  “You’re real good guys! What did I tell you? I’m not your enemy! As long as there’s love—enemy or friend, it don’t matter! Aah, I’m on your side, and I love you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart! But die.”

  He slammed the black suit up against the wall again.

  Even though there was blood dribbling from his victim’s mouth and nose, and the whites of his eyes were showing, he was still conscious.

  “You…fool… Making ene…mies of us—bwuh!”

  A clenched fist hit him right under the nose. He felt something break, under the skin; probably a front tooth.

  “What’s this ‘us’ business you keep rattling on about? It’s kinda snobby and annoying and irritating, and I’ll slaughter you.”

  “As if feebleminded…fools like you…could block…Master Huey’s…path…”

  A fist flew at the black suit’s right eye. And at his left eye. The whites of his eyes had already been showing, and those eyes would probably never be able to register light again. That said, in order to know for sure, he’d have to live through this.

  Ladd’s expression abruptly grew quiet, and he whispered in the black suit’s ear.

  “I dunno who that Huey fella is, or who you really are, and frankly, I don’t give a rip.”

  In combination with that statement, he slammed a fist into the stomach of the black suit, whose consciousness was nearly gone.

  “But there are several things I know for sure. One is, everyone in the black-suit orchestra on this train is an enemy, and they’ve got about a gazillion crazy guns.”

  Ladd’s fists struck home rhythmically. As his tone grew stronger, the force behind his fists grew as well. The fists also shifted their target from stomach to chest, and from chest to face.

  “And most of all! I bet you’re thinking this, right now! ‘We’ve got all these awesome weapons, and there’s no one on this train who can defy us. We’re the toughest. In other words, we’re safe!’”

  As the white suit’s voice reverberated in the car, the curtain quietly came down on the black suit’s consciousness, and on his life.

  Whether he’d noticed this or not, Ladd’s fists didn’t stop.

  “I bet that’ll be fun! That’s gonna be real fun! Killing guys like that! Dragging out their guts! Squishing ’em and grinding ’em down until they look like sausage meat!”

  The squishing noise was coming from Ladd’s fists. His punches had gotten stronger and stronger, and by this point, he’d crushed all the bones in the man’s face.

  As he was showered by sprays of blood, Ladd’s f
ace truly shone. It was the face of a man who’d accomplished something. To a normal person, it would have looked like nothing more than the crazed smile of a murderer, and in fact that was exactly what it was.

  When Ladd turned, looking invigorated, everyone in the car averted their eyes at once. He had figured they would all just run, but when Ladd glanced at the exit on the opposite side of the car, he understood.

  A group of white suits was camped there. They had guns aimed and ready and were eyeing the passengers.

  “Hey, Ladd, what the hell’s going on here?”

  “We heard somethin’ that sounded like machine guns, so we came to check up. Fill us in, Ladd.”

  They were easygoing voices that didn’t match the situation. Waving a hand at them, Ladd sauntered down the middle of the car. As he passed by the counter, he spotted a lady who was lying down, covering the children with her body. He spoke to her.

  “Missus Beriam?”

  Fixing Ladd with a strong gaze, the lady nodded slowly.

  Warping his mouth and eyes in a dangerous smile, Ladd delivered a leisurely announcement:

  “Lucky you: Your turn’s been pushed back. We’ll finish off the whole orchestra first, and then you’re next. Well, I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  Without forgetting to pick up the guns that the black suits and Vicky had dropped, he rejoined his friends.

  “Let’s go, fellas.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘Let’s go’? What are we gonna do about these guys?” one of his friends asked, pointing at the passengers in the dining car.

  “Leave ’em. Forget that. You’re not gonna believe how awesome this is. Just c’mon back to the room.”

  “Yeah, sure, but Ladd, your hands. They okay?”

  Ladd’s hands were dripping with blood. The passengers had assumed it was his victim’s blood, but the flesh on Ladd’s fists had split in places. After he’d paid out that many blows without taping his hands, this was a perfectly natural result. On the contrary, it was practically a miracle that he hadn’t taken more damage.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I dislocated a few joints, but nothing’s broken. And hey, I’m still good to go. From the feel of it, I could beat another five guys to death.”

  “Just give up and tape ’em already.”

  With an attitude as though nothing had happened, without bothering to wipe off the dripping gore, Ladd’s group quietly disappeared from the dining car.

  Then silence filled the car. Even the crying voices had stopped dead. In this tense space, only two idiotic voices echoed quietly.

  “Say, Miria, how long do we have to stay like this? I’ve been hearing gunshots and scary people’s voices from up there for a while now, and it’s, uh, kinda nervous-making.”

  “Yes, it’s a horror show!”

  “Besides, you know, this is a pretty tough position to hold.”

  “Yes, frankly, it hurts!”

  At first, the passengers who’d been left behind stayed silent. After a short while, the ones who’d begun to understand the situation gradually began to clamor. None of the passengers had tried to leave the dining car yet. There might have been white suits or black suits lying in wait outside either exit.

  Before long, complaints ballooned, and the cooks and bartender, who were train personnel, began to take the brunt of them.

  What happened? What sort of joke is this? Where are the conductors? Let me off! Stop this train!

  Fang and Jon, feeling disinclined to put up with them, retreated into the kitchen. Immigrants were roundly discriminated against in this era, and they probably understood that if they tried to handle things, it would backfire.

  Even so, there was someone who turned an unjust attack on them.

  “What’s the matter with this train, anyway?! Keeping a yellow monkey and a stinking Irish hick in its kitchen!”

  Possibly because he’d used up all his complaints about the uproar of a few moments ago, one man began singling out Jon and Fang for grief. He was a fat, flabby old guy with a little mustache. He was far too undignified to be called “portly” or “pleasantly plump”; he was an utterly unsightly man.

  Jon and Fang could hear his yells all the way back in the kitchen, but they ignored them as if they were used to it.

  The man bore down even harder on a different young cook, who wasn’t sure how to deal with him.

  “I paid a lot of money to ride this train! What’s with that face?! If you have a problem with me, gimme back my money!”

  As his fist struck the counter, something was laid down on top of that fist. It was a stack of bills bundled together in groups of one hundred.

  “Wha…?”

  “Is that good enough for you?! You, uh……you nasty guy!”

  “You’re the worst!”

  When the man with the little mustache looked to the side, a cowboy and dancing girl were standing there, glaring daggers at him.

  “Wh-who are you people?”

  “If it’s money you want, I’ll pay you back for your tickets! That means you’re not a customer anymore! Isn’t that right, Miria?”

  “Yes, he’s stealing a ride!”

  Isaac and Miria raised their voices in protest against the man with the little mustache. A bit surprised by this, Jon and Fang peeked out of the kitchen.

  “You fools! Do you have any idea who I am…?”

  Even as he protested, the man with the duster on his lip reached out for the bundle of bills.

  “Silence! You’ve been going on about nonsense like ‘monkeys’ and ‘hicks’ in a restaurant where people were enjoying their meals! I bet you were planning to find fault with them and extort money!”

  “Ooh, what a lowlife!”

  “You’re unbelievable, you money-grubbing ghoul!”

  “Make like a ghoul and get back in your grave!”

  Saying things that were just as unfair as the mustachioed man’s protest had been, they threw another stack of bills in his face.

  “G’wan, get lost! If you don’t, then my hundred…my hundred-million pistols will spit fire!”

  “We’ll give you lead poisoning!”

  Just then, from deep in the kitchen, from a place that could never be seen from the customers’ positions, a voice spoke. It was a voice like a bear’s, low and ponderous.

  “Jon! Fang! You heard them! That guy’s not a passenger or a customer of this kitchen anymore! Hurry and toss ’im out!”

  On hearing this voice, which was like the roar of some ferocious beast, the mustachioed man’s pompous attitude imploded.

  “Yessir, Head Cook.”

  “Pain in the butt…”

  Even as Jon grumbled, he and Fang picked up the struggling mustachioed man from both sides. Then, with beautiful efficiency, they went out through the car’s rear door.

  At that, the ferocious beast’s voice abruptly became gentlemanly and delivered a certain announcement to the dining car:

  “Now then, I’m afraid we’ve put all of you through something terribly trying! Upon our arrival, everyone present at this time will, of course, have their train fare refunded to them in full by our headquarters. In addition, you will be paid commensurate reparations, although we do not feel that this could ever be apology enough—”

  The voice went on to say the most important thing:

  “Now, when we are unable to communicate with the conductors’ room, we request that you think and act independently, with the goal of reaching New York alive. That is all!”

  The bit he’d said at the very end there had been horrendously irresponsible, but everyone was too scared to complain. In this way, once again, quiet times returned to the dining car.

  “Would you unhand me?! Filthy immigrants! You’ll soil my clothes! You’ll give me your diseases!”

  As he spouted nasty comments, the man with the little mustache was turned out into the corridor. As they were about to leave, Jon lowered his stance and glared at the man. Although there was no telling when it had gotten there, his r
ight hand gripped an ice pick.

  The irate passenger had bluffed all over the place, but that one glare shut him up. Jon had once been affiliated with the Chicago underworld. Going up against the likes of such a passenger didn’t make him the least bit nervous.

  “Listen up, you whiskered pig. Half of this transcontinental railroad was built by us Irish, and they treated us like slaves while we did it. And actually, they made us build it. Do you understand that?”

  “The other half was us Chinese.”

  “In other words, half of everything on these rails belongs to the Irish.”

  “Add in the Chinese workers’ share, and it’s everything.”

  Jon began saying something even more unfair than what the mustachioed man and Isaac had said. Neither of them had personally built the railroad, and in any case, they’d become Jacuzzi’s friends after their compatriots had chased them out.

  “So, you whiskered pig, everything here is ours, including your life. Don’t you forget it.”

  Smacking the mustachioed man’s cheek lightly, Jon and Fang started to go back into the dining car.

  At that, possibly because he’d suddenly grown uneasy, the man’s attitude changed abruptly, and he clung to Jon slavishly.

  “W-w-w-wait! Those white suits… They’re out here! Please! Let me in!”

  “Don’t worry. It didn’t look like they had any stinking hicks or yellow monkeys in their group. Make friends with them. If you come in here, we’ll kill you.”

  With that, the door shut without mercy.

  When they entered, the passengers seemed to have regained some of their composure. A glance around showed that the three corpses had disappeared from the dining car. Possibly the other cooks had carried them out. At this point, everyone was quickly wiping the bloodstains off the floor and the walls.

  As they went behind the counter, their eyes met Isaac’s and Miria’s.

  “Thanks.”

  Jon offered it in an undertone, and they didn’t seem to hear him.

  “Hey, welcome back! I’ve gotta say, your chef sounds like a real tough guy!”

  “Yes, the strongest legend!”

  Isaac and Miria heaped excessive praise on the individual in the back of the kitchen.

  This chef considered cuisine his top priority in life, and so, while he was cooking, he never left his post, no matter what. …To the point that there was an anecdote about how, even when a gas explosion had occurred right next him, he hadn’t abandoned his pan. Naturally, during the firefight a short while earlier, the chef had continued to stir the stew pot, all by himself.