A Prayer for the Dying

by Stewart O'Nan

  It grows as you come closer, blinking away flakes. The stairs bear faint traces of footprints, the stoop the twin arcs of the doors. You lean your ear to the crack.

  They’re in there, singing.

  You take advantage of the noise to lean the rifle against the stair railing, then open the door.

  It’s a small congregation is your first thought, the seats half-filled, maybe twenty of them. And then you notice the cots along the walls, the sick lying there while the rest of them bellow Jesus Our Redeemer. You know it well; only your disbelief prevents you from joining in.

  Chase is up front in plain white robes, bearish beside the pulpit, the stout woman at his right hand. He tips his chin at you, leads the singing in a fatherly, half-spoken baritone, keeping his place with a finger. Some of the members sit, some stand; some of the ones on cots are asleep, others tended by nurses.

  The song ends, and with a rumble everyone sits down. A long hard coughing as Chase mounts the pulpit. He pauses and looks up again, smiling, as if he has good news.

  “Deacon Hansen,” he booms, and raises a hand, as if blessing you.

  Faces turn, and you give them a nod, a tight grimace of a smile.

  “You have something for us?” Chase asks.

  “The fire’s coming,” you say, so they can all hear.

  “We know,” he says.

  “I’m taking a train of everyone who’s not sick out of town.”

  “Everyone who isn’t sick.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How about those who are?”

  “There’s nothing can be done for them. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, Deacon,” Chase says. “We all appreciate your offer, but I’m afraid it’s come too late for us to accept.”

  “There’s time,” you say, and start to go on about the train, three o’clock, how many people can fit in a boxcar.

  “It’s not that,” he says calmly, “I wish it were that simple. I’m afraid all of us—” And here he spreads his hands to include everyone in the room, the remnants of his entire flock. “I’m afraid we’re all similarly afflicted.”

  You hadn’t expected this, and so you don’t have an answer.

  You can hear the ash settling on the roof above. “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now,” he says, “we’re going to pray.”

  And you know why you bow your head along with the rest of them, why you recite the lines. They’re going to stay and die together, pay the price for what they believe in, willingly, and this, this you completely understand.

  8

  The fire doesn’t come in a line, a front of troops sweeping through. It foots through the dry woods like a spy, rides the burning wind. As you pump for town, the sky whirls, thick and dark as a twister, shedding debris. Smoldering pinecones rain down like incendiaries, starting spot fires in the brush. The trees thrash, toss off their leaves; dust devils kick up along the tracks, then vanish. You have your bandanna tied over your nose, and still each breath is like working in a furnace. It’s all taking too long, but you don’t dare free a hand to read your watch. Any other day you could hear the freight puffing south of town, the clean scream of its whistle, but the wind is deafening, the trees, and you pump, trusting you’ll beat it to the main line.

  Where the spur switches in, the tracks are covered with ash, but it’s falling so hard that you can’t be sure. In the distance, a steam whistle calls a long note, and you turn, expecting to see the huge engine bearing down on you, the driver highballing it, the brakeman unable to stop. Nothing but a blizzard of ash—and then it calls again, and you look north, toward town. It’s the mill, signaling the fire’s slow approach. It calls and calls, a child that won’t stop crying.

  Who’s doing it? you wonder.

  Not Cyril. John Cole probably.

  Bend and drive the bar down, then back up hard. Your chest has gone beyond a knot, the muscle like a knife. The whistle’s a good sign, you think; the mill’s still standing. And John Cole’s got sense enough to get out of there while he can. You hope it’s not Cyril.

  All of this is your fault.

  A hail of branches flails you, an acorn ricocheting off the bar, and you pump harder. In the woods to your right a small fire jumps in the dimness, lurks there like an animal. The river’s not far now, just another curve and then the long, slow grade running up to the bridge. You hope Harlow has them ready. If it’s not three yet, it’s darn close.

  Turn the curve and they’re ahead, standing on the track—only a few of them, maybe seven, all lugging carpetbags and in bandannas, a clutch of robbers. Harlow, Cyril, some of John’s crew. Not a woman among them. Kip Cheyney’s laid out on a cart, a leather apron draped over him to keep the embers off. You throw the brake on too hard, and it pitches you against the bar, another bruise. Fred Lembeck comes running up, his one arm out for balance.

  “Is she coming?” he asks. In the roar, it’s hard to hear.

  “Should be,” you shout, and mark the time—five minutes till. “Where is everybody?”

  “The river, most of ’em,” he says, and points, and you crane to see what’s left of Friendship, thirty people milling waist-deep in the filthy water, tossing hatfuls of it on each other. Some you haven’t seen since the beginning of all this—Karmanns, Armbrusters. Their possessions litter the near bank: clocks, pots, a sewing machine wrapped in a quilt. The children are swaddled in sopping blankets, their mothers slapping at their hair. Crying, keening. Katie Merrill holds a lacy parasol; the cinders hit it, smolder a minute, then burn through. A lone cow wanders among them, lowing, shouldering people aside, and atop the water floats a host of fish killed by the heat.

  “Lot of folks couldn’t wait,” Fred says. “Didn’t think the train would make it.”

  You know who those folks are. Emmett Nelligan. Bagwells. And why should they believe in you, Crazy Jacob the Undertaker?

  You look down the track. The sky to the west is a dark wall.

  “It’ll make it,” you say. And you do believe it. At this point, what choice do you have?

  Kip Cheyney’s passed out, probably from the valerian. You pat Cyril on the shoulder, glad to see him, his sleeping in forgiven. Harlow gives you a nod of confidence.

  Palm your watch again. It’s foolish; do you really think they’re following their schedule today?

  You part John’s crew and stand in the middle of the bridge. What’s left of Friendship looks up at you, waits for your word, and you think of Chase, how you have even less to give them.

  Or maybe it’s the same—a prayer.

  It’s not enough for them, admit it. They want to be saved while they’re still in this world. Like you, no?

  “All right,” you holler. “I want everyone up on the tracks right now. Leave your things, you won’t need them.”

  You have to tell them again, then go down to help them out, trusting Fred to watch the tracks. They splash across the flats and crawl up the bank, slippery with ash. They squish with each step, their clothes clinging to them, a second skin the color of mud. Cyril almost falls in. You’re parched from the handcar, and dip a hand in the river; it’s gray and tastes of lye, and you spit it out.

  “Sheriff!” Fred calls from the bridge. He’s pointing frantically down the track, and you don’t have to hear the rest of what he says.

  Scrabble up the bank and sprint for the bridge. Even in this light, you can see the lush plume of the freight looming above the curve.

  You shove the handcar onto the siding and grab your rifle. Get everyone ready, the men a skirmish line four deep on the tracks, with you at the head of them. The plume seems to grow blacker the closer it gets, a rich charcoal, and still you can’t hear the steam, only the trees tilting in the wind. You step forward and raise the sight to your eye, try to guess where the engine will clear the pines.

  This must be what it feels like holding up a train.

  Well, that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?

  The face of the
train turns the curve—cowcatcher, headlamp, stack. You’re high, and bring the sight down, the post steady on the engine. You don’t see the driver, and think of popping off a shot, just a warning. You can hear the chuff of the boiler now, feel the railbed give under the train’s weight, the gravel ballast crunching underfoot.

  You fire a shot high above the cab, the crack lingering, singing in your ear like an insect.

  Another, the same place.

  The driver pokes his nose out the window and blows the whistle. You wave the rifle, then sight in on him. He ducks and tugs the whistle again.

  It’s not a hard decision. If he doesn’t stop, you’ll kill him for the sake of these people. You’ve made up your mind, justified it.

  How easy it seems, this commandment, but just look at you.

  No one behind you moves, not a man jack of them. You suddenly love them for this. You know you can do it.

  The rails sing, and you stay on the window, getting your breathing ready.

  His glove comes up, you tense, and then the steel shrieks as he lays on the brakes. The driving wheels skid along the rails, a piercing squeal like taking a grindstone to a huge knife. You want to cover your ears, and then it’s bearable again. The grade slows the train, holds the great mass back.

  And still you don’t lower the gun, leave it on him to let him know you’re in charge. This has nothing to do with them, or anyone, just the two of you. You know that’s not true, but when you finally drop the barrel, you nearly feel cheated. He would have run you through. And you were ready, there’s no denying it.

  He’s your age, with a boiled face and a fringe of whiskers, and he’s angry as a drunk Canuck. He scowls down from his perch as if he’s the one holding the gun. You make a show of putting it away.

  “Just what the hell is all this?”

  “Be obliged if you could ride us to Shawano,” you say.

  “Sign back at the tunnel says I’m not sposed to take on riders.”

  “I posted that sign.”

  “So now I’m sposed to take these people on your say-so, is that it?”

  “None of them are sick, I can vouch for them. They can all fit in a boxcar, you don’t even have to look at them. Whole thing won’t take five minutes. Otherwise it’s the fire.”

  He looks back at the sky, the smoking twigs and leaves dropping all around the tender. He regards you, the rifle down by your side, finger still on the trigger.

  “Three minutes,” he says. “And I ain’t gettin’ anywhere near ’em.”

  There’s a panic at first, a lot of clawing at the door to get it open. You have to holler at them to let Kip Cheyney through, but they do. The car actually has a load of tractor parts from Montello. The women sit on top of the crates, the men lean their muddy backs against them. It’s windowless, so you leave the door open to give them some air.

  “That everyone?” you ask, and when no one answers, you run to the middle of the bridge and call down at the water. The cow’s headed for Ender’s. Just as you’re fumbling to hook the handcar on, John Cole comes racing down the bank. The boiler’s building up steam, hissing like a teakettle, water dripping from the piston. You put a hand up for the brakeman to wait, then wave John on.

  “Where’s Marta?” he asks, breathless.

  “I’ve still got to go back,” you say, which is the truth, and point to the handcar.

  “Better hurry. The roof of the mill just caught.”

  “Get in,” you tell him, then run up front and climb into the cab with the driver.

  “I can tend her myself, thank you,” he says, then when you don’t budge, yanks the cord above his head and deafens you, tips a lever, and the train lurches forward.

  You know every pebble of this stretch, every tree. The freight seems slower than your handcar, takes forever to get up steam. The engine hesitates and the couplings clatter, the cars knock, then pull taut again. The driver doesn’t look at you, just peeks at the rifle, as if he might wrestle you for it. You’re still ready to shoot him, though you find your mind wandering, resting a second, going over what you have to do. There’s no time, but you promised Marta. There’s probably not time to take care of them and Doc proper. And then you skirt the far edge of the Hermit’s lake—the water black between the trees—and you remember him.

  He’ll know enough to jump in the water, you’ve already talked to him about that. Crazy maybe, but he’s no fool.

  Like you?

  The marsh is dried up on both sides, and in the cattail flats you can see a smattering of fires. The ash is just as thick here, and when you lean out to look behind, it seems the fire’s pursuing you, the sky violent and backlit, shimmering like some artist’s vision of Hell. For no reason, you check your watch; the time doesn’t even register. You wonder if Shawano is far enough, or if it might be best to just keep going east, run the tender empty.

  “I ain’t stopping for no one till I think it’s safe,” the driver seconds.

  You thank him for taking Friendship on.

  “Not like I had much say in it,” he says.

  He’s got the throttle opened up, and you bump along, the trucks clicking. Almost there. You wonder how Henrik Paulsen is doing with his family. You think you should have found a way to convince him, move him with a sermon. Too late now.

  Too late for a lot of them. How many did you leave?

  Chase. The entire Colony.

  You should have had a plan, you and Doc.

  The canal slides alongside you, the towpath busy with hoofprints. You think of Fenton; that was just last night. Two weeks ago you loved the heat, the lull of summer. It’s astonishing how quickly things fall apart.

  Directly ahead, a column of smoke lifts from the woods, and the driver slows, leans forward, squinting. The smoke rolls straight up, a black pillar, and you’re afraid it’s another train.

  “What is it?” you ask.

  “It’s on the tracks.” He points, and, in the distance, as you thunder for it, you can see a heap of burning ties. It’s right at the town line.

  Old Bart. Just like Kentucky.

  “Don’t slow down,” you order him.

  “We can’t run through it.”

  “I’m telling you to.”

  “We’ll hang her up,” he shouts, and keeps his eyes on you so you know. You wish you’d closed the door, then you could just crouch down.

  “All right,” you say.

  The driver inches back the throttle and you ease up to the ties, scanning the woods for an ambush. They’re stacked in a neat tepee, like a campfire. Bart must have just lit them; you can still smell the kerosene.

  It’s him, with Millard, a patch over his eye. They sidle out of your blind, hatless. You keep the rifle beneath the lip of the window, give them a wave. They look down the length of the train, then back up at you.

  “What all you got here, Jake?” Bart asks, and you wonder if it was Fenton who told him. The son of a bitch, it must have been.

  “Everyone that’s left. We had to leave the sick ones behind.”

  “Quarantine all done with then?”

  “Yep,” you say.

  “I thought Doc said another week.”

  “I can vouch for everyone here. We won’t even leave the train, we’ll just—”

  “You know I can’t let you,” he says, and his face changes, turns stern. “I been seeing your people all day.”

  “Kip Cheyney’s got some burns need attention.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “None of these people are sick,” you protest.

  “I can’t risk it.”

  “What did you do with the rest of them—Emmett Nelligan and them?”

  “All I could do—turned ’em around.”

  “Where are they all?”

  “That’s not my lookout, or yours.”

  Bart starts and draws on John Cole, who’s come out of the boxcar.

  “Get back in there,” Bart warns him, then yells it when John asks what’s happening.


  “You can’t do this,” John says. He’s a big man, and Bart has to step back. “I’ll tell you right now, we’re not going back after all this.”

  “You shut up,” Bart says, “and you get back in there.”

  John still won’t go, starts to holler, threatening him. “Goddamn you, we’re not going back!”

  “Get back in there before I shoot you!”

  Millard reaches for his pistol, and you find you’ve got your rifle on Bart, who’s got his Colt aimed at John’s face. You see where it’s leading, and what’s left to you. There are thirty-some people in that car. The fire’s not going to stop.

  “Bart,” you call, “leave him.”

  “Get back in there!”

  John turns to appeal to you. He wants to rush him, take the gun, shove it in his face.

  “Get back in there,” you say, and now Bart sees the rifle.

  “You better just drop that right now,” he says, and turns the pistol on you.

  “I’m warning you,” you say. “So help me, I’ll put a buttonhole through you.”

  “I can’t let these people into my town, you know that.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” And you don’t. He isn’t going to listen to you. It’s simple when you get down to it. You’ve been hopeful for too long. Look what it’s gotten you. Doc, Marta, everyone you love.

  “Jake, understand now—”

  “Will you let us through?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Can’t,” he says, and stands firm. You know him, you know it’s true.

  “I gave you fair warning,” you say. And can you say what moves you—is it like Chase and his people, the Hermit and his ducks? Is it some kind of love? Because you shoot him through the heart, turn and drop Millard where he stands.

  “Jesus God,” the driver says behind you.

  “Get those off there,” you call to John.

  He doesn’t move, stands there entranced. Say it again, then jump down and start hauling them off with the gaff on the catcher. In a minute, the rest of the mill crew pitches in. You let them finish it, turn away from the flames and look at Bart and Millard, faceup in the dust. John joins you, but you don’t say anything to him. You walk back to the handcar and start uncoupling it. The chains are hot, and you have to tug your gloves on.