by Norman Dixon
Bobby feared the squeeze of that handshake. He winced at its approach, but the man did not crack his hand off. In fact, the gesture was firm but not overly crushing. It showed a stout measure of restraint contained within that powerful form.
“This is the head of the beast, and this big bastard is the fire inside of her. If it wasn’t for him we’d have never made it this far. It’s not an easy thing, laying track." Baylor could see the swoon coming over Bobby. The scents and sounds and heat seemed too much for the boy. “Keep her going steady and smooth. We should hit the outpost by mid-morning.”
“Sure thing, boss. Nice to meet ya, kid,” Price winked.
Bobby waved his goodbye and retreated to the relative safety of the dining car. He grabbed a hold of a bench as the blood left his face. It went from burning hot to freezing cold. Baylor’s hand on his shoulder did not help.
“It takes some getting used to. Sit down,” Baylor said as he led Bobby to one of the benches. “I imagine it was a lot like it was for me right after.”
“I don’t understand,” Bobby said through gritted teeth.
“Right after the world fell apart. You have an idea of what it was like before, but images and stories, even videos, can’t begin to recreate the noise, and the silence that followed. It’s just the opposite for you, born in silence.”
Bobby couldn’t quite follow but he had the good sense to keep quiet. Something told him that the strange man across from him didn’t speak of the past often.
“The world was so loud, screaming really, a non-stop record of sounds much like this beast, a clatter. Phones ringing, television mouth pieces, music, laughter, cries, hissing tires, barking dogs, the sizzle of a hot griddle, the strange, brain scrambling buzz of my electric toothbrush . . . so full of noise and so loud but, but you got used to it. Until you didn’t even hear the sounds anymore. They became part of the everyday . . . another forgotten thing in a trunk full of them, but then the music died I guess you could say. Everything stopped.” Baylor clapped his hands together with a crack.
“Stopped . . . not all at once but in rolling phases. Power was unstable . . . on, off, on and off again, until it ceased altogether. Taking with it most everything else. The gas went next and with that the cars stopped. Then it was quiet. It made me sick at first, like some giant fucking thing kicked the world off course, but it wasn’t some universe-sized hooligan . . . it was something none of us could really see, not without help anyway. But those first few weeks without all the noise were the hardest. It was quiet, but so loud. The din left in life’s absence was deafening.”
Baylor rapped his knuckles on the table and added, “But you get used to it. And soon that silence, or in your case that noise, is replaced by something else, and given time it doesn’t seem so lost. Look, tomorrow we’ll be passing the outpost. In years past I’ve met some of the . . . what did you call them?”
“Folks.”
“Yeah, fitting, I guess. But in the past they’ve traded for news and supplies at the outpost. If what you say is true,” Baylor narrowed his eyes and leaned towards Bobby, “then maybe it’s better you stay out of sight, at least until I give the okay. You can stay because I like you, kid, I really do, but I won’t have your presence fucking up my situation.”
Bobby’s heart rose at Baylor’s words. There was still a chance Ol’ Randy would be there, after all, he told Ecky that he would meet them. Maybe something came up that delayed him so he had to take another way. That hope seemed to calm his uneasy stomach and nerves.
“I won’t fuck up your situation . . . whatever that means.”
“Bwahahaha, kid, you’re a classic. You got enough left in you for a little while longer?”
“I think so,” Bobby lied. He could barely keep his eyes open. He hung on now with a cup curiousness and dash of hope.
“Well then, allow me to show what I’m talking about, what we’re about.”
Baylor led them back through the sleeper car and past the cramped kitchen car with its few seats and loads of boxes. Supplies of food stuffs Baylor called them. There were so many, stacked floor to ceiling, Bobby wondered how they kept track of them all. The scent of grease wafted from the boxes.
As they crossed to the next car the smell of oil dominated everything. It reminded Bobby of visiting Ecky at the generators, and the heavy, metallic scent that seemed to coat the back of his throat and inside of his nostrils. The car had no rooms, only long shelves that ran the entirety of its length; each shelf contained wire baskets filled with all manner of machine parts, and under those shelves long metal and wood beams, hundreds of them.
“This is the future, kid, the situation. See, a lot of people back east are trying to turn the tide. We’ve been working real hard to make that happen. Got us a place in the mountains of North Carolina, a factory, a safe area. Not sure how we got everything going. It was only a few of us at first, trying to hang on amid all those silent trains. A year or two later we became a few more, stragglers mostly, hopeless survivors, but we’ve got a lot of people that know things. One thing led to another. Even found a way to get the factory back on line. So we got this crazy idea that we could make this thing run . . . take it across the country like those that came well before us. And sure as shit we got the old girl running again.
“At first it was tough . . . only a few miles at a time and the noise drew them in. Lost some people.” Baylor patted the metal rails in a form of remembrance that was completely foreign to Bobby. “Died in the name of progress. But the further out we went, using the old rails, we realized we’d have to repair most, and in some cases lay new track altogether. We’ve been working for years and years trying to reach the coast. It doesn’t even matter if there’s nothing left over there . . . it’ll be a victory anyway, an accomplishment we can bring back to home base.”
Bobby tried to soak it all in. So many brave people clinging to hope in the face of utter despair, and yet, through the darkest times, they succeeded, and were succeeding, still. It blew a little oxygen onto the lone ember of hope burning low within him. Maybe there was still a chance for humanity. His own importance in that chance was not lost on him.
“Speechless, kid, she has a way of doing that, but if you thought this was all crazy, wait until you see her ass. It’s a thing of beauty.”
Baylor opened the next door to reveal the head of another beast almost identical to the roaring inferno pulling them along, only it was silent, dormant and cold.
“What, you thought we just turned around like a car?”
“Fucked if I know.” Bobby found it easier to keep Baylor happy if he quipped like he’d heard Ecky and Ol’ Randy do so many times in his past.
“Bwahahaha, kid, maybe you’re the bit of luck we needed." Baylor led the way back to the sleeper car unaware of just how right that assumption would end up being.
Bobby knew nothing but the softness of the pillow and the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER 21
“Why are we slowing down,” Baylor shouted, bits of egg flying from his mouth.
“Boss, you gotta’ see this shit,” Hoss called from the roof above.
Even as he wiped his mouth he felt it, something he shouldn’t have . . . they had come to a complete stop. Baylor already had his pistol in hand as he took the rungs two at a time.
“What’s going on?” Jamie shouted after him.
“Get the girl and get inside! To arms! Get that stranger up here! It’s about time he paid his fare! Keep the kid out of sight!" Baylor’s heart leapt like an animal trapped within the cage of his ribs. He made it to the motionless roof in less than a second. The sensation was not something he was used to and it had him stumbling along. When he finally calmed himself enough to stand up he wished he hadn’t.
“What the fuck?" His eyes darted to the dense brush on either side of the train, but if there were any enemies tucked away, they were well hidden. That wasn’t what had him questioning his sanity, though, the mass of Creepers blocking the track was. In t
he center of the stinking mash of bodies, strung above the cloud of flies, were the very much alive bodies of several men. They were chained to a tall structure that resembled the swing set of a giant. It had the men a good four feet above the tallest of the waiting Creepers, dangling like carrots at the end of a stick . . . bait.
“Price!”
“Boss,” the big man answered from below.
“Get back there and crack open the thumper! I don’t like this one bit.”
Before he could get his head straight a rock whistled past his face, followed by another, and another. Soon rocks rained down from everywhere then the arrows followed. Baylor flattened himself to the roof cursing everything in existence.
“Wyoming Blue has been compromised!” Hoss screamed. His voice was laced with terror. But even that didn’t stop him from returning fire.
* * * * *
Bobby grappled with the remnants of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. He tumbled through the gray haze of awakening. As he fought with the half-forgotten insight he started to hear them, chattering at first, like mice swarming over a crust of bread. Instead of squeaks, they conversed in low tones that were more guttural sounds than actual words, although, a few were as loud and as clear as they had been in life. They were hungry—so hungry.
Bobby snapped up. Something was wrong, they were at a dead stop, and someone had been in his room. Sitting on the small shelf above his bag were several boxes of ammunition for his rifle. The cardboard was old and yellowed but he’d seen worse. With a splitting headache forcing a wedge into the center of his skull Bobby started to load his rifle and his pockets. He didn’t like the idea of someone standing over him while he slept. He felt stupid for succumbing to exhaustion and exposing himself. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it as what sounded to him like heavy rain started to hammer the train.
Bobby pulled the shade aside and nearly paid for it with his eyesight. Had the window been made of real glass he would have never seen the light of day again, but it wasn’t. The large chunk of rock thumped against the plastic, cracking it down the middle, but it held. Bobby moved away from it, searching the swath of waving green for the culprits. He didn’t have to search too hard as they came out of everywhere. His heart fell. No, he thought with a profound sense of guilt, it is all my fault. I am doomed to cause good people their lives.
The attackers were familiar to Bobby. He thought he’d killed them all, including their leader, but he had been wrong. Ecky’s death hadn’t stopped the attack. The wild men in military uniforms swarmed the train with rocks, arrows and clubs. On the roof above, Baylor’s men were returning fire.
“Oh, dear, you must come with us,” Jamie said from the door. Her face was beet-red, her eyes streaming worried tears. Blotches of pinkish-red ran up and down her arms from the stress of it all. Sophie clutched at her apron, as if it were a shield. The big woman carried a shotgun that she racked and pointed down the hall. “Hurry now, Bobby, we need to get to the supply room. We’ll be safe there until Baylor gets this under control. Hurry.”
Bobby strapped his knife to his belt calmly, shouldered his rifle and said, “This is my fault. I must do what I can to help.
“Dear, are you crazy? Have you bumped your head?” Jamie said breathlessly. She was exasperated. “Come now—” she went silent. She was about to try to talk Bobby out of it, but she looked into his eyes. She knew such a task would be pointless. Never before, in all her life had she met anyone, let alone a boy, so accepting of death, so ready to die. “You keep your head down and aim straight then.”
Bobby didn’t hear her parting words. The rocks and the voices of the dead nullified them. Blurriness crept along the edges of his vision. Stop, just stop, I don’t want to hear you anymore, he thought to them, sending the idea of quiet out to them, but they only seemed to get louder. The world around him was spinning out of control once more, but he knew now that he could not dwell on it. That would come later if her survived. For now he had to fight.
He ducked back as he opened the door and a jagged rock clanged off the metal railing.
“Ill-advised,” the hooded-stranger said from the open door of his room. “I don’t understand why so many of us survivors are so quick to die. I will cover you. Be quick, be smart, kid, or be dead!" The dirty gray hood swept out behind him as he leaned around the door with a firearm Bobby was unfamiliar with. After a burst of automatic fire the stranger said, “Go, and stay low on the top!”
Bobby refused to look about, trusting blindly in the stranger. If he was going to be of any use he had to get to the roof, and to cover. He clambered quickly up the ladder amid a rain of stones. As he ran along the roof, towards the head of the beast, he ducked low but not low enough. A sharp stone cracked against his shoulder. The pain was like liquid lightning being injected into his arm. He ran harder. The gap between the cars seemed too great a distance to clear in a low run, but he didn’t have a choice. He dived ahead, arms outstretched, and crashed behind the metal cover panels.
“I thought you killed all of them?” Baylor asked, as he trained his pistol on a wild man running alongside the train. The Mad Conductor jumped up, snapped off a shot, and quickly ducked back down.
Bobby didn’t answer him. He used the metal panels to steady his rifle and started searching for targets. As his scope crossed the swath of Creepers and their prey he found two familiar faces frantically crying for help. He knew them . . . they were . . . they were the Crannen’s twin sons. Ice seized his heart. He couldn’t escape his past: it looked at him through frightened eyes, it spoke within his mind through the hungry mouths of the dead, it lamented him as the absence of his one hope became apparent. Ol’ Randy’s face was not among them.
Tears ran down Bobby’s cheeks. Was there any hope at all?
“If you don’t start shooting, kid, I might think your little story was bullshit,” Baylor whispered in Bobby’s ear as he reloaded his pistol.
Baylor’s voice in his ear, the undead chatter, the Crannen twins’ screams, all of it, sent him into a maddened rage. He trained his scope on dirty-faced boy that looked to be his own age, perhaps even younger, but that didn’t matter. The soldier’s uniform, a little too big for that small frame, painted the youth as an enemy. Bobby put a hole through that frail chest without a second thought. He snapped to a bearded man with muddy handprints on his face and sent him to the afterlife.
“Holy shit, boss—this is fucked, we’re fucked, how’d they take out an entire unit . . . fucking Wyoming Blue!” Hoss sputtered, slobbering snot; a scared child.
“They didn’t kill my brother!” Price shouted. The bulky man rose through the hatch like a shaft of granite caught in a tectonic shift.
“Get some fire in those tree lines,” Baylor shouted.
As Bobby ducked down to reload he took stock of those around him. Baylor and Hoss frantically fired their weapons, but even as experienced as they were, they had a hard time keeping up with all of the attackers. Price’s shoulders heaved as he leveled the massive cannon in front of him, a long belt of short, fat grenades that gleamed gold trailing behind him. The big man sobbed, firing the belt-fed grenades in every direction. Each shot out with a thump that resonated, not only in Bobby’s ears, but in his bones.
The grenades exploded, ripping apart trees and bodies alike, a series of concussions that sent limbs flying, but the wild men came still. Some managed to get to the cars and even scale them, but Bobby and the rest of the Conductor’s men dispatched them with ease. The undead, too, began to be drawn to the commotion. No longer satisfied with their offering they began to advance on the train.
While Bobby and the others kept the front of the train under control the stranger and a handful of Baylor’s men protected the rear engine. They were well supplied, well prepared, and they were fiercely devoted to each other and their task. They reminded Bobby much of the Folks; another pocket of living humanity struggling to survive in a world gone mad, but unlike his former family these new folks did not scorn
their new companions.
Hot casings sizzled down the back of Bobby’s shirt. He barely flinched at their sting. He had quickly run out of targets as the horde of fake soldiers closed the distance to the train. They shouted wildly in their savage tongue of almost-words, hurling rocks with the accuracy of bullets, and they were immune to deaths of their fellows. They set on the train as if it were an evil god, a demon that they saw to wipe from the face of the earth, and neither bullets, explosions, or even the undead were going to get in their way.
Bobby ran towards the back of the train, hoping cars and dodging rocks. Blood burned hot on his head, blurred his vision, but Baylor ordered him to help them. Even though he was not of them, held no allegiance to them, an order was order, a thing ingrained within him, as true as the strange blood that coursed through his veins. As he headed towards the rear car a wild man reached the top of the ladder at its side. His eyes were full of rage and his mouth agape revealing badly yellowed, but sharp teeth. Bobby didn’t slow, even at the sight of the rusty rebar clutched in the man’s grip, he pulled out his matte black knife and cut the man across the face from eye to eye as he jumped over to the next car. The wild man fell between the cars screaming.
“When this is over you must tell me of your encounter with them in great detail,” the stranger called to him.
“Shut up and get down,” Bobby snapped.
The men at the back of the car looked at him in an awe that he didn’t understand. For a second he thought he’d taken a grave injury and didn’t notice it, but upon further inspection, other than cuts and bruises, he was okay. They didn’t have a chance to stare long, as the wild men were on top of them now, beating the train with their fists and rocks and whatever else they could find.
He could feel the pounding through the metal beneath him, as if he were crouched atop a giant drum. The moans of the dead added to the terrible song playing within his head. He felt their shuffles, the sudden change of direction, of focus, they were so . . . hungry. Somewhere inside he became filled with their hunger like a void had been born within the walls of his stomach, a vast, yawning chasm he could never hope to fill. Images rifled through his brain like the flipping pages of a book being skimmed. The dead were speaking to him—no, he thought, not me, but through me. I can hear them, feel them, they are aware of me like they are aware of the others, but they are not speaking to me directly. Bobby couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think straight for the noise was too much.