with him. But a man can't live on nothing, mister. Maybe it's like I say. It's the el power that keeps him going."
Philpot waved his hand under Larue's face, and Jack noticed the worn blue uniform coat.
"No siree, you can tell me about your other jobs and I'll say thank you and perhaps I'll take 'em and perhaps I won't, but tain't no use with Pete. He won't take anything else."
"But what'll he do?" persisted Jack. "I think I can work something over at the foundry. Watchman job. Pretty good pay."
Philpot leaned close. "Don't worry about him, mister. He'll get along all right. You know he swears he'll stay with the el."
"Aw, that's silly," said Jack. "What's the use of bucking the facts. The el's going to be blasted and pulled down. The paper knows it, I know it, you know it. You fellas will have to get something else or you'll starve."
Old Philpot cackled. "Don't worry, young fella. Pete lives without eating, and anyway, he says he's staving with the cl."
Jack turned to go.
"Now don't get uppity, Larue. I calculated you might tell me a bit more about the job."
"Well, I'd really thought about Pete," said Jack from the door, "and it doesn't look like he's coming in."
"Never can tell," said the conductor. "He might be here most any time. Watchman, did you say?"
"Yeah," said Jack, thinking by now that the other man was probably a bit touched.
"That's fine," said Philpot, "I could do something like that."
Jack set his jaw loyally. "I'm telling you, Mr. Philpot, I was thinking of Pete."
"No, young fellow," said the conductor, then lowered his voice. "Here, let me show you something."
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105
HPHE old man hobbled to a very old k*- trunk with patched leather handles at either end and a lock that was rusted with age. Quickly a nailfile appeared in his hand and he dexterously pried at the lock. The trunk lop yielded and he pulled it back.
"Look,'* he said. Jack leaned forward and peered into the interior curiously.
"Why," he exclaimed, "it's a lot of mets!—a lot of old metal parts!"
"Sure," said Philpot triumphantly. "You can see he's swiped levers and bars and facings off the el. Now that isn't the kind of man you want to be watchman!"
Larue was astonished.
"But why? Why would he take all that useless junk?"
"You can sell junk," suggested Phil-pot, wagging his head.
Just then there was an abrupt thud at the door. The metallic rasp of a key, and the next thing Peter Nevers himself stood in the entrance.
The three men stood silent for a moment, and then the motorman crossed quickiy tc the trunk, crashing the lid dov.-n with his hand. He turned accusing eyes on Philpot and Larue, eyes steely black with hatred. Larue stood there almost as a spectator. At first it seemed funny and then the vehemence of the man penetrated. Philpot was evidently in terror and he trembled and inched his way across to the door. Larue kept looking at the conductor to do the explaining, and when none was forthcoming; he turned to Pete himself and said simply:
"We just opened it up, Pete. Sorry. I had something I wanted to tell you about a job—"
Nevers raised a long, rigid arm until it pomted at the door in semaphore fashion.
"Get out!" he ordered. "Get out of here, both of you. Going through my things!"
He turned on Larue,
"And as for your job," Nevers said, *T don't need it!"
"What'll you do?" said the foundry worker.
"Stay with the el," growled Pete and starred menacingly toward them, his big old hands spread with obvious intention. The two ducked into the hall and headed down the stairs.
"Whew!" said Philpot, "guess he didn t like that."
"It's your fault," Larue reproached. "You shouldn't have nosed into his things That's what bothered him. He probably thought nobody knew. That was a damn fool thing to do!"
Philpot bristled: "I only wanted to show you. He shouldn't have got so sore. I meant no harm."
"It was your fault," Larue was stubborn.
The two headed out into the street, and Philpot slowed Larue's long lanky stride down, clutching at his sleeve.
"How about that watchman's job?"
"Go to the foundry and find out for yourself," disgustedly advised the laborer.
"Aw. be a good fellow!"
"I didn't look that up for you," persisted Jack.
"I don't know why you should kick. He doesn't want it," hissed Philpot, digging his fingers into the young man's arm. "Now I'll tell you something, mister. Pete ain't quite all right. He isn't exactly like other folks am. Me," Philpot shrugged again, "some folks think I'm getting a bit touched," and he thumped his forehead grinningly. "Silly, ain't it? But Pete, mister," his face became all seriousness again, "Pete is sort of touched all over, I'm telling you, he's not the same as us. I wouldn't want him watching anything of mine!"
Without another word Jack walked away, unmindful of the other's pleas.
L^rue didn't notice either of the old el employees again until the momentous day when the el was to support its last load, the last trip through the stations and across the river, for then the old
RIDE THE EL TO DOOM
rusting cars were to be nuzzled into their final resting place in the yards and the rails were to be torn up immediately for other, more vital usages.
THE el train that last trip was packed with dignitaries and reporters, the Mayor, and other notables, but still Jack managed to get aboard. There was much excitement, and the Sanitation Department band played bright, hopeful airs on the 109ih Street platform. This depressed Larue even more than he had expected to be affected by his last trip. He wondered why the death of something should be celebrated by a bind, and a poor one at that, playing off-key military marches. It seemed unfair. Taps maybe, like they do over a dead hero. A bugle and some guns fired off. Danmit, he was going to miss the old rattler.
He reached into his hip pocket as best he could in the crowd and felt reassuringly of the bottle cached there. The train jerked to a start and there were btizzahs from the small crowd on the platform. The Sanitation band tooted enthusiastically, its horns and inexact melody blaring off into the distance as the train put worn ties between itself and the starting point.
.1 .ame cautiously began to edge his way forward. Between cars he made himself small, reached into his hip and got the boille there up to bis lips. He took a good enough swig to half empty the precious Scotch, then with more elan he shouldered his way forward again.
Slowly, as though reluctant to compute its last journey, as though clinging to every moment, every familiar squeak and rattle, as though caressing for the last time each inch of used and faithful track, the el cars nosed their way around serpentine bends and clickilicd out onto the West River Bridge. Pedestrians waved from the bridge way, Jack noted, as he peered out the side windows. He also noted that crews were already standing by to begin the work of demolition. The crowd in the el ears was happy and carefree. Here and there,
the foundry worker recognized a face that had crossed back and forth with him many times in the past. He didn't know them beyond a nod or a smile, but thev were the veterans who, he felt, could sense the real tragedy of this thins; as he did. The others, the petty officials, the nosing sour reporters, Chief of Police Frost—a man Larue recognized by his pictures, large-jowled, blank of expression despite the smile frozen on his face—all these did not belong. The el to them was a source of revenue or a cause of lack of revenue, the source of a story, or just a responsibility. For all of them, its iron and steel frame and heart and guts could be wrenched and torn asunder and hauled elsewhere to be scalded and molded into new unrecognizable forms.
Larue finished the rest of his Scotch, picked up in spirit correspondingly, and reached the front of the foremost car, all about the same time. Some of the joy-riding passengers had pulled open the windows and were looking curiously out. Larue stuck his head through and lo
oked back the way they'd come. Already, like the wake of a speedy motor launch coming together in the distance, little ants of men had flung themselves from either side upon the track. Even at the steadily increasing distance, Larue could see the morning sun glinting on a swung pick or raised crowbar. He pulled his head in as the train rattled off the bridge ramp. A couple of florid-faced, straw-hatted men in the back of the car, with construction buttons on, started a few bars of Casey Jones, but the song died a self-conscious death. Larue looked at them with contempt. Construction, bah, Destruction, that's what it was.
He nodded at an old-time passenger he knew and lurched forward against Pete's door. The tram was slowing as he leaded against the compartment and pulled at the knob.
"Hello, Pete," he mumbled as the door opened. There was Nevers sitting as ever, hunched and intense over his controls. Nevers said nothing.
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107
THERE were more people at the Fender station. Sonic little school children were lined up on one side of the platform. As the train pulled in, they waved the small flags in their hands and started to scream. Larue cursed and turned back to Pete,
"It's terrible, isn't it ? All this noise !"
He wanted to slap the old man on the back, but Nevers stared intently ahead. A few more people got on at Fender. A few got off. The run now was to the station in the yards where the el cars had made their home for so many years.
Larue spoke several times to Pete and still got no reply. The whiskey funics In his brain befuddled him. He knotted his fists into balls. He became slowly angry, angriness that made him want to reach ovci and shake the imperturbable Nevers.
"Whazza matter, Pete? You sore at me about something? Aw, snap out of it. I'm even going to pay you that ten bucks I owe you soon." Larue giggled idiotically.
The train clattered on at increased speed and the hubbub of the passengers behind rose and fell.
"Now Pete." said Larue, "you're not going to high-hat your old friend, are you? That's no way to treat me."
He reached out and touched Nevers* shoulder.
The motorman turned at that, and for the first time spoke, his eyes full on the laborer's face.
"Ot out," he said between closed teeth.
At that, Larue saw red. Without thinking, he aimed a lusty punch in the direction of the engineer's body. He let fly, and as he connected, felt the shock of impact through the back of his hand and up his arm, but Nevers wasn't hurt. With his free hand, the motorman shoved Larue away viciously. The foundry worker crashed heavily into the opposite side of the aisle. Nevers' compartment door slammed and there was the click of a lock. Larue sputtered and pulled
himself upward, helped by one of the old-time passengers and a bored reporter who saw in the antics of the drunk some release from the monotony of this final cl ride.
"I'm all right,'' insisted Larue, shaking off his helpers. "Lemme alone." He shook his head. He felt bewildered and dazed by ins fall and the liquor. Before him loomed the unreassuring visage of Chief of Police Frost. Lame waved his hand and insisted again: "I'm all fight. Lemme alone."
The ii ain docilely began to slow for the yard. The last station was ahead One of the reporters tried knocking at the motorman's compartment, pounding with his fist and then shaking his head dourly and slapping the pad and pencil he had in his hand back into his pocket.
"He'r a devil," said Larue. "Don't go near him, fella."
The reporter smirked and beaded back along the aisle. The train came to a shuddering stop and Larue found himself carried along with the outpouring passengers. He noted a foreman of the elevated line and old Conductor Philpot standing near the front of the train. Walking down the steps was a feat. When he reached the bottom, everything became increasingly hazy. He headed for the nearest bar and threw himself into the wooden seat of a little cubicle. Beers added to the Scotch made him sleepy, and his last act consisted of waving a five-dollar bill at the disapproving barkecp.
Unaccountable time later, Jack woke up on a bench across the street from the tavern. He felt gingerly of the throbbing lump on the back of his head and his tmotions flamed up in anger at Pete. His shoulder was sore, too, where he had been shoved into the side of the el car by the motorman.
Larue got laboriously to his feet. He staggered uncertainly back across the street ?.nd headed into the tavern again, but as he crossed the threshold, the bar-keep spotted him and started lumbering forward with a meaningful jerk of the head.
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"Look, Bud, I had a" hard enough time gettin' you outta here before !"
Larue turned around: "All rl ■' right, just wanted to know what time it was."
The barkeep yelled out at him: "Stay out of hire, you bum!"
The foundry worker trudged along the dark streets. The cool summer air lapped at his hair and cleared his brain of some of its alcoholic vagueness. An illuminated clock or 3 jeweler's window showed that it was 9 -30. Good lord, he'd been out for hour? I That blow on the head Nevers had caused him—temper flared up in the man and his footsteps became sure. Even in his befuddled state he found Nevers' place quicklv and mounted the steps, his anger a hard swollen something within him. His fists knotted into tight balls . . . mumbling, he climbed the stairs to Pete Nevers' room. He rattled at Nevers' door but there was no answer. lie was about to turn away when a noise from within attracted his attention.
SO NEVERS was in there, was he, hiding from him ! He pounded again a'; the door. Still no response. Maddened, the laborer put his shoulder to the door and forced the cheap lock. The pane! flew inward and Larue lurched into the chamber, his hands out in front of him aggressively. Then he saw the figure on the floor near the bed.
"Hev von," Jack muttered in surprise. He came closer. It was Philpot! The old man was white as the plaster wall behind him. There was blood oozing thickly from a cut on his head.
"Philpot, what iiappened ? You're hurt!"
The old man raised a gnarled talon of a hand and waved it weakly.
"Nevers," he gasped. "He's crazy. He ain't human!"
"Nevers !" gritted Larue. "He hit you, too, huh'* Yeah, he swung on me this morning in the el, the dirty—!"
"Wait, Larue," said the old conductor weakly, "the man's gone mad. He's a killer. He ain'L human. And he's headed
back to the yards. O.ll the police, Larue. Ke's going back for no good, I tell ya. I tried to stop him and look what it did me!"
The scene had sobered Larue. Plainly, old Nevers had gone out o£ his head.
"I'll get him! I'll go after him myself."
"No/' choked the old man, shaking his head painfully. "Won't do, Larue. Got to get the police right away."
Ayr, police," said Larue disdainfully. "I'll find a doctor for you and head to the yards myself.
"Larue," said the old man, "you've got to call the cops right away. Larue, come closer." The old man's voice sank to a whisper. It was plain he was losing strength fast. The foundry worker bent over the old el employee, his ear close to the man's mouth. Philpot whispered to him, his words barely audible. Larue straightened, aghast, and he wheeled and almost ran from the room.
"I'll get a doctor for you," he called back.
He ran downstairs three at a time and out into the street. Two and a half blocks of running brought him to a policeman. He told the officer the bane details and then took off again in the direction of the el yards.
Finally he reached the stairs leading to the elevated's burial ground. He sprinted up the steps and looked around. Everything seemed quiet. But where was the watchman? As far as he could see were •ilent sentinels of cars, standing in somber lines of two and three and four. He cursed his lack of matches or any other light as lie picked his way along the rotting ties. Gradually his eyes became more accustomed to the dark. Then, suddenly, he came upon a body sprawled against the base of the platform. It was one of the guards. Even to the inexperienced eye, the man no longer possessed that indefinable spark called life. The feelin
g of death was here and everywhere in these yards now. The watchman had been bludgeoned to death, Larue saw. His head was marked with many blows such as the one Philpot had received.
RIDE THE EL TO DOOM
IARUE got up from his scrutiny. The - pit of his stomach tingled and his body felt dampish. That crazy, p Ncvcrs' By god, he'd get him. So he was a killer! He had shoved him, Jack I,arue. and he'd killed one, maybe two. But where to look ir, this maze of silent black coaches squatting everywhere on rusty rails dreaming of the past?
The problem was solved suddenly for him To his right, several blocks away, the metallic jerk of an el starting shocked him. The headlamp lit up, and against the light-reflected back, Larue could sec a three-car train moving slowly along parallel to the platform lie was on, toward the switch that opened into the now-condemned line. Ghostlike the whole scene was, incredible as some distorted, fevered dream. For there seemed no life here but Larue and the remote, twinkling stars above The train that moved could not, should not be real. It was a trick of his imagination. It was the liquor he had consumed This yard, these cars were dead, dead as the watchman who lay crumpled over the platform.
Yet even as he thought these things, Larue sprinted forward. He headed across the yard, alternately leaping and stumbling over tracks. Ahead, luring him on with a peculiar, horrible, and magical magnetism was the squeaking, rumbling thing gathering speed, its three funereal black cars sliding wtaithHke through the yards. Larue was close by now. He grabbed at a side rail and missed. It was Nevers he knew running the train. Never;? who'd killed, tra) of all, who'd pushed him, Jack Larue. People didn't push Larue. The anger flowed back into him and charged blood and energy into his lagging legs. He sprinted mightily and caught the rail at the end of the last car. He pulled himself upward and then lay panting on the back platform. His head still throbbed where Nevers had shoved him earlier that day.
With a series of ominous jerks the train gained speed and Larue watched the black ties flash out from under the belly of the
Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 Canadian Page 15