Runaway Train
Page 1
RUNAWAY TRAIN
A NOVEL
S. W. CAPPS
Copyright © 2021, S. W. Capps
Published by:
D. X. Varos, Ltd
7665 E. Eastman Ave. #B101
Denver, CO 80231
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
Book cover design and layout by, Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Studios.
www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com
Cover design features:
Home Video Camera by BillionPhotos.com / Adobe Stock; Rear view of walking businessman, isolated by denisismagilov / Adobe Stock; High resolution fire collection isolated on black background By Jag_cz / Adobe Stock; White van isolated on white. Rear view. Delivery and carrying transportation concept. By Maksym Yemelyanov / Adobe Stock; Black microphone with blank box on the blue background. News concept. 3 By Foxstudio / Adobe Stock; Territory of abandoned industrial area waiting for demolition. Broken and burnt buildings. Former Voronezh excavator factory By Mulder photo / Adobe Stock; Building fire among fields and huge black smoke cloud by leszekglasner / Adobe Stock.
ISBN
978-1-955065-04-7 (paperback)
978-1-955065-05-4 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
About the Author
THE FAIRNESS DOCTRINE
All radio and television stations must present controversial issues of public importance in an honest, equitable, and balanced manner.
Established by FCC, 1949
Abolished by FCC, 1987
Chapter 1
August 1987
(NEWSWIRE): PRES. REAGAN PROPOSES CEASE-FIRE BETWEEN SANDINISTA GOVERNMENT AND CONTRA REBELS ... DOW JONES INDUSTRIAL AVERAGE REACHES ALL-TIME HIGH OF 2,722 ... BROADCASTERS BEGIN AIRING NEWS WITHOUT ‘FAIRNESS DOC-TRINE’ RESTRICTIONS
August in Oklahoma. Hell couldn’t be much hotter.
As he pulled into the gas station, sweat dripped from his forehead to his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. It was a big day, one he’d dreamed of—and feared—for as long as he could remember. The day Stacy Zwardowski would finally become a man.
“Fill ’er up?”
“Please.” He stared through the grimy windshield. In the distance, a marquee flashed 90 degrees, but the humidity made it feel like 120. Stacy adjusted his tie, glancing at the suitcase on the floor, the maps in the backseat, the wind-blown banners above. How had he gotten here? It was a bit of a blur.
He’d been working two jobs in Portland, the kind a kid gets to fill the gap between college and career—one in a fast-food restaurant, the other in a used bookstore —the paychecks giving him just enough money to help his mom with groceries and buy beer. When he wasn’t working, he was writing, reading a book, or shooting hoops.
The last summer of childhood.
The call came on a Monday morning. “This is Terrance Meeks,” the man said. Half asleep, Stacy struggled to make sense of his words. “I had a chance to review your tape. You’re a little rough around the edges, but I think you show promise.” The news director broke into a memorized spiel about the TV station and the requirements of the job. His philosophy was simple. “We give viewers ‘News They Can Use’.” Stacy had no idea what that meant, but an interview was set for the following Monday, enough time for him to buy a cheap suit and make the three-day drive over two mountain ranges and seven states. He’d pulled into Avalon late last night, tired, hungry, and nearly out of money. If things didn’t go well, he wasn’t sure he could get back home.
The nozzle clicked, the hammer of a gun. Stacy rolled down the window, taking in the endless horizon. Not a mountain in sight. Not even a molehill. Then again, no self-respecting mole would ever put up with this heat.
“Twelve even,” the attendant drawled.
Stacy handed him a twenty. “Channel Eight’s up the road?”
“You on TV?”
“Just an interview.” He grabbed the change and steered past the pumps.
On the radio, Exposé sang Point of No Return. “Good morning, Avalon!” a voice rattled the speakers. “Time for a KAVN news update. I’m Nate Shefler. On this final day of August, a Dexter County jury…”
Stacy killed the radio as a row of satellite dishes came into view. He squinted to read the sign—KEGT-TV CHANNEL 8.
This was it.
After letting a truck full of chickens pass, he turned into the lot, glancing at his watch—eleven on the nose. He grabbed his coat and hurried up the walk.
***
The doors wheezed open as ‘Stormy’ Raines stepped on the mat. His mother had nicknamed him ‘Stormy’, a reference to his cloudy gray eyes. His real name was Vernon. After a beat, he moved inside, the cold air embracing him like a dead relative. He looked left, right, then pulled a cart from the waiting arsenal. The air smelled of fresh-baked bread, Boston’s Peace of Mind playing over the Muzak.
As he moved to the Produce section, he passed a balding store manager and bagger. Gripping the cart’s steel handle, he made his way to a fruit display, the enclosure housing colorful rows of oranges, lemons, grapefruit. “How ya’ll doin’?” a man in a blue smock asked over a hill of bananas.
Raines ignored him, moving from Produce to Meat & Poultry. As he grabbed a bloody pork shoulder, his image danced off the chrome. The supermarket was quiet this morning. Only four customers. A woman and her child. An old man with a walker. And ‘Stormy’ Raines.
He moved up one aisle and down the next, collecting items. A jar of pickled okra. A tin of smoked sardines. His feet ached in his stiff leather shoes. He’d worn them just twice before. Once at his wife’s funeral. Again on his silver anniversary at the Uniroyal plant, a job he’d hated for twenty-five years.
“Clean-up on aisle six,” a loudspeaker crackled. He heard nothing. There was a buzz in his head, a tingling in his flesh. As he made his way down the last aisle, sweat pooled in his concave chest. He’d always been a frail man. A weak man. But not today.
He tossed one more article in the basket, a jar of gefilte fish in liquid broth. The floating tissue looked like chunks of human brain.
“I can help ya,” an attractive checker spoke up. He pushed the cart to her register. “Shoppin’ for the missus today?” She smiled, her lips parting to reveal a wad of gum. She had big brown eyes—deer’s eyes.
He reached in his coat and pulled out a .44 Magnum. As the woman gasped, he squeezed the trigger and watched her fall.
***
“You must be Stacy.”
Stacy nodded and stood, all six-foot-three inches of him. The man coming toward him was forty-something and crimson-cheeked. He wore loose slacks and a tie that looked like a gift.
“Terrance Meeks. We spoke on the phone. You’re a tall one.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Stacy studied his expression. The interviewer looked more nervous than the interviewee.
“Come with me.” He tore out for the hall, Stacy hurrying af
ter him. “Sorry to rush you, but we’ve got a situation.”
“Oh, that’s…” The man stopped at a door marked ENGINEERS.
“Wait here.” He stepped inside, Stacy peering through the crack. “Unit eight ready?” A slovenly tech pointed to a camera in the corner. “Ever use an Ikegami 730?” Before Stacy could answer, Meeks shot past him, camera in tow. “Pretty simple,” he called over his shoulder, disappearing in a closet at the end of the hall. By the time Stacy caught up, the man had stuffed a bag to capacity. “Shouldn’t need more than two camera batteries. Gave you an extra for the deck, too.”
“But…” Stacy’s face grew hot. “…I’m here for an interview.”
“Congratulations, kid. You got the job. Now where’s your car?”
“My car?”
He grabbed a tripod and deck, pushing his way past. “Yeah. I apologize, but I’ve got two reporters sick and everyone else out on assignment.” He lowered his shoulder against the door, sunlight beckoning. “Nearest crew’s in Tishomingo, a good half-hour from here.” Stacy followed him outside. “All our news cars are gone. You’ll have to use your own today.”
As they reached the lot, Stacy scraped to a halt. “Sir.” The news director turned, a look of impatience replacing the one of worry. “I’ve never…I mean, this is my first—”
“I know, kid, but that’s the nature of the beast.” Despite the heat, the first-time reporter shivered. “Which one’s yours?” Stacy pointed to his ’76 Celica. As they loaded equipment, the man spewed instructions. “When you get there, set up the tripod and mount the camera. Deck’s ready to go. Camera needs a battery.” He slammed the trunk. “When you’re ready to roll, just hit the black button.”
“But…” It was all happening too fast. “…what about a monitor?”
“We don’t use monitors. And your deck only records. There’s no playback, rewind, or fast-forward.”
“Then how do I check footage?”
“You don’t.” He opened the door and shoved Stacy inside. “Take a right out of the lot. It’s a mile down on your left side.”
“What is?”
Meeks looked more nervous than ever. “A shooting. At the Super-K Market.” Stacy gulped. “And don’t forget to white balance.”
***
The manager’s glazed eyes stared at nothing. He was dead before he hit the floor.
‘Stormy’ Raines moved from the checkout stand to the Produce section, proud of his efficiency. Two bullets. Two bodies. His gait was smooth, his senses heightened. He could smell every vegetable—onions, asparagus. He could taste them—eggplant, tomatoes, butternut squash.
A sudden move caught his attention, the Produce manager darting from one display to another. The frightened employee took refuge behind a mountain of potatoes, the Lord’s Prayer on his lips.
Raines moved left, gun drawn. He’d never killed anyone before today, never even struck a man in anger. He was making up for lost time.
The man in the blue smock bolted for the door, catching the gunman by surprise. Raines fired but missed, shattering a jar of salad dressing. He thought about going after him, but there was more prey nearby. Easier prey.
As the Muzak droned on, he heard the faint sound of whimpering. The noise grew louder as he approached the Dairy section. Behind a refrigerator, a woman and her child cowered, praying the gunman would miss them.
He didn’t.
Raines drew down on the pair, his eyes two stagnant pools. “Run, Breanna…” The woman shoved her four-year-old daughter away. “Run, dammit!” Darting off, the girl heard the sound of a gunshot behind her. And no further instructions from her mother.
***
The sky over Super-K Market was the perfect blue of a Hollywood backdrop.
But this was no movie.
Stacy’s hands shook as he steered the Celica into the lot. Screeching to a stop, he dashed to the trunk. Adrenaline was in charge now. He could feel his arteries expanding, hear blood rushing through his ears. A shot rang out as he raised the lid.
“Are you fuckin’ nuts?” Stacy turned to find a cop heading straight for him. “Move the hell back! You wanna get yourself killed?”
“No, sir.” He dropped back twenty yards and began assembling his gear. The tripod was easy enough. He spread the legs and dropped it. The camera came next. How the hell did it fit on the tripod? After three attempts, he locked it in place.
Another shot rang out as he reached for the deck, his skin turning to gooseflesh. To the left, cops hunkered down, guns drawn. To the right, officials set up a makeshift control center. Every few seconds, a new vehicle sped into the lot, sirens screaming. Stacy looked around as he attached the camera cable.
He was the first journalist to arrive!
“This is Sergeant David Eckles of the Avalon Police Department,” a bullhorn sounded. Stacy slammed a tape in the deck. “Give yourself up.” He hit the camera’s power switch. Nothing. “Come out with your hands in the air.” He hit it again. Still nothing. What the hell was wrong? As he moved for a closer look, he kicked the bag at his feet—ouch—a battery! He grabbed the brick and locked it in place, the viewfinder leaping to life. Yes!
Aiming the camera at the gun-toting officers, he hit the black button, the deck clicking, then humming. He stared through the little window. Tape was rolling! Panning the camera, he captured a wide shot of the store. He rolled on the sign, the man with the bullhorn, a young bagger fleeing from an exit. How he maintained his composure, he didn’t know. But one thing was certain—Stacy Zwardowski, TV reporter, was doing his job.
***
When the old man heard the first shot, he knew he was in trouble. He couldn’t move quickly, not with a walker. As he inched forward, he heard a second shot, then a third.
A fourth shot sounded as he reached the checkout stand, ten feet from freedom. But his walker snagged the leg of a candy rack. ‘Stormy’ Raines fired, blood spraying the register, walker collapsing under the weight of the body. Admiring his deed, he heard the commotion outside—the sirens, the screeching tires, the cop on the bullhorn. None of it stopped him. He still had work to do.
Making his way up the center aisle, he listened for little feet. As he reached the turnaround, he spied the overhead mirror. The circular glass held the image of the little girl, her body reduced to a fetal ball. Raines stepped around the corner, stopping in front of her. She’d lost a shoe somewhere. And she held a fuzzy gold duck to her chest, plucked from the stuffed animal rack behind her.
As he took aim, the pair locked eyes. He wanted her to look away—needed her to—but she refused. “Why?” she uttered.
He held the gun till it shook. “Stop looking at me!” he screamed. The girl held her stare. “Stop it, goddammit!”
“Come out with your hands in the air!” a voice echoed around him. “I repeat. Drop your weapon and come outside. Hands where we can see them.” He stared at the little girl, wanting desperately to hold her now, to tell her how sorry he was for taking her mother. But what good would that do? He raised the gun and fired the rest of his bullets at the ceiling, offering a primordial scream that released the last few ounces of pain he was holding onto.
With nothing left, he headed for the door.
***
Stacy winced at the bone-chilling scream. He wasn’t alone. Even to the casehardened eyes of the law enforcement community, the unfolding scene was a disturbing one.
As the standoff continued, more media began to arrive. A reporter from the Avalon Herald. Nate Shefler from KAVN. A maroon van with the words KPXZ-TV on the side. “Channel 8 first on scene?” the driver sniped. “Now, that’s a story!”
Stacy ignored him, pretending to focus. But as he stared at the viewfinder, he saw a man emerge from the market. He wore a rumpled coat and shiny shoes, hands hanging loosely at his sides. One was empty. The other held a .44 Mag.
“Hold it right there!” the bullhorn sounded. Stacy’s heart leaped to his throat. “Drop your weapon!” Cops took aim. Th
e suspect didn’t move. “I repeat. Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!” Still no movement. To the left, an officer crouched behind a shield. To the right, a sniper stared through paper-thin crosshairs. “You’re completely surr—”
The perp raised his gun, shots exploding on all sides. The first bullet struck him in the chest, the next in the head. In all, they’d find nine slugs in ‘Stormy’ Raines’ body, but eight were unnecessary. The sniper was lightning quick. And deadly.
The gunman sagged to the ground, blood pouring like tomato juice down the curb. Stacy’s eyes locked on the image. Could this really be happening? It was the stuff of nightmares, but it was happening. And he had the video—he checked to make sure he was still rolling—yes, he had the video to prove it.
As police swarmed the body, Stacy forced himself to zoom, then pulled back for crowd shots. Heart pounding, he unlatched the camera and moved left for a better angle. But as he dropped to a knee, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking into the sun, he saw the glowing face of a female reporter. She had dazzling green eyes and near-perfect teeth, her chestnut hair holding firm against the wind. “Katie Powers,” she introduced herself. “We got here fast as we could, but the road from Tishomingo’s a two-lane.” An obese camera op came up behind her, breathing hard and eating an Eskimo Pie. “This is Bub. He’ll take over for you.”
“But I don’t…” Stacy climbed to his feet.