“The whole world?” James's brow narrowed. “You don't know that.”
“You don’t think the Chinese would’ve taken us over by now if it was just us? There’s no way it wasn’t the whole world. You saw how it cuts through the population—hell, everyone has. Only difference is that we saw firsthand what it did to people before it really spread.”
“You think they knew how bad it would be?”
“Hell yes! They sucked us in with a war they knew they couldn’t win, but knew they’d get the last laugh when we brought that filth back home.” Thomas shook his head. “It had to have been designed for this. Maybe they have… or had a cure. Who knows? Shit, I guess it doesn't matter now.”
James stared silently at Thomas as he spoke.
“God blessed me and you for whatever reason and here we stand, but…” The corners of Thomas’ mouth dropped. “Everyone lost someone.”
“Yeah…” James’s face drained itself of emotion—resigned.
It’s my fault dad got sick so soon. No one thought in a million years we caught it and carried it over. I never felt sick. No one knew. Stop, damn it! It's not your fault... Everyone caught it—carries it now.
But that whole time in the hospital with dad... he felt so guilty. What a waste of our final weeks. It was always the same damn conversation. I don't give a shit that I had to join up! It wasn't your fault! We couldn't have done anything different. I wouldn't have done anything different.
“Hey!” James waved his hand in front of Thomas’ eyes, bringing him back to the rail yard. “We gotta keep moving.”
Half an hour flew by essentially unnoticed. James hadn’t even tried to speak, giving the impression he had slipped into quiet reflection. Perhaps the first time Thomas could remember him taking in a serious topic and digesting it appropriately. Thomas knew his thoughts. No soldier who survived was truly unique. The horrors of the war and its aftermath are what flooded his mind. The friends who were lost, maimed—the marriages that unraveled from the extended hardships—the children who could no longer be tucked in by their parents—then Almawt and the loss of everyone you loved.
“Hold up a second.” An uneasiness caused Thomas to grab hold of James's ruck. “I don't like this.”
“What?”
Thomas pointed to the horizon—the Western Hills viaduct rose sixty feet above the yard. The half wall of concrete that spanned the bridge provided ample cover for any lone wolf and a sniper rifle. A perfect hideout to take advantage of the two venturing below. There's too much to keep track of here, and James doesn't seem to give a shit. He's either still thinking about the war or just thinks he invincible out here. Either way, I'm not buying it. “Give me a minute to take a look before we keep going.”
“Whatever you say, man, but you're wasting time.”
Thomas rounded the corner of an abandoned passenger train and grasped one of the rungs that crawled up its back. It held firmly despite the rust consuming the metal where the paint had flaked long ago. He took his hand a few rungs higher and began to climb. As he made it toward the top, he pulled his binoculars from the pouch on his ruck and popped his head above the roof of the coach.
The yard appeared deserted, nothing worth noting within his normal sight. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes and glassed along the viaduct and the hills that surrounded them. Thickets of trees crept up the hillsides from the western side of the rail yard. Several pitched roofs and apartment buildings peeked through the canopy. There would always be more hiding spots than time to discover them all. Maybe James is right. While Thomas was paranoid, examining every inch of the world around them, James leaned against the train taking every breath as if he would never run out.
“You seeing anything up there?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn't think so. You keep worrying about every what-if there is, you’re going to go crazy.”
“Still, I don’t like walking blindly. Let’s stay up top if you’re so convinced there’s no one out here.”
“If you say so.” James hesitated before climbing up the rungs.
Thomas figured from this vantage point, they'd be able to identify and react more appropriately to threats. Others engaging them in the yard seemed the more logical risk now—someone keeping constant watch over the rail yard seemed farfetched. Honestly, who has time to sit there and watch this place all day? Thomas's shoulder slumped. Me apparently... but how many groups are organized like us. I'm doing a job when I'm in the guard post.
They moved across the tops of the train—their steps surprisingly quiet as long as they minded their footing. The steel they walked upon was silent. It was only as they hopped from one to the other that a thud would be driven down into the chamber of each car, but that never carried far enough to matter.
“What’s that?” James threw his fist into the air, signaling a full stop. The two of them dropped into prone, shooting positions facing opposite ways. “What is that?”
“I don’t hear anything.” Thomas held his breath while concentrating on finding what had captured James’s attention. There it is. He couldn’t pinpoint the position, but a low, moaning sob—faint and impossible to gauge its distance—carried through the wind.
“You don’t hear that crying?” James asked.
“Yeah, but I can't tell where it's coming from.” Thomas listened intently. A woman sobbing could be heard—her cries broken up by sharp gasps for air, but still no telling from where it came. “Someone’s definitely out here,” Thomas said while scanning the area over the sights of his rifle. “Anything on your side?”
“Nope”
“Let’s get down.”
Thomas maintained watch over the yard as James slid down from the top. Thomas pulled the rifle’s strap over his head and joined him on the ground. Strange. The sound of sobbing disappeared. “I'm heading to the other side.” He raised his boot up and over the coupling between the cars, his pant leg momentarily catching on a pin. Damn! He stumbled forward but caught himself before falling.
“You alright?”
“Cover me for a sec.” Thomas untied the laces to his boot and fixed the blousing of his pant leg, pulling, stretching the fabric and stuffing it into the mouth of the boot. “Go ahead and stay on that side just in case, but don’t move beyond the next car until we’re both there.”
“Sounds good, man.” James gave him a thumbs up and transitioned to his pistol. “Ready?”
Thomas brought his rifle to his shoulder, snapping it into place—muzzle leveled and straight ahead. Good to go. Scanned to his right—nothing—he continued to the next car, listening in between each step. He could hear James moving forward, the small stones skittering across the tops of the others as he walked. Thomas peered between the next gap—James’s pistol first, then his head peeked around the corner. They both confirmed each other’s presence and set out again—coach by coach.
The knot of train cars began to unravel itself, leaving large breaks in the maze similar to a meadow in an expanse of crowded forest. Now I'm hearing music! A sharp, tinkly sound played. The notes cascaded in broken sequence from what sounded like an old music box. He swung between the next pair of boxcars, his back against the smooth steel, waiting for James to join him.
“You hear that music?” James whispered as he shifted into the gap. He looked to Thomas while keeping his pistol pointed toward the ground. “Any ideas?”
“No idea where it's coming from.” Again, Thomas scanned the yard. No signs beyond what little they could hear. “Get on this side. We’ll stick together and start clearing these cars.”
James stepped over the coupling and the two set out—Thomas at point and James as cover. They kept their steps upon the railway ties, secretly searching though this game of hot and cold. His ears remained open so that they might lead him closer as the music grew stronger. “There!”
A boxcar by itself, red with vented sides. The flickering of yellows and orange from a fire barely visible from the space beneath the boxcar si
gnaled to Thomas—a slight trail of smoke which dissipated to nothing as it hit the wide open air. Got her now! The two of them retreated behind the caboose of an adjacent train where they remained out of view from their target.
“The red one.” Thomas thumbed over his right shoulder.
“I see it,” James said, his eyes beginning to climb with the faint trickle of smoke. “How many you thinking?”
“Sounds like a woman, but I can't imagine more than one or two. Any more than that and they'd be louder than this.” Thomas glanced over his shoulder. “It has a door on this side, maybe one on the other, not sure, but we should move into positions on both sides.”
James confirmed with a simple dip of his chin.
Now he’s in the zone. “I'll take position on top of this one here. You work your way around and climb on one of those over there.”
Another dip of James’s chin.
“When I'm ready I'll give you a signal. Fist up means hold. Waving my hand forward means it’s time. If there's a door on your side give me a thumbs up.”
James doubled back and left Thomas’s sight as he disappeared around a rail car forty yards behind him. Thomas bent down and scooped a handful of rocks into his cargo pocket. We'll see how they respond to these once he gets over there. He climbed onto the train and low crawled into position behind the cupola of the caboose, bracing the rifle along the top for support. He eyed the scope while adjusting the distance. The fire still gave their target's position away.
Thomas watched James slither his way along the scattered trains—in and out of view. James occasionally searched for Thomas when he could. I got you covered. Keep going. Thomas's attention floated between the target and watching James. He kept him in the corner of his eye as the thoughts of what they were about to do expanded.
Friend or enemy? God, I hope this is simple. I don’t want to deal with some woman and her kid. Someone just trying to make it in the world. Give us something simple. Maniac with a gun. Make your intentions known. Let us react, and we’ll end it and move on.
James slunk in behind the control box of a chemical tanker on the other side of the red boxcar. His angle seemed perfect as he held his pistol steadily toward the target. With his left hand, James raised a thumb into the air. Door on his side, and he's ready to go. Thomas took another cautious look across the yard to ensure another situation hadn't crept up on them. Still—only the wind moved through the valley.
Thomas waved his hand forward and observed James prop both elbows across the control box. Why the hell isn't he using his rifle? Damn it! Whatever... He scraped some rocks from his pocket, rose quickly, and tossed them, striking the red boxcar—several clinks as the rocks pittered against its side. A sporadic series of thumps within the freight car then silence. Yep, at least someone is in there.
He looked to James, his eyes still fixed on the opposite side's door. Nothing from him yet. How long do we wait before going in? James turned his head to Thomas as if he had heard him. Damn it! Thomas breathed in deeply and wiped a nervous sweat from his brow. They're being careful. James continued to stare at him. Thomas raised his fist in the air, telling him to hold, but James shook his head. Just a bit longer. Give it time. James crawled out from his position and advanced on the red boxcar.
What the hell, man? Come on! Thomas's inclination led him to stand from behind the cupola. “Shit, he'll need cover,” he muttered to himself, as he threw himself back down again. He watched as best he could as James moved closer with his pistol pointed toward the boxcar.
“Come out of there slowly,” James shouted. “No one needs to get hurt. There are too many of us out here to fight. Just crack open the door and slide your weapons underneath it.” Thomas could only see James's head from this angle. “You don't want us to force our way in. That way won't go well for anyone. Just come on out of there.”
“I can't,” a woman called out to James. “It’s locked from the outside.”
Thomas saw what she meant. The door on his side was padlocked closed, and he could only assume the other side was too. Ugh! I can't see you, James. He edged his body around to the other side of the caboose's top, trying to get a better angle, but it was no better than before.
“Where's the key, lady!” James shouted.
Thomas could hear him pounding on the outside of the train car as he said it.
“Where's the key!” The patience in James' voice was dissipating. Still pounding—the hollow clunking of metal echoed across the yard.
He's being reckless. What the hell's he thinking?
“I don't have the key,” the woman shouted, crying out to James. “If I did, I'd give it to you, no questions asked, believe me. I need help. Find the damn thing!”
“What do you mean find it? Where the hell is it?”
“I think he keeps it on the track behind you.”
“That doesn't tell me much.” James dashed back toward the chemical tanker but stopped midway. “Hold on... Why didn't you call out for help when you heard the rocks?”
“She thought it might be me toying with her,” a man's voice boomed. “Don't even think about moving!”
Chapter Four
From behind the cupola, Thomas remained calm, trying to match the voice to a figure, but couldn't. They had lost the advantage, and it was unknown who had taken it. James stood rooted in the ground, and even from this distance, Thomas noticed the horrified look on his face and could only imagine what was coursing through his veins or down his leg in this moment.
As time passed and the stranger remained silent, Thomas’s body eventually gave into a nervous sweat. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. Buckle down, damn it. He tried to remain focused, ignoring the woman's screams, just waiting for the man to show himself, to speak, to do anything as Thomas continued to analyze the situation in front of him. It was as if this man was a spirit or simply a voice.
James let his rifle hang and raised his hands, one of them still clutching his pistol. “What do you want?”
“Drop your weapons and your rucksack.”
Thomas could see James hesitate. Just do it man! You know I'm here. Several tense seconds passed with James’s hands suspended above his head.
“Do it!” Any patience the man's voice once held was gone. James must have sensed it, because he gave in, sliding his ruck and rifle off his shoulders and allowing them to land roughly beside him.
“And the pistol!”
James looked up at the gun in his hand, rotating his wrist, eyeing both sides of his Smith and Wesson. That's it! Keep buying time. I'll find this guy. James let his firearm loose, and it dangled from his finger, caught within the trigger guard.
“Don't start thinking funny. All the way! Drop it to the ground!”
James let it go.
“No one needs to get hurt here,” the man continued. “This woman's coming with me. That's all I want.”
“Who is she?”
“Doesn't matter to you.”
“Help me, please God, help me! He's crazy!”
“Shut up!”
Crack! A shot was fired, but James had already bolted, moving frantically across the loose stones as more shots went off. Crack! Crack! Crack! His body leaned and twisted as he drew a crooked line to cover between a set of boxcars. The woman's screams elevated. Crack! Crack! The ground continued to spit rocks as the man missed his target.
Thomas’s eyes moved methodically through the panic, trained, persistent to the task. Crack! Too much cover. Too many trains. The tree line. The watchtower. Again, Crack! “There's that mother...” Thomas muttered while he set his cheek against the butt of his rifle and locked the muzzle onto the threat. A shadowy figure perched inside an old brick watchtower—a white T-shirt framed by a slender body that was only visible between a few slats of pine that encircled the landing.
Thomas focused, narrowing his aim through the scope. Crack! Another shot at James. Stay down, damn it! He drew in a breath then exhaled. With his lungs empty, he squeezed the trigger and
sent a round exploding through one of the pine boards. The man fell onto his side. Never seen. Never heard. Thomas drew back the bolt handle, expelling the spent round, and then slammed it forward. He regained his sight picture and kept the rifle trained on the limp body. “James! You hit?”
“Hell no!”
The lady's screaming didn't let up—it had only gotten worse. The mixture of sobbing and shrieks became punctuated with fists against the steel walls. “What happened! What happened!”
James appeared out in the open again, snatched his pistol from the ground then ran for the makeshift prison.
“James! Stop!” Thomas called. James’s feet slid across the scattered gravel. “Focus on the guy. Come on, move! I got you covered. If I see him move, I put another one in him, but I need you to confirm he's dead.”
“Is he dead!” The woman cried. “Oh, God!”
Her pleas captured James in a trance—he seemed torn on what to do, standing there with a blank expression.
“James!” Thomas stared at him, annoyed with the hesitation. “Ignore her, damn it! The guy. Now!”
“On it!” The disobedience and uncertainty from James ended as he turned from the boxcar. Clearly, he had realized his mistake and accepted his new role. His steps became quick and direct. Finally, nothing else seemed to be on his mind as he rushed to check on the downed man.
It was difficult to make out the body—Thomas’s view limited by distance, concealment, and shadows. The man's once white T-shirt was now dark with blood. It dripped from between the boards, staining the dirt and powdery stones beneath him. Thomas swallowed hard. He didn't want to admit he really couldn't see the body very well. It was more a general idea of how it fell. He was certain that any movement would be noticed, and he could send another round across the yard to quell it. His biggest concern was that the volley of shots would gain the attention of others—people not involved in this skirmish.
Days Since...: Thomas: Day 758 (Almawt Virus Series Book 1) Page 5
