Maureen and Sam exchange glances. The look she gives Sam is like, what have we got to lose?
“You are officially deputized,” Maureen says. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Safraz,” he says.
Maureen reaches for the onboard phone mounted to the exterior wall of the first train car.
“I’m going to warn the passengers that we’re about to apply the emergency brake, gentlemen. The phone call will also go to every Amtrak station along the eastern seaboard. So, once it goes out, the whole country is going to know about our emergency. Pray to the good Lord above that the emergency brake works. Because if it doesn’t, Safraz, I’m going to entrust you to assist Sam and me in applying the wheel brakes on every one of the first three cars.”
“Understood,” Little Bearded Man says. “I am, of course, at your service.”
She picks up the phone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “I am Amtrak Security Chief Maureen Fawcette. Please, listen carefully. Train number 1911, The Empire Run, originating at the Albany/Rensselaer Station and on route for New York’s Penn Station, is a runaway.” She gazes out the window. “Presently, we’re at milepost thirty-one. We ask that all passengers brace themselves in their seats according to the instructions in the safety manuals located in the seatbacks before you. The emergency brake is about to be activated. Repeat, train number 1911, the Empire Run is a runaway. Passengers brace yourselves and prepare for sudden impact. Over.”
She hangs up the phone.
“Will Amtrak respond?” I ask.
“Not likely,” Maureen says. “They don’t want to jam the system since it’s so goddamned antiquated. That’s the federally subsidized railroad for you. But that still doesn’t mean the tracks won’t be cleared.”
Beside the phone is a red lever. It’s the emergency brake. Below it is the manual brake. The steel wheel looks more like the steering wheel on a cabin cruiser than a brake for a train car.
Maureen takes hold of the T-shaped lever, prepares to pull it.
“Grab hold of something, gentlemen,” she says. “You’re going to feel a sudden and powerful jerk, almost like we hit a concrete barrier.”
Vertical grab bars are mounted to the car walls on either side of the car door. I grab one and Safraz grabs the other.
Maureen positions herself four-square while she grips the brake handle with both hands.
“Ready?” she calls out.
“Go for it,” I say.
“Let’s stop this runaway,” she says.
She pulls the brake.
7
The train hits the imaginary solid concrete barrier. She wasn’t kidding, Sam thinks as he grips the bar and holds on with all his strength. Hitting a concrete barrier . . . That’s exactly what it feels like.
Wheels screech, metal twists and contorts. Sam sees sparks flying through the many holes and narrow openings in the steel pan floor from the suddenly applied brakes. He feels his body lunge abruptly forward while Maureen’s back slams against the opposite wall inside the coupling compartment.
But then, just as suddenly as train begins to slow, it begins to take on speed again. The screeching stops, so do the stressing and straining, and so do the sparks. It’s as if the brakes have disintegrated.
“Shit!” Maureen barks. “The damned emergency brake failed. And I can bet that son of bitch Morgan had something to do with it.”
“How much time we got?” Sam barks.
Maureen glances at her watch. “Twenty-three minutes.” Looking out the window onto the Hudson River. “The gorge can’t be far.”
“What’s the second protocol?” Sam asks. “The brake wheels?”
Maureen nods, her face ashen with worry. It tells Sam he might want to start taking a more proactive role in stopping this train.
I mean, how hard can it be to stop a speeding locomotive? he questions himself. What would Superman do?
“Maureen,” Sam says. “How many cars will it take to at least slow down this train? How many cars with locked wheels, I mean?”
“Just one should provide enough drag to slow the engine down significantly,” she says. “In theory.”
“Good,” Sam says. “We’ll give it the first three cars like you said. Maybe that will be enough to stop the locomotive altogether. Maybe if it’s forced to drag three cars, the engine will overheat, blow its pistons, melt down the powerhouse and cease up.”
“Or at the very least, we might be able to slow the train to a crawl,” Maureen says. “That happens, we can get everybody the hell off with no more than minor injuries.”
Sam turns to Safraz, sets his hands on the little man’s narrow shoulders.
“Here’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is, my Tunisian friend.” Sam then refocuses on Maureen. “You take this car, Chief. I’ll take the second car. And Safraz, you take the third.” Glancing at his wristwatch. “We apply the brakes in unison in exactly one minute. Got it?”
Safraz gazes at his watch.
“One minute and counting,” he says in his thick Tunisian accent.
Maureen holds her watch up in front of her face.
“Go,” she says.
Sam and Safraz make their way through the first car, past passengers braced and bent over in their seats, emergency position, with their hands locked behind their heads. Sam hears a little girl crying and a mother trying to console her. His heart breaks for them. But now is not the time for feeling sorry for anyone. Now is the time to stop this speeding train before they all die.
Sam and Safraz enter the second coupling enclosure. Sam immediately takes his place at the brake wheel.
“Thirty seconds, Safraz,” he says. “Then give her hell.”
The little bearded man says, “I will give it my best,” before heading through the door, past the lavatory and luggage rack, and into the third car.
Staring at his watch face, Sam counts down the seconds, one by one. When the final second clicks off, he nods.
“Now,” he says aloud. “Let’s stop this fucking train.”
Both his hands grip the steel wheel, and he begins to turn it clockwise. Sam isn’t the type to brag about it, but despite his middle-age, he’s in better shape than most men half his age. If his training as a Navy SEAL taught him one thing, it’s this: it’s important to keep your body in top physical condition because there will be times where your body will be your best weapon against a physical onslaught. There will be times you need to harness more strength than the average bear. As the wheel begins to turn, and he feels the sweat beading on his forehead, he can only hope the far smaller Safraz is able to turn his wheel. He harbors the same hope for Maureen. He turns the brake lever one full revolution and then another. It’s only on the third turn that he begins to make out the sound of the brakes pressing against the rapidly spinning wheels. The loud sound of screeching ensues, and the train begins to slow down.
“It’s working,” Sam says to himself. “It’s fucking working.”
The train bucks and slows significantly while the screeching and straining of the manually applied brakes get louder and louder. In his head, Sam pictures the locomotive engine stressing and straining under the pressure. He prays to God that the engine blows, taking that son of a bitch domestic terrorist, Morgan, along with it. He hopes the engine blows like a bomb, disintegrating the conductor’s flesh and bones.
He keeps turning the wheel until it locks in place and he can’t possibly turn it anymore. It means the brakes have been fully applied. The train hasn’t stopped entirely, but it has slowed to a crawl, just like Maureen said it would. That’s when Sam hears something wonderful. He hears cheers, whistling, and clapping coming from the passengers. The very relieved passengers.
“Time to get some of these people off the train,” he says to himself.
Sprinting out of the coupling enclosure, he heads back to the first car and Maureen’s position. Her once ashen face is again painted with hope.
“Women and children first,”
she says. “I’ll open all the doors, and let’s get them the hell off.”
Safraz reveals himself at the end of the car.
“Safraz!” Sam shouts. “You take the third car. Start helping the women and children off. We’ll catch up to you in a minute.”
“Got it, boss,” Safraz says. “I’m your man.”
Sam can’t believe their luck in coming upon a man like Safraz. He feels bad that he thought the worst of his Muslim faith. But then, these are the dangerous times we’re living in, he tells himself. No one is safe.
Maureen goes to the phone inside the coupling enclosure.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “now that the train is barely moving, we’re going to attempt to evacuate women and children first. Men, I ask that you assist the women and children in their safe departure from the train. Keep in mind, the train is still moving, and evacuation still poses a danger. Please do not take any bags or belongings with you. Right now, our only concern is to save as many lives as possible.”
Hanging up the phone, she goes to the door, makes a fist with her right hand, pounds the wall-mounted green master switch that will open all the doors. The door opens. In fact, all the doors are opening. Passengers rise. Women holding their children’s hands immediately cue up to the closest door.
“You take care of these people, Maureen,” he says. “I’ll make my way down the line and help as many people as possible.”
“Sounds like a plan, Sam,” she says, taking hold of a little boy’s hand, leading him to the very edge of the open door. “Now, little boy, you’re going to jump when I say jump.”
Sam knows he should be making his way further back in the car but can’t help but watch Maureen in action. She really is a very brave woman, he thinks.
“I’m afraid,” the little boy says, his hand trembling in Maureen’s. Or so Sam can’t help but notice.
The boy’s mother is standing beside Maureen. She’s a small blonde woman of maybe thirty.
“It’s okay, Mikey,” she says, her voice trembling, body shaking, “I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’ll be with you the entire way, Mikey,” Maureen says. “I won’t let go until you’re safe.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice shaking, verging on tears.
“Ready?” Maureen says. “Jump.”
The boy jumps. He actually lands on his feet. That’s how slow the train is going. In fact, Maureen still has hold of his little hand while he jogs along-side the train.
But that’s when it happens. The train that has slowed to a crawl suddenly rockets forward with such force, every standing passenger immediately falls backward. The boy screams as Maureen release his hand.
His mother screams. “Nooooo!!!”
Sam finds himself falling back onto an empty seat. Their worst nightmare has been realized.
The brakes have failed.
8
Sam pulls himself out of the seat.
“Everyone back to your seats immediately!” he barks, knowing the little boy has been abandoned along the side of the tracks. But at least he was spared his life. The same can’t be said of the remaining passengers if he and Maureen don’t find a way to kill that locomotive. Time is not only getting tight, it’s getting desperate. They are running out of options for stopping this train. This Empire Runaway.
Passengers are screaming now—crying, and weeping. The little boy’s mother is beside herself. She’s a wet rag of tears and desperately weeping. Sam helps as many people as possible with getting back into their seats. He then makes his way back through the confusion to Maureen. Her once confident face has again lost its color and is now pallid.
“What the hell do we do now, Mrs. Savage?” he begs.
“Very funny,” she says. And she’s right. There’s nothing funny about their situation. “We’ve got to get inside that damn locomotive. It’s our only chance.”
“But the door is locked?” It’s Safraz. He’s back.
“Bolted,” Sam says.
Maureen reaches into her pocket for her phone.
“Morgan,” she says. “He’s sent another text.” She opens it. “It’s another video.”
She holds the phone out so they can all view it at once. She taps on the Play icon, and Morgan’s face appears.
“I know what you are doing, Maureen,” he says, his face full of smiles, the train locomotive barreling forward. “You don’t think I’m that stupid, do you? Naturally, I knew you’d attempt to stop the train by using the emergency brakes. But I took care of those too. You cannot stop this train. I repeat you cannot stop this train. You’re all going to be sacrificed in the name of Allah. In just fifteen minutes, we will go careening off the Catskill Gorge Bridge, and we will all die a glorious death. I will be welcomed into paradise along with ninety-nine virgins, and you, the infidels, will all go to hell where you will suffer fire and brimstone for all eternity. Allah Akbar and good fucking luck.”
The video ends.
“I hate that man,” Sam says.
“He is a disgrace to the Muslim faith,” Safraz says.
Maureen presses her back against the wall.
“We’re all going to die,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “Hell of a way to spend our honeymoon.”
“But you both are married?” Safraz asks with a smile. Optimism in the face of sure destruction. Bloody, bone-crushing, painful destruction. He is a man at peace with himself and his God, or so Sam surmises.
“We’re not going to die,” Sam insists. “We’re going to bust through that locomotive door.”
“How?” Maureen says.
Sam pulls out his Colt .45 model 1911.
“The John Wayne way,” he says, not without a grin painting his face. “We’re gonna shoot our way through it.”
“You two stand back,” Sam says, opening the car door that accesses the locomotive door. “There could be a ricochet.”
Sam exits the car onto the platform and stands before the metal locomotive door. He attempts to open the door by hand again. But it still won’t budge. Aiming the gun barrel at the opener, he triggers off three back to back rounds.
The opener shatters. But what about the lock?
Sam presses his shoulder against the door. There’s movement. He jams his shoulder against the door, once, twice, three times, until it busts open. His .45 gripped in hand, Sam enters the speeding locomotive.
“Morgan!” he shouts. “Stop this train!”
He focuses his eyes on the empty conductor seats and the instrument panel before them. Morgan is nowhere to be found. Then, sensing something on his right-hand side, he turns quick, catches the baseball bat smack on the forehead.
Sam isn’t entirely knocked out, but he’s knocked senseless enough that he falls onto his backside, his pistol dropping to the metal floor. Morgan immediately bends down, grabs the gun, and aims it at Sam. Pointblank.
“You can’t stop this train, infidel,” Morgan spits. “I’ve programmed it to run at full speed. And did you know that Amtrak can kill this train by remote control? But, of course, I have overridden their prerogative. That’s the beauty of computers. You’d have to be a programmer to figure out how to stop it.”
Sam feels the welt swelling on his forehead. He feels the pain inside his brain. But despite the head bashing, his senses begin to return, and anger builds inside his flesh and bones. Back when he was a Navy SEAL in the badlands of Afghanistan, a Taliban mortar shell exploded only feet away from him. He was nearly knocked unconscious. The fact that his limbs were not blown off was nothing short of a miracle. It took a full minute or two for him to regain composure. Not an easy task when your head is literally ringing like a bell. But when he had, he made out two Taliban fighters coming his way, AK47s gripped in their hands. No doubt they intended to finish him off. But he didn’t give them a chance. Sure, he was hurting from the explosion, but he went after them anyway with fists and biting teeth.
Right now, inside the speeding train car, Sam feels that s
ame fight or flight instinct building in his bloodstream like the white-hot fire in a furnace. Since flight is not an option, he has no choice but to fight. He doesn’t hesitate. He thrusts himself at Conductor Morgan.
He nails the stocky man square in the chest with a perfectly executed headbutt. The conductor rears back hard against the metal powerhouse panel, but he doesn’t go down. He aims the .45 at Sam’s head, fires. Sam shifts his head at the last millisecond, avoids the bullet. He headbutts Morgan once more, this time in the chubby man’s soft underbelly. As air escapes his lungs, Morgan drops the pistol and collapses to his knees but manages to wrap his arms around Sam’s legs. He presses his face into Sam’s crotch and tries to bite in the most sensitive place on Sam’s body.
“You sick bastard!” Sam shouts.
Locking his hands at the knuckles, Sam makes a double hammer-fist which he then raises high. Using every muscle in both his muscular arms, he brings the double fist down hard into Morgan’s cranial cap. It’s like a mash hammer striking a melon. Stung by the collision, Morgan collapses. Sam immediately falls to his knees and goes for the gun. But not before Morgan lunges for it.
“You just can’t kill this terrorist bastard,” Sam whispers to himself.
Together, they grab the gun. Sam uses his free hand to throw quick hard punches against Morgan’s face, each of them connecting, doing damage to the conductor’s soft white face. His left eye looks like a plumb, both his lips are split, a front tooth is broken at the root, his nose is so broken it’s flattened against his cheek, and a steady stream of blood and saliva gushes from his mouth. But still, the conductor fights for the pistol.
Sam knows if Morgan wins the battle for the firearm, Sam is as good as dead. Everyone on board this train is as good as dead. No choice but to win the battle. Not for himself, but for all those women and kids.
Cocking back his elbow, he rams it into Morgan’s face. The rock-hard bone lands square in Morgan’s one good eye. Sam swears when he feels the gelatinous eyeball pop. The shock and awe is precisely what he needed to steal the weapon from Morgan’s grip.
The Empire Runaway Page 4
