Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  Foreword

  Let me tell ya, you cats n’ creeps got it easy!

  When I was a wee monster-kid, growing up in the sinister seventies and eerie eighties, if you loved a fright flick and wanted to experience it over and over you were basically shit out of luck.

  We had, and you better sit down for this one, kiddies, no internet. Hell, we had next to no home computers whatsoever. Guess what, we also didn’t have Blu-rays, DVDs… we didn’t even have VCRs for a chunk of those aforementioned 80s.

  So what would we do if we caught a bit o’ horror biz and loved it?

  Well, you had three basic options: scour TV Guide every week and hope the film would turn up on broadcast again, make an audio recording (we did have tape recorders believe that or not. And they didn’t involve a prehistoric bird repeating the film’s dialog from within a stone box) of the picture to listen to as your imagination filled in the blanks, or… and this was a big one… we may happen across a novelization of a particular film, usually at a garage or library sale (okay, some of us had severely truncated 8mm reels of some films as well… but I digress.)

  A shocking number of fright flicks got the wicked word treatment over the years. Everything from second tier slashers such as April Fool’s Day and Final Exam, to straight up classics like The Fog and Videodrome, to Tobe Hooper’s 1986 re-make of Invaders From Mars and oh so many more were adapted from the poison pens of a horrific host of arcane authors… and we ate them up with a spectral spoon!

  Now why am I ramblin’ on about all of this you may ask?

  Well, film novelizations, while still present on the virtual shelves of bookstores these days and mostly for the most mainstream of Hollywood releases, are kinda/sorta a thing of the past. And that makes me a bit misty eyed as some of our most beloved horror films somehow escaped the treatment.

  Thankfully that trend is changing as this tome in your monstrous mitts well and truly proves!

  Concocted by sinister scribe David O’Hanlon, this adaptation of Eugenio Martín’s 1972 train to terror pic Horror Express (the screenplay for which was written by Arnaud d'Usseau and Julian Zimet, and loosely based on John W. Campbell Jr.’s 1938 science fiction novella Who Goes There? which in turn was adapted into film in 1951 and 1982—the latter of which had its own adaptation thanks to sci-fi mainstay Alan Dean Foster) not only brings the film to life, but makes the narrative even more engaging thanks to newly constructed backstories, side stories, and a bunch of other stories guaranteed to both thrill fans of the movie, and hopefully get some new eyes on a film that definitely deserves more attention.

  I mean what other pic features Telly Savalas as a Cossack… or would even want to?

  Dan Wilder

  (Writer/Producer)

  Special Thanks

  I don’t know where to start with this one! I began this book almost three years ago. Car problems, job changes, medical issues, extra jobs, great opportunities, deadlines, family duties… the list of things that delayed it goes on and on. When I began the book, I submitted it one or two chapters at a time to the Fiction Forge critique group in Springdale, Arkansas. This was not the genre of choice for many of the writers that gathered at our meetings. In fact, a few of them probably felt like they were slumming it. Like it or not, they chewed through my manuscript and red-penned the hell out of my mistakes, offered me insights, told me when I was being an idiot, and made suggestions whenever I got stuck.

  So, thank you very much. I couldn’t have gotten out the gate without you all.

  From there, I began sending the manuscript to my beta readers. I’m not even sure who all it went to anymore. Mya Lairis, Kenya Moss-Dyme, Dahlia de Winters, Bill Mattison, Amy Bellino, and Vic Sage over at the Saturday Frights podcast got their hands on early copies. If I’ve forgotten anyone, my sincerest apologies. Dahlia, in particular, pulled no punches and made me get off my lazy ass and fix what was broken. The feedback I got from them left the story much shorter than I wanted it. However, it was a much better story because of it.

  Thank you beta readers, for saving me a shitload of money before I sent it to my editor.

  Which brings us to Brad Carter. This man not only taught me everything I know, but also took on the grueling task of editing my dumbass pipe dream of doing a literary remake. I’m not certain, but it might have also been Brad that came up with the term ‘literary remake’ to describe the book. I know it wasn’t me.

  As always, thank you for everything you’ve done and endured to help me achieve this goal of mine.

  Seven years ago, I decided I was going to be a writer. I wanted to have a shelf full of books with my name on them that were professionally published. I’ve done that through anthologies, magazines, and now with the Babysitter Massacre series—if you’re not familiar with it, just check out the sample at the end of this tome. I wanted that shelf so every time someone told my kids they couldn’t do something or be something, they could look at those books as proof that you can defy the odds and the expectations of others.

  I’ve done it. Barely. Those seven years have been full of personal turmoil and ups and downs… mostly downs, to be honest. There are a handful of people that have stood by me and helped carry me when I was weakest. However, one stands out more than all the others.

  Chris Bearden, you especially have been there to drag my ass back to my feet and make me persevere when I just wanted to lie down and die. I’ve never gave a damn about blood, and you’ve proven time and time again that you’re my brother without it.

  I wouldn’t even be here without you.

  David O’Hanlon

  Chapter One

  The damnable cold found any path to invade his clothing. Professor Alexander Saxton tried stooping against the wind, but at a lean six-foot-four inches, it was of little help. He felt the tendrils of sub-arctic winds crawling like worms down the collar of the camel-hair duffle coat and the gap between his balaclava and wooden snow-goggles. He was thankful for the Inuit boots whose three-layer design kept his toes from freezing off. He should have taken the pants to match as the bitter winds squeezed through the tight weave of his wool leggings and went quickly for his knee.

  It hardly bothered him anymore, thirty-four years after the fact. The Zulu ball that had fragmented, leaving parts of itself behind his right patella always pained him whenever the weather was cold or wet. The glacial Selkirk Mountains were both. Not that his home in Boston was much better, nor his native Devonshire. The frozen hell of western Canada made those places seem as hot and arid as the plains of South Africa.

  If, and he felt it a big damn if, the news of the find was correct, it would be worth the four days of frigid agony. Bright orange flags flapped violently along the way. The late December winds were tossing drifts at them from the higher peaks, like children ambushing pedestrians on the snowy sidewalks back home. Admittedly, he found the icy trek more pleasurable than dealing with the neighborhood brats. He never had a fondness for children. Not that the professor had any great fondness for adults, either. Not his contemporaries, anyhow. That was what drew him to anthropology in the first place.

  He imagined our ancestors would look at modern men with the same dispassionate and predatory view as wolves would a Pekingese. Once he dreamt of being a mighty warrior, but there was no call for men like that anymore. The Army needed toy soldiers now—partaking in war the way a circus bear plays with a ball. The world had no more need for heroes, which he realized at Ulundi. He could still hear the withering roar of the Maxim machineguns and the pounding booms of the artillery guns. It wasn’t a battle, no matter what the history books said. It was a massacre. All the warriors were dead and resigned to books and myth. Shouts ahead brought him back to the present.

  “Alex!” the Chinese man called fro
m the front of the expedition.

  He waved, but the motion was impeded by the thick layers of oversized cold weather clothing, so that he looked to be moving barely at all. The constantly blowing snow cast a gray haze and turned him into a blurry, twitching, snowman.

  Saxton trudged forward, past the rest of the entourage. “Are we close now, Byron?”

  Byron nodded and the fur-lined hood bobbled. “The snow has almost covered it. It is no wonder this thing has remained hidden for so long.”

  “If you’re correct, then it is no thing.”

  “How right you are, my friend.”

  “Lead the way.” Saxton gestured for Byron to continue and waved the rest of the men to stay.

  The crew were mostly hired hands. Excluding Byron’s assistant and two of his students from the University of King’s College, the men were lumberjacks and other hard-ups out of work for the season. He didn’t want them seeing what was in the cave until he was certain himself. Maybe not then either. Byron was a historian and had only a basic understanding of what he found two weeks prior. Basic or not, it was understanding enough to call upon Saxton.

  The narrow fissure was protected by a natural eave from a higher peak and nearly impossible to see. Byron had been scaling that peak when he accidently came across the opening. He didn’t give any details on how he found it, but the knot on his head and the scuffs on his palms led Saxton to believe his former student had fallen into it.

  After anchoring their ropes, Byron struck a railroad flare and dropped it down to light their descent. The pulsing red light revealed walls coated in prehistoric ice, twenty feet below. Rappelling to the bottom was short work, and the fissure, free of the biting wind, seemed pleasantly warmer. At the bottom, the men unhooked from their ropes.

  Byron tugged the lashing around his legs, arms, and torso to loosen his clothing and allow better circulation and easier movement. Saxton grunted. The primitive hide and fur garments were technologically superior to Saxton’s modern apparel. Byron made a show of stretching with full mobility and laughed. Saxton slipped his snow-goggled down around his neck and waved for Byron to move along. They slithered through a crevice with a sharp downward slope and a tight turn at the end. Byron, at only five-foot-six, made it look considerably easier than it was for the gangly Saxton.

  Byron held a flare in front him. The crimson flames reflected off the blue ice and bathed the tiny cave in a shimmering hellfire broken up only by the men’s flickering shadows. Saxton scoffed at superstition but still fought against a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. They both slid about as they stepped into the chamber. Saxton told himself the contortions in his stomach were a matter of equilibrium and poor lighting with a side of excitement. Though, none of that explained the subconscious urge to leave the cave as quickly as possible.

  A slow, foggy, breath rolled off his lips as he spoke. “The cave flooded at some point then froze during the last ice age. This is rain water that we’re standing on. Water that hasn’t flowed in tens of thousands of years.”

  “All hail the mighty whitey and his all-seeing round eyes.” Byron flipped his hood back and pulled his wool cap from his graying hair. He wrung it out in his fists. “Without you, a poor Chinese boy might never learn the great mysteries of the world.”

  “There’s no reason to be sardonic.” Saxton flipped his hands in the air. “I forget, on occasion, that not everyone is unlearned.”

  “On occasion, you forget that you too were once a fool.” Byron rubbed his nose with the cap before slipping it back on. “It is only an empty cup that can be filled.”

  “How very true.”

  “In some areas, you still are.” Byron scratched at his stubbly cheeks, then stared at the fat fingered glove disapprovingly.

  “Oh this again.” Saxton placed his hands on his hips. “Okay then, let’s have it.”

  “Marge wants to introduce you to her sisters. She has seven. At least one of them should be able to tolerate you.”

  “Is that so?” He rolled the balaclava up to the top of his head like a cap. “I’m sorry to say, there are more than a few that would disagree.”

  “I know. I am one of them. Still, Marge insists. I do not think she likes her sisters very much to make such suggestions. I do agree with her motives, however. It is not healthy to be so bitter, my old friend.”

  “It works for me.” He looked around the cavernous structure and shrugged. “The cave is a great find, but more so for a geologist or even a meteorologist. Show me this prize you think you’ve uncovered.”

  “This is no mere prize. An arrowhead is a prize.” Byron’s chapped lips curled into a smile. “I have brought you to the greatest find of the century, Alex.”

  “Wouldn’t take much, Byron. The century has only just begun.”

  “Now who is being sardonic.” The smaller man used the rocky wall for balance as he worked his way deeper into the cave. “Come.”

  After several minutes of clumsily sliding about on the icy floor, they arrived at a larger chamber, slightly elevated from the last. They clamored over the little ridge that separated this area from the last and found the craggy floor much easier to walk on. Byron struck a new flare and wedged it in a crack, then produced another as he inched into the darkness beyond.

  “It could be that I was wrong, Alex. It could be that this is not the find of the century. Perhaps it is the find of the last three centuries, perhaps the millennium. I almost turned back, you know? The antechamber was so slick that I did not think there would be anything worth the trouble.”

  “I’m becoming inclined to agree with you.” Saxton squinted against the flare’s glow. The anticipation was more tiresome than the journey. He was ready to see this marvelous discovery. And yet in the back of his mind, instinct still said to flee. “Do tell, why did you continue your exploration?”

  “I cannot explain it. It was a voice without words.” Byron stared ahead but his gaze fell backward into the memory. “Like a guide drawing me to his grandest exhibit.”

  “You’ve lived in Canada most of your life and you still hold onto those silly Chinese superstitions of yours.”

  “You should not be so hard on those old beliefs.” Byron’s attention snapped back to Saxton. “It was our superstitious fear of the dark that inspired us to conquer fire. We filled in maps looking for eternal youth and golden cities. Superstition has driven many of our greatest discoveries.”

  “And some paranormal voice from beyond guided you on this discovery?”

  “Perhaps. Either way, it does not matter. I felt this urge, this drive, to continue deeper into the cave. Then I found it.” Byron jammed the flare into an alcove. “I found this!”

  He never took his eyes off Saxton, maybe to gauge his response or maybe because he was too afraid to look at the thing once again. Perhaps somewhere inside the learned history professor was the superstitious farm boy from Hong Kong, still afraid of what lived in the dark.

  Saxton, for his part, sank. First, he stooped and gawked at the discovery with his jaw hanging stupidly below his bushy mustache and his hands resting on his thighs. Slowly, he found the need to take a knee. He gasped and started to speak, repeated the process, and succeeded to find words on his third try.

  “It’s not possible.” Saxton’s mouth moved soundlessly a few more times. “Byron, that can’t be here. This cannot exist.”

  “Did I not tell you it was the greatest discovery of the millennium?”

  “There’s never been any evidence to suggest the possibility.” Saxton reached for it and then pulled his hand back in. “Not a hint, anywhere.”

  “No one will top this, Alexander. You will be mentioned in every book I teach from, that my students will teach from, and their students as well.”

  “Not I alone. We will be famous, chap. This is your discovery.”

  “I have no delusions, Alexander. This is the history of an entire people. Those that make such decisions will not leave it to a Chinaman. You are a foremos
t expert in the field of anthropology, and I am to be a footnote. I became a teacher for my love of history. It is enough for me to be here at this occasion.”

  Saxton smiled at his friend. “It is not enough for me. You will not be left out of this glory.”

  “This forgotten, dark corner holds the father of the western world.” Byron’s words expressed a much grander affair than his tone let on. In fact, he sounded almost sullen.

  In the sputtering red flames, the desiccated eyes sparkled at them beneath half-open eyelids. Tufts of black hair lined the head and face. The molted brown skin, stretched tight over the facial bones, was shriveled from the ages spent trapped inside the mountain. The heavy skull leaned back on the wall, with the square jaw open in a final scream.

  Saxton stroked his mustache and removed a glove with his teeth, before reaching out to the creature. His fingers hesitated an inch away from the flesh. He took a deep breath and gently touched its cheek.

  “It’s perfectly preserved—a natural mummy. My word, Byron. This is huge, world changing.” He stood up and grasped his friend by the arms. “We’re going to be bigger than Darwin. We’re going to be heroes.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Alexander.” Byron nodded softly. “Heroes easily become martyrs.”

  Chapter Two

  “Humbug!” Professor Saxton paced the hardwood floors of the Canadian Pacific Railway office. He huffed and kicked a small wastebasket against the wall with a clatter.

  The crowd pretended to busy themselves while they watched the seen unfold. A few snickered, some gawked, and a several made their way outside. It wasn’t uncommon, especially in the bitter winter months, for words to turn deadly.

  “I made the damned reservations three weeks ago! How can you tell me that you’re overbooked now? You weren’t overbooked when I gave you my money—correction, my university’s money,” he growled. “That is not an institution you want to get on the bad side of, let me tell you. Now listen, chap, I’m boarding the train with my cargo at once or I’m telegraphing the dean and telling him about this audacious treatment.”