Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  Saxton felt his cheeks grow warmer. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  Wells nudged past him and paused next to Irina, tipping his hat with a slight bow. “Perhaps the chef can cook something flavorful enough to get the taste of your foot from your mouth, Alex.” He smiled at Irina and exited the car.

  Irina’s sweet birdlike laughter almost broke Saxton’s stone face.

  “I loathe that man in so many ways.”

  ***

  Saxton checked his ticket against the compartment numbers over each of the doors. A twinkle on the floor caught his eye and he knelt down to pick up the gold and opal cufflink. He looked into the open door next to him. A small, blond, bespectacled man was setting up a chessboard.

  Saxton held up the cufflink. “Excuse me sir, but is this yours?”

  The man checked his wrist. “Be damned, it is.” He walked to Saxton, took the cufflink and extended his hand. “I’m always losing these things. Archibald Tremblay, from Quebec.”

  “Alexander Saxton, Boston most recently.”

  “A pleasure, truly. May I ask you something?”

  Saxton looked down the aisles. No one was coming from either way. With no excuse to politely divert the question, he conceded. “I suppose I have a moment.”

  Tremblay took a seat by the window. “I saw the spectacle at the baggage area, and I’m not sure I agree with the doctor’s virus theory. I’m a doctor myself, you see. Not of medicine, however, but rather of physics. I’m an engineer, that is.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What was the question?”

  “I’m a bit of a forward thinker you might say. I’m extremely fascinated with atomic power. Do you suppose radiation might be to blame? You did say laboratory samples, after all.”

  “Not that sort of laboratory.” Saxton chuckled. “I’m an anthropologist. I’m not sure what the man’s malady was, but I do know it wasn’t my specimen that was responsible. The authorities will sort all of that out. Virus or radiation, it doesn’t matter to me. It clearly had nothing to do with my cargo.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Saxton had been bouncing around the possibility since Wells mentioned the Plague of Athens. He didn’t really know, and somewhere in his calculating mind, he was convinced that there might be some truth to it, but he felt fine. Byron was exposed to the Neanderthal three weeks previously and he was still alive. Surely, if some prehistoric illness had thawed out with the iceman, they would have been the first to experience its effects. Still, the idea scratched and dug at the back of his mind like a hound at a fence—the question repeating like its incessant baying.

  What if they brought something back from the ice?

  ***

  Wells tossed his bag onto the top bunk and hung his homburg on the hook behind the door. He stretched and blew a relieved breath. The door flew up a second later and banged against the wall, smashing the hat flat. Wells jumped and gawked at the ruined homburg with the brass hook protruding through it and then at the woman that hurried inside. She slammed the door behind her and took off her overcoat. She held it out for Wells to hang up, peeking through the curtain into the aisle.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re in the wrong compartment. And you’ve just brutalized my hat.”

  She spun on a pointed heel and placed a hand on her hip. Her lavender dress was far more revealing than those worn in the polite circles he was accustomed to. His gasp was a prayer of thanks to whomever made it for her. Barely thirty, with auburn hair, and the friendliest cleavage in the Dominion of Canada, she waited patiently for Wells to take the coat.

  He did.

  He gingerly hung it next to his crumpled hat. “Ma’am, I assure you, I have never done anything to deserve your company. You must be in the wrong compartment. Let’s see your ticket, perhaps I can assist you in finding the correct one.”

  “I don’t have a ticket. I’m in trouble. You must help me.” Her full lips pouted.

  Wells agreed vehemently to assist her in any way possible. She batted her lashes hypnotically and he realized he had only said the words in his own head.

  He shook himself.

  “Yes, right. It would be rather ungentlemanly of me not to help a lady in need.” He took her hand and guided her to a seat. “Tell me, what seems to be the trouble?”

  ***

  Saxton opened the door to the compartment, lost in his own thoughts. Miss Jones was lying on the bed with a book when he entered.

  She propped herself up on an elbow and curvaceous hip, lowering the tome away from her face. “The train isn’t even rolling and the conductor’s already sending me dessert.”

  Saxton stammered. “So sorry for the intrusion. I believe I have the wrong compartment. I was looking for number eight. This isn’t it, apparently.”

  She dangled a shoe from her stockinged toe. “No, dear, seven normally comes after six.”

  “Right. Apologies, again.”

  “Oh, nothing to apologize for. I don’t mind them being a little dumb when they’re tall and full of dash-fire.” She gave him a wink as he backed out into the aisle.

  Saxton heard her giggling as he closed the door. “A female version of Wells. What great sins have I committed to deserve two of them?” He continued to the next compartment and made sure to check the number before opening the door.

  Wells sat at the table patting the hand of a striking young lady.

  Saxton stepped into the aisle and double checked the number against his ticket. Both said eight. “Damn. Maybe the Devil is on this train.”

  Wells bolted upright and met him in the center of the compartment. “When I said we should catch up on the train, I hardly meant just waltz into my room at your earliest convenience.”

  “Our room,” Saxton grumbled. He pulled Wells’ bag off the top bunk and tossed it to the bottom, replacing it with his own.

  “Brute.” Wells wrestled the ticket free from his trousers pocket. “Clearly, you are mistaken. See here.” He pointed at the big black number eight. “Compartment eight. This is my room.”

  Saxton jabbed a finger at the subscript next to the number. “Eight-A. You’re in the bottom berth, old chap.” He held his ticket up. “Eight-B. Our room, as I said.”

  “I don’t recall ever doing anything to deserve this. As you can see, I’m already cohabitating with the young lady. Have some decency, for old times’ sake.”

  “Fair enough.” Saxton swatted his shoulder with a wide grin. “I would hate to turn away a lady. She can stay and you can bunk with Miss Jones.”

  “Or you could,” Wells suggested. He leaned in to whisper. “Can we negotiate, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  Saxton smiled bigger than he could remember doing in years. Being stuck with Wells was no joy, but ruining whatever gag-inducing plans he had for the evening was the greatest thing since discovering the iceman. The woman stretched seductively, drawing both men’s attention back to her.

  “I don’t wish to be any trouble,” she said. “The good doctor offered to assist me.”

  “Yes.” Saxton nodded. “I’m sure he prepared a wide berth of gynecological examinations for you. In the meantime, I’m sure we can all agree you’d be better off in a different compartment. Or the good doctor can sleep at the table. Perhaps the closet, for that matter.”

  “It’s rather small.” Wells stared at the closet and tugged his collar. “A bit much like a coffin, don’t you think?”

  “At your age, you should probably get comfortable in one sooner, rather than later. Do wake me for dinner, if you’d please.” Saxton crawled into the top bed and let his shoes fall with heavy thumps next to Wells.

  It might be a pleasant journey, after all.

  Chapter Five

  Monte, the baggage man, whistled “O Canada” gayfully as he turned the drill against the side of the crate. The little coils of wood twisted around the bit and fell into a neat pile on the handkerchief he’d set down to catch them. He gave a little pressure and turned the dril
l just fast enough to keep his momentum going. Monte never got in a hurry for anything, other than his weekly trip to the store after getting paid. He so looked forward to that trip and the bottle of Canadian Club it would yield.

  The drill fell through the hole and Monte pulled it free, shaking the bit clean. He blew the sawdust into the crate and squinted inside. He pressed his face against the rough boards—a cool air seeped out around his eye from inside, but still he saw nothing in the inky darkness. He huffed and stepped away. Thinking about his whisky made him thirsty anyway.

  Monte headed to the back of the car and poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid. He knew full well the dangers of having too many on the train. The year prior, a fellow porter slipped from a moving car and froze to death. He scratched at his muttonchops and considered a cigarette. He drummed his fingers on the Prince Albert tin. There were only seven left to get him to the next stop. He decided to wait and grabbed his flashlight.

  He whistled his tune as he made his way back to the mysterious cargo. He shined the light in the hole and was rewarded with a view almost completely unimproved. Monte flipped off the light and picked up the drill again. If he couldn’t show the limey anything, the old man might take his money back. He needed to widen the hole.

  Before long, Monte had produced four holes. He set the drill down and used a handsaw to connect the holes. He was left with a rough rectangle, four-inches wide by six-inches long. He angled the light to the gap and checked in on the prize. It was still hard to see. It occurred to him that he should have put a hole at the top to shine the light through and decided he would add one before the old guy came back. Maybe the extra effort would get him another fiver.

  Monte could just make out the dark form inside, packed in snow and ice that bounced the yellow beam of light back at him. His eyes adjusted and he started making sense of it—noticed the eyes that looked like prunes, the lips withered back from dingy teeth, and spotted the fingers curled in tight fists.

  “Thundering Jesus.” He turned away shaking his head rapidly. “The man’s got a dead body in my car,” he whispered to no one. He made his way for another drink.

  He poured a little from his flask and then a little more. He downed the glass, bobbing in place with each deep breath.

  “The car’s already silent as a tomb and twice as cold. Don’t mean I should be riding with corpses.” He noticed the coffin beside him and patted the lid. “Except for you, of course. At least you’re in your proper receptacle. Not packed up in a box like some old what-nots. It’s not civilized.”

  A low thump and rattle came from the crate.

  Monte leaned to listen, but didn’t take one step closer.

  Another rattle.

  “Probably just the ice moving. Right? I heard the Englishmen saying that happens.” He glanced down at the coffin. “Not sure if I feel better or worse for you not answering. The hole’s just made it warmer and the ice melted some. That’s what that is. Sure enough, that’s what’s happened.”

  Something scratched at the wood from the inside.

  “It’s not a dead body at all.” Monte tipped his flask to his lips. “Mother of God. That fellow’s still alive!” He grabbed the flashlight off his little makeshift desk and eased to the crate. “Hello? Do you need help?”

  More scratching.

  “I suppose that’s a stupid question. You’re locked in a box full of ice, of course you’re needing help. I’m going to get you out of there, don’t you worry none.” He pressed his eye to the hole but couldn’t see the person moving. “Can you say something?”

  Silence.

  Monte examined the chains. “Look, it’s going to take me a minute to get you out. I’m going to find some tools. Knock again if you understand.”

  A low hiss answered him. A light steam oozed out of the hole, like breath.

  Monte didn’t have time to respond. He couldn’t even scream.

  The withered hand clutched his throat, the bare bones of the fingers tore the flesh and tightened their grip. Something hissed in the darkness. Monte choked and sputtered. Pressure grew behind his eyes until it felt like his head would come apart from the inside. In the back of the crate, something began to glow bright red.

  Then everything just went black.

  ***

  The poodle stared straight at the door of private compartment and growled ominously.

  “I can’t think with that damn stupid dog carrying on,” Marion Petrovski spat. “Every time some imbecile walks by the door, it sends that mongoloid into a fit.”

  Count Petrovski hunched over his desk, trying to organize his scribbled notes into something resembling coherent thought.

  Irina sat on the burgundy carpet next to the dog and stroked his back. “I don’t know what has gotten into him. Bae is never this anxious.”

  “He is not anxious, he is terrified. I do not blame him, either” the priest said from the corner of the room. “The Devil’s at work here and the dog can smell it. It is the stench of evil.”

  “The only thing I smell is more of your bullshit mysticism,” Marion huffed and dropped his pencil. “Pietro, you have done nothing but sulk since we boarded the train. You are still upset about what that mean scientist said to you, no?”

  “He is of no consequence, Count Petrovski. A buffoon is the least of our concerns. There is evil aboard this train. We ride with the Adversary of God!”

  “I assure you the only evil here is envy. With this contract, the company is going to lead the world in innovations for decades. No! For the century and longer.”

  Pietro got up and paced the quarters. A narrow hallway outside allowed passengers and crew to move across the car, unimpeded. However, the entire length of the unit was a mobile home for the wealthiest of passengers. It had a private bathroom, a bedroom, and a small room with a double bunk for attending servants. It was lavishly decorated with fine furnishings, all in an oriental style that seemed alien in the Canadian frontier. Three chandeliers and eight wall sconces provided brilliant, electric lighting.

  “Mammon tries to seduce all men.” The priest waved his finger in the air. “His voice is smooth as gold and his eyes sparkle like emerald. He speaks to the prideful loudest of all. He beguiles them with promises of more and caresses their egos as a lover.”

  Marion laughed. His wrinkled face contorted into a condescending smile. “Pray for my eternal soul then. That’s why my father makes me keep you, after all. Be sure you pray often, because I will boast my successes until they have fallen on every ear. Ford and Insull will be afterthoughts!”

  Bae unleashed a barrage of high-pitched barks when the Count raised his voice.

  “Shut that miserable thing up, woman!” His dark eyes darted to his wife and her dog. “I’ll make the wildest fiction a reality with this discovery, Pietro. That site will alter the course of human history in ways your God still hasn’t.”

  “You should mind your words, Count.”

  “And you your tone. Your position is a requirement of my inheritance, you are not. Irina! Did you store the samples in the train’s safe?”

  She sighed, then turned to face him. “Yes, Marion. Your samples are locked away, like you keep all of your possessions.”

  He noticed the way she accented the last word and answered with a disgusted grunt. “Good, get ready for dinner. We’re celebrating, even if these peasants don’t know why. You should be dressed for the occasion. Put on something nice.”

  “Something modest, as well. That atrocity you wore at the unveiling would make the Whore of Babylon blush,” Pietro muttered. He continued his anxious pacing, staring at the door as intently as the dog.

  Irina got up and walked to the trunk of clothes. “In your opinion, a woman is whorish in her appearances if her ankles are showing, Pietro.” She pulled out a long blue dress and held it up. “I think I’ll go with this one and whenever I feel lustful eyes upon me, I’ll be sure to send them to you for absolution.”

  Pietro held up an apologe
tic hand.

  Irina ignored it. “Or perhaps I should add it to my own confession, as in your opinion, my attire is to blame for the covetous immorality of any man that lays eyes on me.” She twirled around and disappeared into the private bath. Slamming the door for emphasis.

  Pietro stared after her as if to say something, but only sneered. He turned to address the Count when the palm struck his cheek.

  Marion caught him by his tunic before he could fall. “You are a religious advisor to the company, not to my wife. That’s twice in as many minutes you’ve presumed your worth, Pietro. There are many more priests, most with less questionable pasts than yours. Find something to do elsewhere. I need to finish my proposal and your pacing is as bothersome as that loathsome cur.”

  The priest nodded sternly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “Yes, of course.”

  “Go.” The Count pushed him away. “Leave me to my work. Pray for that pest’s silence if you want to do something useful.”

  Pietro nodded again and stepped out into the corridor without another word.

  The poodle’s growls turned to fierce barks when the door opened.

  Marion threw a pencil at it and dropped back into his seat. “Irina, do something with your damn dog!”

  Irina threw open the door and stood in nothing but her undergarments. “Of course, dear. I’ll just take Bae outside for a walk.” She threw a surprised hand to her mouth and gasped. “Oh! We’re on a train. How silly of me to forget. Where would you like us to go, Marion?”

  The man’s face scrunched and reddened. “Try to pretend you’re not the daughter of a rezun and his French whore. Act like a proper lady of stature, for once. Lock the dog in the bath with you or throw it out a window for as little as I care, but silence it. Now.”

  Irina whistled for the poodle who ran into the room with her. She slammed the door.

  “And wear your corset!” Marion growled.

  He returned to his work and couldn’t find his pencil. He looked over his shoulder and saw where he threw it at the dog. He got up to retrieve the instrument and felt the warm moisture soaking through his wool sock. He stared down at the puddle of poodle piss and cursed his bride and her dog. Her father should have paid him to marry the brat. He peeled the sock off and tossed it at the bathroom door.