Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  The lights flickered around him. The generators mounted under the cars were new and prone to such momentary inconveniences. He remembered the last trip out where a wire froze and broke, casting the car into darkness for three miserable hours.

  An idea, horrible and malevolent, crawled into his mind. His lips stretched wide with amusement. Marion picked up his pencil, tapping it against his palm as he worked out the details of his plan. It would be marvelous.

  There was nothing that could go wrong.

  Chapter Six

  Two Dominion Police constables walked behind Wells and Saxton with two more leading the way. They didn’t say anything other than that they were sent to collect the two men and escort them to the baggage car.

  “What is the meaning of this? I was preparing for dinner.” Wells asked, but no one responded. He leaned close to Saxton and whispered to him, “Do you think it’s about the girl?”

  “If it is, I suggest you tell them everything you know.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll do no such thing and neither will you.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. She’s forty years your junior,” Saxton hissed.

  “Just because she’s young, doesn’t mean she can’t have impeccable taste.”

  “If she does, it’ll just be another point against you.”

  Wells stopped walking, gawking in offense. “Bastard.”

  One of the officers pushed him without a word.

  “I’m going. Calm yourself.” He looked over his shoulder at the gargantuan constable. “Are you a mute? Or can you just not hear me up there?”

  When they arrived at the baggage car, they found Mirov waiting with four members of the Northwest Mounted Police. Apparently, whatever was going on required every available man, regardless of his service.

  Mirov ran a hand through his near-white hair and pressed a cigarette to his lips. He waved for Saxton and Wells to join him next to the chained-up crate. “I hate to disturb you gentlemen.”

  Saxton held up a hand to stop him. “No, you really don’t. Forego the pleasantries, Inspector. Why have you brought us here?”

  Mirov chuckled. “Straight to the point then. I like that. I need you to open your crate.”

  “No.”

  Wells nudged him with an elbow. “Can you stop being difficult?”

  “Also, no.” He glanced at Wells then turned back to Mirov and the Mounties. “Why should I open my cargo?”

  Mirov gestured for him to come around to the other side. He nodded at the drill and light on the floor. “The porter was snooping inside. I took a peek myself. I’m curious as to why you have a dead body in a box.”

  “Because I’m an anthropologist and it’s an important specimen. I need it to stay in the box, iced, so that I can examine it back in Boston.”

  Mirov nodded. “An anthropologist? Like Gobineau?”

  Saxton’s face turned sour. “No, not like Gobineau.” He said the name like it had substance—an oily scat laying a permanent stench across his tongue for having even used it. “I am a scientist, not an uneducated socialite.”

  “Oh, here we go.” Wells shook his head.

  Saxton continued, “I have dedicated my life to study, exploration, and experimentation. That fool wrote romance novels of times that never were. To call him an anthropologist is to call a monkey flinging feces an artist.”

  Wells stepped between them, patting the air with delicate hands. “Gentleman, if you’re going to continue this, may I suggest a more civilized solution, like a duel?”

  They both stared at the doctor blankly.

  “That’s the problem with society. No one duels anymore.” Wells threw up his hands excitedly. “You’ll find that the prospect of being shot really drives home the triviality of most arguments.”

  “Cheese it, James.” Saxton’s eyes stayed locked intently on Mirov’s.

  “Alex, everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, even when they are ignorant beliefs propositioned by asinine fools like Gobineau.” Wells turned to the inspector and smiled widely. “As for the intrusion into the crate, I asked the man to drill into the box. There’s no reason for alarm, Inspector. It wasn’t a theft or any such nefarious thing. It was simply the curiosity of a bored old man.” He smiled widely.

  Saxton grabbed Wells’ sleeve. “What is in that box is none of your business, it was private.”

  “You were going to show the world. That’s hardly private. I figured I should see it first, I did save your life, remember? Twice, at that.”

  “You were the reason I was in one of those situations.” Saxton turned for the door.

  Wells followed. “And I didn’t bill you for the stitches, now did I? That’s what friends do, Alex.”

  The Mounties formed a crimson wall in front of them.

  Wells eyed the four men with their broad, lumberjack shoulders and statuesque composure. “They certainly grow you boys big out here, don’t they?”

  The guards responded with menacing glares.

  Mirov approached them. “Whether you were attempting a theft or not, Doctor Wells, there are still questions I need answered. There’s blood on the floor next to the tools.”

  “People cut themselves on tools all the time, that’s hardly cause for alarm. Simply ask the man what happened.” Wells turned to the scarlet knights that refused to move aside, standing with their hands clasped behind their backs. “Quite big, indeed.”

  Mirov dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “The porter is missing, so I can’t do that. I’m going to need to look in that crate, professor.”

  Saxton stared down his nose at the man. “Like hell you are. The porter could be in the loo. You said he was cut, maybe he went to the conductor for medical attention.”

  “I never said he was cut, the doctor did. Hand over the keys.” Mirov reached for Saxton’s jacket.

  Saxton grabbed the inspector’s collar and shoved him away. “Don’t do that again, mate.”

  One of the Mounties clubbed Saxton across the back of the leg, sending him to his knees.

  Wells interjected and the Mountie pressed the club into his chest.

  Wells looked at it and then up at the man. His usually jovial face contorted with a hardness from years past. “My boy, are you familiar with the subject of proctology? Because if you don’t remove that baton, I’m going to use it to give you a lesson in the field.”

  The man stared down at the elderly doctor. Wells’ hardened glare caused the police officer’s shoulders to sag, and he slowly lowered the club to his side.

  “Enough of this!” Mirov placed his hand on the butt of a revolver. His fingers tapped at it anxiously. “Give me the key, professor.”

  Saxton stood up and jerked the key ring free from his pocket and held them up for the inspector. Mirov reached out for them and Saxton flicked them out an open window.

  “Whoops. Damn breeze caught them.”

  “Hold them,” Mirov growled.

  The Mounties moved fast and secured both men. Mirov retrieved a fire ax from the wall. He held the blade close to Saxton’s face for a moment. The professor snarled right back at him.

  Wells kicked his friend’s shoe. “The man has an ax. In my experience, that’s when you should stop antagonizing someone.”

  “Shut up, James.”

  The inspector turned to the crate. He swung frenzied blows against the lock until it broke and then ripped the chains and tarpaulin away so that he could go to work on the second lock.

  Wells made a psst sound and tilted his head to the open window. “It’s well below freezing. Why is the window open?”

  “I’m not speaking to you,” Saxton said without removing his fiery eyes from the wild inspector.

  “Now’s not the time to be childish.” Wells rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked the man to break into your cargo.”

  Sparks flew with clangs from the crazed chops. Wood splintered with each miss. The inspector grunted louder with every successive swing. His attempts
grew more frenzied, swinging wider with more power and less control. The lock finally fell away, and Mirov opened the hasps and threw the door wide.

  Snow and ice spilled across the floor boards. Everyone gasped at the body that collapsed out with it. The leathery cave mummy was curled tightly into a fetal position. Saxton broke away from his guard and checked on the specimen. Wells knelt down beside him.

  “This is a Neanderthal!” Wells’ face was pure elation. “You weren’t wrong, Alex. This is sublime. You found him here, in Canada? Oh my dear boy, this is fantastic.”

  “Are you satisfied?” Saxton looked distraught. “He looks terrible.”

  “Nonsense, he’s perfect. He looks better than some of the specimens coming out of Egypt even. A natural mummy in this state is unheard of.”

  “No.” Saxton groaned with frustration. “He’s decaying too fast. He should be as I found him still.”

  Wells pressed his fingers to the dead skin. “He’s certainly cold enough. How has he changed?”

  “He was… I don’t know. Fuller. As if his organs might not have been completely desiccated. His chest cavity is collapsed, his jaw unhinged, but that might have been from the fall.” Saxton’s eyes snapped to the inspector. “You’d better hope you haven’t done any more damage. Is your curiosity satiated? May I repack him before he decays further?”

  Mirov waved him off. “I don’t give a damn what you do with it. We need to find the porter.”

  Wells cocked his head and squinted against the light. “Inspector, did you remove any other locks in here?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, digging out a fresh smoke. “Why?”

  Wells pointed at the coffin. “The locks are missing from the clasps and there’s blood on the lid.”

  “Maybe the porter was a necrophiliac,” Saxton offered. He looked at Wells bitterly. “This is your fault!”

  Wells shrugged. “Potentially.”

  Saxton jabbed a finger into his chest. “Help me lay the crate over, so we can repack him.”

  Mirov and two of the Mounties moved to the coffin. The men readied themselves to throw it open and Mirov produced his pistol. He cocked the hammer and gave them a quick nod. The lid flew open. Mirov pointed the pistol at the baggageman. One of the Mounties looked in and screeched effeminately.

  Wells and Saxton exchanged glances and went to have a look.

  The porter’s mouth was open wide, pooled with blood. More trickled out of his nose, ears, and eyes—and his eyes, horrible and white, stared up at nothing, wide and terrified.

  Mirov wheeled around on the men. “Lock professor Saxton in my quarters and two of you stand guard over him at all times.”

  “Me? What have I done?” Saxton asked.

  “Two men tampered with your precious cadaver and now they’re both dead under mysterious circumstances. As far as I’m concerned, you murdered them until proven otherwise. Who was next? Wells?”

  “That’s ludicrous. Alex would never try to kill me,” Wells said. He leaned over to Saxton. “You weren’t going to kill me next, were you?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone, though if I start, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know. Can we all take a moment to examine the facts?”

  Mirov motioned for his men who promptly seized Saxton’s arms. “I have, professor.”

  “What about the body, then? Where’s the corpse from the coffin? You have a real killer on the loose.”

  “From the coffin?” Mirov laughed. “Dracula, perhaps? Yes, my men will begin their search straight away.” He pointed at the exit. “You six go and find the body, the professor probably stashed it somewhere. We don’t want it startling any of the passengers. Search compartment by compartment, but keep it quiet.”

  Wells leaned over the porter’s body. Small cuts drew his attention, camouflaged by the blood. “How peculiar.”

  “James, you owe me for this. Repack him, quickly. I implore you.” Saxton continued to repeat his instructions as he was pushed out of the car.

  Wells nodded, but his attention was elsewhere. He glared at the Neanderthal’s hands. The mummification made the body draw up into a tight ball. Only the fingers were wrong. Wells made his way to the body took one of the hands. Its short, thick fingers were unfurled and dancing loosely from their hands. The skin was gone from most of the tips, leaving the pointed bones protruding like claws. The doctor moved them delicately, finding them fully mobile and damp from shipping.

  No, it wasn’t the ice.

  He realized his own hands were sticky with the moisture. The Neanderthal’s fingers were damp with blood. He looked over his shoulder at the baggageman’s corpse. The wind howling across the open window turned his attention to it once more. He rubbed his chin.

  “How very peculiar indeed.”

  ***

  The Mounties worked their way through the cars. They politely rapped on each door. It was a quarter past seven and most of the passengers were still awake. Several were preparing for dinner, being served late since the train departed two hours behind schedule. The police officers worked in three groups of two to speed things along, with each group leapfrogging the other two. They were careful to follow Mirov’s orders and reveal as little as possible.

  “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” Corporal Jacques Laurent asked an older lady.

  She pulled her robe tight over her dressing gown. “Just a Mountie asking ambiguous questions. Goodnight, sir.” She shut the door in his face.

  Jacques joined the Mounted Police to appease his father. He had been on the job for eleven months, but learned to hate it in only three. It was painstakingly rigid, boring, and thankless. To make it even worse, he was forced to work with that asinine inspector. He sighed and waved for Claude, his partner, to check the next compartment.

  “I already knocked. No answer. This is stupid, Jacques.”

  “Knock again, let’s be sure. I don’t want to give the inspector anymore reason to keep us busy.”

  “We don’t work for the Dominion Police. Wait until we get to the next station. I will tell the Cossack all about how this inspector talks down to us and wastes our time.” Claude banged on the door with a meaty fist. “If someone saw a dead body, they would have reported it by now.”

  Jacques shrugged. “Probably. Those British codgers said that thing was a caveman. I figure that’s a big deal, probably worth a pretty bit. Maybe somebody meant to steal away with it. Bet they were going to stuff it in the coffin and that’s why the body’s missing.”

  “What about the porter?”

  “Betting he caught them in the act. Might have been the old limey even.”

  “He’s both a bit long in the tooth.” He stared at the closed door. “See? No answer.”

  “Probably no one in then. Just go ahead and have a peek inside.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  ***

  Inside the compartment, it listened intently. The children slept in the bottom bunk, snoring noisily. The little girl stirred, and it crouched next to her. Its cold fingers flexed above the child’s throat, ready to silence her permanently. It needed something more formidable. Its fingers rested on her young flesh—her pulse thumped against its fingers in a steady rhythm. It could tear that artery open, pluck the rest of her workings out before she made a sound.

  Outside, the voices continued. Finally, one of them said to move along. It listened for the footsteps to move further away. It tensed as the child rolled over. A door opened and closed and silence returned to the aisle. It moved as quickly as the decrepit body would allow and shuffled out of the compartment in pursuit.

  ***

  “Hey, Jacques. I just thought of something.”

  “What’s that, Claude?”

  Claude pointed to the rear of the train. “The colonist cars are empty. Going back for another load, you know? They’re attached to the other side of the cargo cars. Nobody went to check them.”

  “That’s true. It would make sense to hide there.
For a time, anyhow.” Jacques rolled the idea around. “Go ahead and check them out. I’ll check this car while you do that.”

  “They don’t run the lights on those cars. I don’t want to check them.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have suggested it. Go on, hurry up.”

  “Merde. Fine, I’ll go.” Claude turned back the way they came, stepped into the vestibule and shut the door behind him.

  The wind screamed outside as a harsh winter storm moved across their path. Jacques had been listening to the winds howling outside long enough to know they sounded wrong this time. They were still screaming, but he could’ve sworn someone else was as well. He started to the vestibule and paused at the door. A sense of unearthly dread overwhelmed him, and his fingers trembled an inch from the door handle. He called out for Claude.

  No response.

  A whistle caused his skin to prickle. He lied to himself and said it was the wind, but then it took form. He recognized the notes of “O Canada,” but they were wrong—a horrid attempt at whistling by a child, almost, but ragged and wheezing. He held his breath and moved a hand to his pistol. His other hand rested hesitantly on the handle. He whimpered slightly as it began to lower.

  It was turning from the other side.

  Chapter Seven

  Wells sipped his Old Fashioned. His eyes twitched from one spot on the table to another, but never focused on anything in particular. He was replaying everything since the platform. His non-drinking hand scribbled notes on a ruled pad. He took another sip, scratched off a word of Latin and wrote a replacement next to it.

  Natasha, his new roommate, sat across from him. She twirled the thin stem of her wineglass between equally delicate fingers and batted her lashes at him slowly. “Aren’t you going to ask about the situation?”

  “Hmm?” Wells looked up at her and gulped the last of his drink. “Right. Yes, well, if you want to share. Might I take a guess, first, however?”

  Natasha gave a sultry smile. “If it pleases you.”