Horror Express
Page 8
Wells felt the pressure growing inside his head—like bony, frigid fingers twisting into the soft tissue, molding the gray matter. He groaned in pain and beat a fist against the man’s side with no effect. He struck hammer blows to the man’s kidneys, a tactic that had felled much larger adversaries in Wells’ past. Still, he got no result. The man lowered his face toward Wells.
The pressure grew like a vise cranking tighter as the man’s face leaned in. The eyes swirled with an iridescent fluid that shimmered shades of red, and he lowered his scarred mouth against the doctor’s in a morbid embrace. Wells’ eyes widened as he felt the spongy flesh probing along his tight lips. A nip of pain made his eyes water. Something teased his flesh and forced his lips open.
A pistol boomed.
Bones cracked and blood splattered across the cargo. Wells crumpled and fell to the floor as the man above him staggered and dripped fluids from the new hole in his face. His torn jaw dangled—but he didn’t die. Wells crawled quickly on all-fours across the boxcar as two more shots fired overhead.
Mirov stood in the door with his feet wide and his Webley revolver clutched in two steady fists. He took his time with his next shot. The bullet found its mark, striking the man squarely in one glowing orb. The shot drew a horrible shriek, too loud and high for a human to make. The inspector, who seemed frozen in place, began a long string of mumbled Russian.
The man moved closer, his wounds dripping placidly down the cream-colored night gown. His remaining eye locked on Mirov and never wavered. A nearly-inaudible hum buzzed under the other sounds of the train, pulsing in rhythm with the flickering glow of the vermillion eye.
Wells forced himself off the floor and to Mirov’s side. “What are you waiting for? Shoot him again!”
Mirov’s face slackened. “I… I can’t.”
“Bloody hell!” He snatched the revolver from Mirov’s hands and fired the last two shots.
The ragged man shrieked again, staggered, and toppled over.
“See? Easy-peesy, Inspector.”
Wells stared at the corpse for a long moment. The forehead was sunken in where his shots collapsed the skull. The pulpy contents spread across the slats of the floor like spilled porridge. The remaining eye glowed dimly, partially dislodged by the trauma. Wells felt like it was still watching and shivered as the preternatural light died out completely.
“We should begin autopsy of the body as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?” Wells looked over his shoulder at the policeman. “Inspector?”
Mirov leaned against the entrance, rubbing his head before staggering back to Wells and nodded slowly.
“Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ll move it over with the porter. You should clean up. Take as long as you need.” His shaky hand retrieved his pistol from the doctor.
“Yes, well, I believe I shall do just that.” Wells gave the body a solid, unanswered, kick to the ribs. “After all, I don’t imagine our fiend will be going anywhere.”
Chapter Ten
Corpses lined the floor of the boxcar on blankets. Three passengers lay in one row with Natasha at their head. They all died, seemingly, from massive hemorrhaging of the brain. Opposite them were four other passengers and one Dominion Police officer all killed by external means. The killer, identified as Otis by his widow, was kept in a third group. Keeping him company there were the wondering corpse of Tom Brandt, the autopsied remains of Monte the porter, and one thawing iceman. Mirov informed them that two Mounties, Jacques Laurent and Claude Raimi, were missing as well.
Tremblay paced between the rows of bodies and paused at one, muttering an incoherent train of thought and then moving to another. Wells and Jones prepped their makeshift autopsy table for their next patient. Mirov rolled a cigarette between his fingers and watched the science-types.
Saxton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure this is necessary? His organs should be raisins. I won’t be able to find the injuries you’re looking for.”
“There will still be signs. I think.” Wells looked at his friend and threw his arms in the air. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve never dissected a mummy before, but we must do this to be sure. We need to do a comparative autopsy and your iceman is the only one that might solidly link two of these groups. I have a theory, but right now it sounds like lunacy.”
“A dead fellow got up and killed the porter before violating a passenger who then suffered multiple gunshots without dying and kissed you in his last breath.” Jones shrugged. “I doubt you could say anything more bizarre than we’ve already encountered at this point.”
“Don’t challenge him so, my dear.” Saxton started the incision down his mummy’s torso. “James takes pleasure in find new ways to be disagreeable.”
Mirov tucked the unlit cigarette into his pocket and shook his head furiously. “I don’t know why this is necessary. The culprit is dead.”
“So are fifteen other people. We’ve been underway for less than six hours and still have almost two more until we arrive at our next stop.” Saxton cracked open the iceman’s ribs with his bare hands causing the entire left side to come free from the spine. “Bollocks.”
“There are only thirteen bodies, Professor.” Mirov made his way around a row of them. “We have no reason to believe the Mounties are dead. They simply cannot be found.”
“Yes, I’m sure they just stepped out for some air.” Jones pointed at Otis’ body for the doctor’s approval.
Wells shook his head. “No, let’s do Mr. Brandt first.”
The physicians hefted the body onto the crates and pulled back his funerary clothes. The incisions from his last autopsy were still intact for the most part, minus a few torn stitches from his undead wanderings. Jones snipped them open again.
“If he died by exposure, why autopsy him?” Tremblay asked.
“He was found frozen in the woods. They were probably making sure he went out there of his own volition.” Mirov leaned over the body and stared into the open torso. “Suicides are common in the winter, especially the further out you get. Being away from home, alone in the unknown. It feels hopeless after a while. Being frozen doesn’t seem such a terrible thing after being isolated from all you know for so long.”
“And somehow you’ve made this whole ordeal that much more depressing, Inspector.” Miss Jones shook her head. “Does that just come naturally?”
“Obviously. He’s Russian. Melancholia is in their blood.” Tremblay leaned in for a look into Tom Brandt’s abdomen and turned away with a whistle. “Zounds! We can rule out radiation.”
“On that we agree.” Wells pointed out the esophagus and liver damage that were the same as Monte’s. “I missed this before. The aorta is breached, ever so slightly. That explains the abdominal effusion we’re seeing.”
“The what?” the physicist asked.
“The pooling of blood in the torso. It’s quite heavy, but not as bad as the baggageman’s. I believe that… yes, here it is. The hepatic artery of Mr. Brandt is far more preserved. I’m not seeing any sign of the bursting we detected in the porter.”
“Monte wasn’t a picture of health.” Jones shrugged. “He drank too much, ate too much, and didn’t bathe enough. Most of his arteries were probably clogged. The obtruding object, whatever it may be, needed to shove through them. That’s why his were more heavily damaged.”
“Brilliant deduction, Miss Jones.” Wells beamed. “Aces.”
On the floor, Saxton examined the same locations on his Neanderthal. “The esophagus has scar tissue. The arteries are too atrophied to make out. Are you thinking he swallowed a contagion?”
“Not a contagion,” Jones said, catching up with the doctor’s theory. “A parasite.”
“That does sound like lunacy.” Mirov made his way to the door. “I’ll leave you to your investigations. If you find anything of importance, I’ll be in my compartment.”
“I think you should stay.” Saxton stood up, wiping his hands on a soiled rag. “This is your investigation,
after all.”
Mirov paused by the door. “Just one of them.”
“That’s right. Why were you on the train in the first place?” Saxton started toward him.
Wells and Jones looked at each other and sighed.
“It is of little relevance now, but I was pursuing a thief.” Mirov met Saxton in the middle of the floor and gestured to the row of corpses. “The redhead was a burglar of international renown. Though it seems my investigation has come to an abrupt conclusion.”
Tremblay snapped his fingers. “She was the girl at the Count’s party!”
Wells looked at Natasha’s body and then up at Tremblay. “Yes, at dinner you said something about that. What was this party?”
“What does that matter?” Mirov growled.
“Because she was breaking into the safe for something of importance.” Wells pointed to the corner where the safe still hung open. “Something that seemed to interest Otis, as well.”
Tremblay jogged to it and found the hideous green bag on the floor. He came back to the others with the metal in his hands. His jaw moved excitedly, despite no words coming out. He held the bars up for everyone to see. The others exchanged glances then turned to him for an explanation.
“It’s the Count’s super steel,” the physicist finally said.
“Wonderful.” Mirov snatched the bars from his hand, sliding them back into the satchel and pulling the strings tight. “I will take these to him myself, since the safe’s security can no longer be trusted.”
“Why is that? Are there more thieves onboard?” Saxton gripped his wrist.
“You cannot be sure what’s onboard this train anymore, professor.” The inspector jerked his arm away.
“Perhaps you’re not the best person to guard those baubles,” the professor said. “After all, there’s been two attempted robberies under your nose already. I don’t like coincidences.”
“While we’re on the subject of dislikes, you are beginning to irritate me, greatly.”
“Just now?” Wells extracted Brandt’s brain with a bemused grin. “Most people can’t stand Alex in the first minute.”
“I’m going to take Petrovski his trinkets now.” Mirov sucked air through his teeth sharply, making a little whistle sound. “Does anyone else have any objections?”
“To you leaving? None at all,” Wells quipped.
Saxton cracked his knuckles as he watched the policeman leave. “Think I could kill him and blame it on your plague, James?”
“I think it might look suspicious, but I would support you nonetheless. He is a frightfully detestable sort.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Also, Miss Jones is correct. We’re not dealing with a disease. Possibly.” Wells moved his hands like scales. “Maybe not just a disease. It’s hard to be sure right now. I need you to extract the caveman’s brain.”
Saxton scowled. “You’re talking about the further desecration of the find of the century.”
“It’s a new century.” Wells shrugged. “There’s time to find another.”
“I bloody hate you.”
“Archie, dear.” Jones pointed at Monte’s corpse. “Would you be so kind as to pull the brain out of that one for reference? Just hold it up for the professor, he’ll do the rest. Thank you.”
Tremblay paled at the task, but made his way to the porter nonetheless. “Alrighty then, let’s get this over with.”
***
Marion Petrovski slammed the metal bars onto his desk tearing a divot from the mahogany surface. He wheeled around and jabbed a finger into the inspector’s chest, pushing him back as he powered forward. “You told me she wouldn’t get close to my samples!”
Mirov brushed Petrovski’s hand away. “You needn’t worry about it, Count Petrovski. The thief is dead.”
“Only because you failed to detect the murderer that was also onboard this train. What if she succeeded and got my samples to Edison? Or worse, that brudas Tesla?”
“I don’t imagine it would have affected me in the slightest. Tell me about your samples, Marion.”
“I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. I am a Count of Poland.”
“And yet here we are.” Mirov gestured around the car. “Looks as if we’re not in Poland. Your title means precisely naught. Now, where did you find them?”
“I did not find them.” He pointed at the bars. “I crafted them. This metal is unlike anything this world has ever seen and it was made by my hand. It can withstand temperatures as effectively as tungsten and is stronger than titanium, yet weighs almost nothing. It conducts like gold. Cuts like steel. This is an alloy meant for gods. The uses for my Svarium are limitless and there is nothing of this world that can break it.”
Mirov nodded thoughtfully. “The pressure of the deepest oceans?”
“More than strong enough and still light enough to enable flight! This metal will make me master of all the world’s secrets. There will be no place out of reach and it will be all because of the alloy I crafted. It is not unreasonable to believe it might even conquer the stars!”
“Well, now. That would be something.” Mirov sighed. “Yes, indeed.”
“And you almost lost it, you idiot.”
“Apologies. You may rest easy, however, now that the thief is dead. As is her killer.”
“Fool,” the voice growled from the corner. “Nothing but a damned conceited fool.”
Mirov turned to face Pietro.
Petrovski held up his hands expectantly. “Do you care to elaborate or would you rather remain vague and ominous?”
The priest closed his Bible and snapped to his feet. “You cannot kill evil with bullets. Satan still lives. You will see, Inspector. The Devil walks among us.”
“The Devil, is it?” Mirov’s natural scowl lifted to a pointed smile. “How quaint.”
Petrovski waved a hand dismissively. “Pietro, that’s enough. You’re grating on my nerves with this. There’s a definitive line between being faithful and being a superstitious primitive. If you can’t tell the difference, then you may as well put a bone through your nose like one of those African fellows.”
“Evil is not superstition, Count Petrovski.” Pietro pointed the Bible at both men. “Mark my words, this train is doomed. That blasphemous Englishman brought Satan aboard and now all our souls are forfeit.” He turned on a heel and headed for the door. The Byzantine cross above it fell as he reached for the handle and shattered in his path.
Mirov gave an icy smirk. “That’s not foreboding or anything.”
Chapter Eleven
“This is satisfactorily disturbing.” Saxton stared at the row of dislodged encephala.
Wells nodded. “Every single one of their brains shows the same cancerous liquescence. That would imply a disease of some sort.”
“Have you had any side effects from your encounter?”
Wells pursed his lips. “A headache since.”
Jones slugged him in the arm. “I’ve seen that look before. What are you hiding, James?”
He shrugged. “Nothing that makes any sense. Hallucinations when Otis was trying to kill me.”
“It would have been preferable if you hadn’t shot him in the head.” Saxton poked at Otis’ brain sending a loose piece toppling off the mound. “At least, not so excessively.”
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t more considerate to your needs while defending my life, Alex. I shall try to keep your convenience in my thoughts, henceforth.” Wells thumbed his nose at Saxton.
Tremblay flipped over Natasha’s brain and stuck a finger in the rotten limbic region with a squish. “What is this?”
Jones gasped. “A person’s organ, you ninny. You don’t just stick a finger in it.”
Saxton raised an eyebrow. “It’s not as if the lot of them are in any condition to complain.”
Wells gestured at the brain. “Natasha was a very nice young lady, who I happened to be quite fond of. Have some respect for the dead, gentlemen.”
“And I would grow you tulips, so that you may kiss my ass.”
Jones clapped her hands. “You’re both very lovely and will make wonderful wives someday, but I’m afraid Archie gets to wear the glass slipper right now.”
“Thank you, Miss Jones.” Tremblay removed his slimy finger from the brain and held it up. “My question was, what does this part of the brain do?”
Wells shrugged. “The brain is an interesting organ. There’s a lot that we don’t know and more so that we’ve had wrong this entire time. To the best of my knowledge, you’re probing the memory ba—” Wells cocked his head and clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s something we didn’t consider.”
“The memories?” Saxton uncrossed his arms and shifted uncomfortably. “That shouldn’t be possible. Should it?”
Jones nodded slowly. “It has been theorized that memories could be passed on genetically—that some, or all, of the memories are copied outside of the mind.”
“Oh, hogwash.” Tremblay waved her off.
“I didn’t say it was theorized by anyone of note, but right now we are well past the realm of known medical solutions. The sane answers simply don’t work here, Archie.”
Saxton chewed his bottom lip. “Okay, we’ll assume you’re correct. Otis was stealing people’s memories. Why the baggageman? Why was the corpse moved, and what does this have to do with my specimen?”
Tremblay pointed at the bodies. “Let’s not forget the internal damage. It looks like something was shoved into their mouths.”
“Oh, dear.” Wells touched his lips and felt the small incisions. “Bloody hell.”
Everyone turned to face him.
“Maybe they weren’t hallucinations.”
“What weren’t?” Tremblay asked.
Wells sighed. “I believe Miss Jones is correct about the memories. I also believe that we are, in fact, dealing with a parasite. Everything from this point forward is going to get much more insane, I fear.”
“A parasite? In my Neanderthal?” Saxton looked at all the bodies. “What is it trying to accomplish with all this?”