Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  The wind cut through his dinner jacket like shards of glass. His bare hands and face took the brunt of it as he skirted the open coal car. The sweeping drifts sparkled with moonlight but blotted out any view of the Canadian wilds. He couldn’t even see the rest of the world and never would again if he didn’t stop the creature.

  Wells sped up, but the buffeting snow and ice forced him to stumble. His hand instinctively reached for a rail. He regretted the decision immediately. He righted himself and forced his hand open with a growl. Bits of skin remained on the iron beam. He squeezed the fist tightly and felt tears freezing on his cheek.

  The old doctor gritted his teeth. A long, pained breath steamed from his nostrils.

  “Let’s hurry this along, James.” He forced himself on, stooping to limit his exposure.

  The door was in a recess out of the wind, but he still used his sleeve to rattle the steel handle. It was locked up tight. He kicked the door and shouted until someone opened it. The engineer pulled him in by his coat, slammed the door and rushed back to his station. Wells looked around the empty engine. There were supposed to be at least four people. Instead, the engineman ran the entire show by himself. The hirsute man mumbled something of a greeting as he raised a leg and shook it, then fanned the air behind him.

  “Where in the bloody hell is everyone?”

  “It’s Christmas, you heathen fuck.” The engineer spat tobacco in the floor beside his spittoon. “Always got a skeleton crew for the goddamn birthday of our Lord and Savior. That should be obvious, even to a dirty fucking foreigner like yourself.”

  Wells scoffed. “I’m English, I’ll have you know.”

  “The worst kind.” The engineer waved him away more ferociously than he had his digestive winds. “We just got rid of your sort.”

  Wells grimaced as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “Where is the rest of your crew? Even with the holiday there should be more than just one slovenly cretin driving the damned train.”

  The barrel-chested Canadian spat again and stood up. He turned to Wells and raised an angry fist. Wells batted it away and jabbed two fingers into his throat. The engineer fell back onto his stool with a rasping wheeze. Tobacco juice trickled down his blonde beard and onto his coveralls.

  “I assure you, fine sir, I am in no mood for your banter or body odor.” Wells leaned closer to the gauges. “I’ve never driven a train. However, I am aware of how the process works. It is entirely too complex for one person. Especially when that one person is you. Where’s the conductor gotten off to?”

  The engineer held up a hand while he hacked and coughed. “You made me swallow my tobacco.”

  “Apologies, but I’ll buy you another.” Wells crossed his arms over his chest. Partially to look serious, but mostly because he was freezing. The tweed jacket wasn’t meant for Canadian winters—it was made for style, damn it.

  “That was a pretty nifty thing. Don’t many folks get one over on Ol’ Johnnie, but you sure did. And at your age, even!” He rubbed his throat and shook his head. “Lawsy, you sure you ain’t Scottish? I’ve been walloped by a Scot before. That I might believe, but an English codger? No, sir. Just ain’t no way that happens.”

  “It seems it did.”

  “Yep, suppose it did.” The engineman snorted and a smile formed somewhere between the wilderness of wiry facial hairs. “Name’s Johnnie, by the by, Johnnie Voss.” He stood again and offered his hand.

  Wells shook it hastily. “James Wells, doctor of just about everything and currently trying to save your life.”

  “Shit, you probably should’ve opened with that one.” Johnnie gave Wells a hard slap on the shoulder. “The conductor’s no doubt in the lounge getting lushed up with some lady of light morals, if you catch my drift. The engine’s the only car without a covered gangway. Keeps people from bothering me normally. Unfortunately, it’s colder than Lucifer’s back pussy and just as appealing, which means that butterball won’t be making the trip lessen we’re at a stop.”

  “I wish someone would’ve pointed that out before I made the journey. What about your fireman? Where’s he gotten off too?”

  “You noticed we got a caboose instead of an observation car, yeah?” Johnnie pointed to the rear of the train.

  “I did but wasn’t aware of any profound significance. How’s that pertain to this?”

  Johnnie huffed like he was suddenly the smartest man in the room. Wells let it go, since it presumably didn’t happen often.

  “The colonist cars still have manual brakes on them, and there’s six of those heavy bastards. We had to hitch a caboose to the back so we could control them on the slopes. We got two brakemen back there. Normally either of them boys could handle three cars each, maybe four, but no way tonight.”

  “What’s all this have to do with the fireman?”

  “You have to insert the braking handle from above, as in up on the roof, and turn it. Then you jump the gap and get the next car. That’s why they switched to the automatic brakes, but no one really gives a shit about the immigrants, so the cars they ride in still got the manual brakes. The wind’s up and the temperature’s down. It’s too much to hope them two boys can get across the roofs fast enough. It’s only another twenty minutes to the next stop, which is right after a bitch of a slope, so Chuck went back to give them a hand. Get it?”

  “Got it.” Wells nodded and then sighed. “It’s a moot point, however. You can’t stop this train, Johnnie. There’s a contagion onboard.”

  “A what now?”

  “A sickness,” Wells groaned. “A very terrible one. If you make the next stop, you could be putting the entire Dominion of Canada at risk to this thing.”

  The engineman raised an eyebrow. “A sickness, huh? What kind?”

  “I’m still working on that.” Wells looked around. “I’m going to have to run all the way to the back of the train to tell your people not to stop, aren’t I?”

  “Do I look like I’m going to do it?”

  “Bollocks. Don’t make that stop, in fact, speed up. The passengers are spooked and we can’t risk one of them jumping off.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the pewter money clip.

  Johnnie’s eyes went wide at the sight.

  Wells peeled off two twenty-dollar notes and stuffed them into his own pocket before tossing the rest, clip and all, to the engineer. “Consider it a Christmas bonus. Keep us moving, Johnnie. If I’m right, you’ll be saving the whole damn world if you do.”

  “Seems a bit peculiar, this whole thing. First the murders, now you not wanting to stop. How do I know you’re not the murderer?”

  “All the more reason to do as I say.” Wells turned to the door and gripped the handle.

  “Now hold on a damn second.” The big brute stomped after him.

  Wells wheeled around ready to fight when the meaty hand slammed into his ribcage. He looked down at it and saw the herringbone ulster it held. His face twisted.

  “It’s a coat, you old codger.” He nodded at the door, though the bushiness of his beard and hair made the motion almost imperceptible. “It’s called hospitality. Not something you fucking English are familiar with, I know. You’ll catch your death out there, though. I’ll keep us running full steam, but you need to get Chuck’s grumpy ass back up here and tell them kids to stay off the brakes. I suggest you run.”

  ***

  “I have seen through your eyes. I experienced the pain of your fall. I know now the errors of my ways and the falsehoods of my learnings.” Pietro flung himself to the ground before Mirov, pressing his tear-streaked face to the dirty floor. “Please forgive me and my blind acceptance of gilded lies.”

  Mirov sighed and kicked him in the side of the head. “Imbecile.”

  “Please, Master,” Pietro sobbed. “Allow me to serve you. I can take you to Petrovski.”

  “Or I can walk there on my own.” Mirov turned to leave. “This is a train. He cannot flee.”

  Pietro clamored to his feet and clutched a
t Mirov’s gray sleeves. Miss Jones’ blood squished from the fabric and stained his hand. He held it up for the thing inside Mirov to see.

  “Your clothes are bloodied,” the priest said. “You can take mine.”

  “Because the policeman suddenly dressed as the priest wouldn’t draw the same attention?”

  “Then you could use me, wear me, the way you wear the inspector.” He wrung the fabric in his fists, pleading for the demon’s acceptance.

  “I only take beneficial hosts. I don’t need to be inside you to know your mind is empty. Besides, my time in Mirov has taught me much.” He wrenched the priest away by his hair. “Everyone believes you to be a superstitious fool. That is the only purpose you can serve me. The cerebral concoction that scientist gave you was the final straw. You’ve become unhinged and murdered the poor doctor.”

  “Yes, Master,” Pietro’s words became sobs of joy as he accepted his purpose. “A most brilliant idea, indeed. I shall convince them, my Lord. I shall protect you.”

  “Do as you wish, you pathetic tool. I have business with the Count.” The Mirov-thing tossed the priest aside and shook his head, grabbing a roll of gauze from Jones’ bag. “Our next stop is rapidly approaching.”

  He whistled his tune softly as he left the boxcar.

  ***

  Bae bounced in place as he barked ferociously at the irritated ranting of Marion Petrovski. The Count paced the floor, swearing in Polish and shaking his fist in the air.

  “This is the work of that damn Serb!”

  “That does not make the slightest sense, Marion.” Irina sighed and draped herself across the plaid divan. “Nikolai Tesla is not to blame for this. It is a parasite, like a leech.”

  “Or a wife,” Marion spat. “That fucking Serb! And you!” He spun to face Saxton. “What have you got to do with all this?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it? I work for the Serb,” Saxton said dryly.

  Saxton picked up Petrovski’s pipe and sniffed the bowl. He nodded appreciatively and flopped into the Count’s chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  “That is my pipe.”

  “Yes.” Saxton dug a match from his vest pocket. “And I plan to smoke it in your chair, in your private car.”

  “But,” Marion looked around for some support. “I’m a Count, damn it.”

  “I think you’re giving yourself one too many letters there.” Saxton puffed at the pipe and watched a smoke ring drifting idly.

  Petrovski’s jaw hung open as he watched Saxton smoke his pipe. No one in all of Poland would dare talk to him that way. He took a step forward and the poodle bounded between him and the professor, carrying on its rapid-fire yipping. “Would you do something with your goddamn dog?”

  “Bae, come here.” Irina’s voice was barely audible over the cacophonous conniption.

  Still, the dog sprinted to her and jumped onto the divan where it nestled against her hip with a final growl in Marion’s direction. The Count twisted his mustache. Saxton cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “You have bizarrely short fingers. Has anyone told you?”

  “Get out of my car, at once.” The Count pointed at the door. He looked at his outstretched finger self-consciously and jammed his hands into the pockets of his smoking jacket.

  “As I already explained, someone is coming to kill you.”

  “With a parasite? Preposterous!”

  “If it makes you feel any better, your priest thinks it’s Lucifer.”

  “Isn’t that much more reassuring, dear?” Irina petted the poodle.

  Petrovski whipped his head around and stared at his wife intently. His chest heaved with each breath. Then something cracked behind him. The Count turned his attention back to Saxton, who popped his knuckles methodically. He clearly hoped for a chance at the habitual British barbarism.

  The Count straightened his collar. “I donated a considerable sum to this railroad so that they could have a telegraph aboard. Perhaps you should use it. I believe it is in the crew quarters.”

  The door opened and Mirov stepped in, looking grimmer than usual. His gray shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, but spots of blood still soaked through them. His jacket was gone entirely and his left forearm was wrapped in a bloodied bandage.

  “Now, we’re all much safer.” Saxton set the pipe down and rose from the chair.

  Mirov hung his head. “I’m afraid there has been another murder, Professor. The lady doctor has been killed.”

  “Miss Jones?” Saxton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does James know?”

  “Not yet. I came here first, after I spoke to Mr. Tremblay. He told me he saw Pietro, the priest, going that way. I went back to see what the madman was doing, but he… I failed.” He held his wounded arm in front of him as evidence. “Miss Jones was already dead when I arrived. The mad bastard slashed me with one of her medical knives while I tried to save her. I believe it is best for everyone to avoid the man and assume his intentions are ill, until we know more.”

  “The drink must have infected him after all.” Saxton punched the wall, the paneling snapped beneath his bony knuckles. “It was over and we gave the thing a new host! I’m going to the crew car to telegraph the Mounties.”

  “Perhaps I should go with you. The priest is out there somewhere.”

  “I can handle one pr—” Saxton stumbled against the wall.

  Mirov looked at him and took a slow step back. “Are you feeling unwell, Professor Saxton?”

  “Jesus, he might have that thing inside him!” Marion dipped behind Mirov.

  The inspector eased his hand to his revolver. “Perhaps. Perhaps something worse.”

  Saxton waved them away dismissively and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just another flash of memories from the damned parasite. Do you know what it’s like being frozen for forty-thousand years?”

  Mirov’s face twitched.

  “Because this thing does,” Saxton told them. “It was conscious the entire time. Maybe not fully awake, but aware nonetheless. It was trapped inside the iceman’s body like a prison cell. That would be enough to drive anything to murder. Not that this thing needed much of a push.”

  Irina sat up on the divan. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s more than just memories, my dear. I can feel its emotions—for lack of a better word—they’re not like ours. It’s lonely, so it kills everything around it.”

  “That’s insanity,” Marion scoffed.

  “By our understanding, yes.” Saxton let his head lean against the mahogany panels. “Imagine your first love. Being away from her made every other woman seem drab, inadequate. I think that’s what this thing feels like. It misses home, its own kind, and if it can’t be with them, then it will be alone.”

  “Alone?” Irina leaned forward. “You mean it will kill everything?”

  “Yes, in the sense that we know it,” Saxton said. “It’s going to kill us. Corrupt us. Turn us into it.”

  “I think you need to rest, Professor.” Mirov placed a hand on Saxton’s shoulder. “You’re talking nonsense. Go rest and I’ll see the telegraph operator.”

  “I’m fine.” Saxton stared at the policeman’s hand before Mirov removed it. “I’ll go to the telegraph, you just keep the Countess safe.”

  Mirov’s lips pursed. “The Count, you mean?”

  “For now. If the thing comes for him, you kill him before it can get into his brain, however.”

  “Excuse me?” Marion shoved the inspector’s back.

  “I wouldn’t risk the poodle’s life for you, Mr. Petrovski.” Saxton turned his attention back to Mirov. “I damn sure won’t risk the rest of the world. Kill him if that’s what it takes.”

  “I want both of you out of my car now.” Petrovski shoved both men ineffectually. “If you insist on keeping an eye on me, then do it from the damn hallway. I won’t have you in here any longer.”

  Saxton and Mirov filed out of the compartment and into the narrow path.

&n
bsp; “It would be simpler to kill him now. Can’t get a brain parasite, if your brain is running down the wall.” Mirov smiled slightly.

  “Stop smiling, it’s unsettling when you do it. Gather the passengers. They need to hear from someone in a position of authority. We also need to see if there’s any way to screen them. Maybe we can find this creature before it can do any more harm.”

  “Yes, that would be preferable. Good luck, Professor.” Mirov extended his hand.

  Saxton ignored it. “Let’s make this fast, Mirov. Get Tremblay while you’re at it. I think he can help with the test.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mirov turned to the rear of the train. “I’ll make the good physicist my primary concern.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saxton and Wells sat on one of the bunks of the crew car. Saxton puffed his cigarette and offered it to Wells, who dismissed it before producing a small flask from his coat pocket. They took turns sipping in silence for a few moments. Saxton was never good at bad news—or subtlety—and lent himself to a more direct approach.

  “The damn priest.” Wells rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting back building tears. “I didn’t see that one coming. I suppose I should have. We should have put some kind of safety net in place. Maybe isolated us from the others until we were sure.” He drank again. “I should have taken better care.”

  Saxton hung his head soberly. He could recite the entire history of humanity from memory, but didn’t have the slightest idea of how to relate to it. Not in times of emotional distress anyhow.

  “I can’t believe anyone would ever want to harm Trudy.” Wells shook his head. “She was the most amiable person in the world. The one person on this train that had no damned business getting killed.”

  Saxton chuckled.

  “What’s so funny about that?” Wells stiffened.

  “No, no. On that we agree.” He patted Wells’ shoulder. “It’s just, Trudy. I honestly believed her full name was Miss Jones.”

  Wells smiled. “She could be quite dictatorial at times. Probably the only thing that’s kept me alive these last twelve years, in fact. That woman had the heart of a saint and the mouth of a sailor. Who else could possibly put up with me?”