Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  “I’m always impressed when I find proper Russian spirits in this septic bog.” He unscrewed the cap and spoke as he filled the glasses, “And I’m always disappointed when the fools forget to chill it. Vodka should not be drunk like some piss-warm whiskey.”

  Wells tied off the sutures on Irina’s abdomen. “We’re just in the midst of life-saving surgery, Captain Kazan. Please don’t mind us at all.”

  “Oh, I don’t.” Kazan finished the three shots, bringing each glass down with a harder knock against the bar than the last. “Pour whatever you like, gentlemen. It’s on the house.”

  “Very kind of you.” Saxton snipped the sutures in Irina’s back as Hicks knotted them. “We’re finished. James, how is she on your end?”

  “Done. We need to keep her still as much as possible.” He wiped sweat from his brow, replacing it with a smear of blood and leaned on his knuckles. “She’s going to lose the kidney. There’s no two ways about that. The possibility of infection is phenomenal, given the condition of our infirmary. The blood loss is concerning, but that’s not for here. We’ll need to move her somewhere more comfortable than a bar. Also, somewhere more sanitary would be advisable.”

  “I’ll make a litter and move her to a private compartment,” Hicks said. “Dickson is compatible. He can help move her and we can set up for a transfusion if you wish, doctor.”

  “Yes, that would be fine. You’ll have to do it quickly, my boy. She can’t be jostled around like so much luggage. Get her there straightaway. No dallying.”

  “Of course, doctor.” Hicks turned to Kazan. “That is, if it is alright with you, Captain.”

  “Beyond this car is the crew car, the coal car, and the engine. The priest hasn’t gone far.” Kazan refilled the glasses and licked his lips. “He’s still, at the very least, an accomplice in this mess.”

  “And the girl, Captain?”

  “Canadian citizens have been murdered, Hudson!”

  “Hicks, sir. He’s Hudson.” Hicks jerked a thumb towards a slovenly Mountie with a playing card jammed in the band of his campaign hat and stubble well past regulation.

  The Mountie nodded in recognition, but kept his rifle trained on the door, per orders.

  Kazan swirled a finger in the air and pounded a shot of the vodka. “Regardless, you’re the medic. When people need killing, that’s my job. When people need saving, that is your job. Do not ever again waste my time asking permission to do your job.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on it. Dickson, let’s move.”

  “How did you know that Mirov was infected?” Saxton asked, pushing Irina’s hair away from her face.

  “Anatole Mirov was a dissident. He lost an eye at Yalu River and, with it, all faith in the Tsar. He wasn’t wrong.” Kazan finished another shot and banged the glass on the bar. “Nicolas said we killed a mere one-hundred protestors. My men killed that by themselves.”

  “You met him on a Sunday,” Saxton said with disgust. “Bloody Sunday. My word. I thought they sent men like you to Siberia.”

  “I am Siberia.” He did the last shot and slammed it down, shattering the glass beneath his palm.

  ***

  The creature stared at his new hands. The body was heavily damaged, and he would need to switch soon. The big man that cut off his last hand would be nice. That body was powerful, and he seemed to be of importance. Surely, his knowledge of violence was greater than Mirov’s had been. That would be most useful in the coming endeavors.

  Pietro griped the door handle and strained to open it. The frostbitten skin oozed as he squeezed tighter. The door opened and the wind wailed as it forced its way into the crew car. Humans were more complicated than the wyrm. It was becoming harder to tell memories from emotions, knowledge from sentiment. Killing the Englishman, Saxton, was important. Nothing seemed to support that, but it needed done. Mirov, Pietro, and the Count had all agreed on that one thing.

  Even a weak threat could be a serious one.

  The wyrm’s species was all but annihilated by a fungus. The Pilgrim came in time, maybe hours before its host expired. If not, it would have been confined to the bacteria crawling among the fungi’s roots. Even then, the Pilgrims were weak. Paranoia spread among them and then they were all dead. Using the wyrm as a means to possess other hosts ensured it always had a body available to it. By human logic, it was a parasite inside of a parasite—like the nesting dolls of Mirov’s home.

  It remembered them bitterly.

  But Saxton and Wells knew about the wyrm. They would see to it that it was destroyed, and then what would happen? It didn’t know if it could exist outside of a host anymore—so many ages passed that it wasn’t even sure it did exist outside of the host anymore. Yes, it would be much better to kill these humans before it was too late.

  ***

  Johnnie reduced the train’s speed slightly and pulled a battered map from a toolbox of equal disrepair. He unfolded it as gently as he did anything, but one quadrant tore. He lined it back up, squinted at it and let it float to the floor. His thick finger traced the line and tapped feverously on the browned paper. He nodded and mumbled affirmations as he did the math in his head.

  “Good news or bad news?” he asked the two Mounties in the engine with him.

  “I could do with some good news,” one of them answered.

  “We’re going to fucking die.” Johnnie spat tobacco juice for emphasis.

  The two lawmen exchanged confused glances. Both opened their mouths to speak, but just slouched and sighed.

  Johnnie let some brown teeth show. “Don’t worry, it might not be today.”

  Ever since they informed the engineer of the situation, Johnnie had been trying to find a way to save them. They’d passed the switch by the time he explained that there was no longer a bridge waiting for them. It took an additional five minutes for Johnnie to exhaust every possible use of the word “fuck” before deciding to be proactive.

  Stopping the train in the middle of the mountains was out of the question. There was already one killer onboard and, if the doctor was telling the truth about the plague, that number could grow rapidly. Continuing on would stop the killer and any contagion, because they’d all be rubble at the bottom of a ravine.

  There was only one remaining option.

  “The bad news is, we have to jump out of a moving train. Run through balls-deep snow. Bust ice from a wye-turnout and manually force it into position. After that, it’s all downhill… literally. We’re going to careen wildly down and around the mountain. There’s a mill there that links to an American line and goes straight to the border. There should be more of you government boys there to give us a hand if we don’t come off the tracks and crash first.”

  “That’s a horrible idea,” the bespectacled Mountie muttered.

  “Okay, let’s go with your plan then.” Johnnie crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  No one said anything.

  “Right! So, at the next bend you two are getting off.” He jabbed the map and waved them over. “It’s only a kilometer on foot. The train has to go around this damn gorge, but you can run right across it. The switch is inside a control shed a bit bigger than an outhouse. But you have to go.” He pointed out the window at the upcoming turn. “Now.”

  “Damn it.”

  ***

  “I think we should still separate the cars, James.” Saxton watched as Hicks set up the blood transfusion for Irina.

  “Agreed. We need to speak to the engineman, Johnnie, first. He needs to know that the others are dead. I can’t find the conductor either, and we really don’t have time to go searching.” Wells stared at his reflection in the black window. He looked his age for once. “Whatever this is, it can’t leave this train. Not one piece of it. Science be damned.”

  Saxton nodded slowly. “I don’t care if we live or die. That thing stops here, tonight.”

  Wells passed him the pistol from his jacket pocket. “Let’s go help that mad Cossack.”

  “What could pos
sibly go wrong there?”

  ***

  “Good luck, you dumb bastards.” Johnnie waved as the two men tumbled through the snow. “Try not to fuck this up. All our lives depend on you.”

  He turned and went back inside the engine where it was still toasty. He didn’t bother latching the door since he was going back out to get a shovelful of coal. He wanted to take a moment and get warm first—even though he hadn’t been outside long, it was long enough to make him miss the coat he gave the doctor.

  “Fucking English. Never can trust them. Probably never told Chuck to get his ass back up here. Now I’m going have to stoke the goddamn fire by myself. Limey bastard probably stopped for tea and a fucking crumpet.” Johnnie sat on his stool and eased the accelerator forward and huffed a warm breath on his achy hands. “All the better. Should be a goddamn Canadian that saves the world, anyhow.”

  The door creaked open behind him.

  The wind couldn’t have pushed it open. The heavy steps of a man’s boot heels fell somewhere beneath all the other noise in the engine. Johnnie’s toolbox sat open on the console next to him. He chewed his tobacco thoughtfully and stared at the windscreen. A vague shape came into view, man-sized and predatory. Johnnie waited for the steps to draw closer and made his move. He twirled, kicking the stool away and snatching a screwdriver from the box all in one motion. He snatched the attacker’s greasy hair in his fist and cranked the man’s head back to deliver a killing blow. The point of the screwdriver stopped against the white collar, frozen in place.

  “Oh shit.” Johnnie pushed the priest away softly and laughed until his belly shook. “Whoo! Forgive me Father, I almost sinned.”

  The priest’s windburned face grinned beneath glowing eyes.

  “All is forgiven, my child.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The electric candles glowed dimly on the small tables next to each of the crew member bunks. Eleven beds jutted out from the right-side wall facing the long row of windows opposite. All of the blinds were drawn, leaving only narrow slivers of silver along their edges. The yellow electric lights created a pool of shadows around each bed, and Kazan’s eyes drew in on the unseen.

  Eight Mounties filed into the crew car behind him, and he gestured for two to check the telegraph room in the far-left corner. They nodded and hugged the wall as they made their way forward with their rifles at the ready. Once they were in position, Kazan signaled another man to go to the door joining the next car. Soundlessly, he continued directing his men with hand signals, while never removing his eyes from the beds. There was something menacing about that kind of darkness—the primordial kind that existed just outside of the light.

  The last five men lined up against the wall and trained their MLM rifles on the bunks. None of them questioned the order. That was always the first lesson he beat into new recruits. Kazan’s left hand caressed the hilt of his sword thoughtfully while he steadied the revolver in his right. There was something under one of the beds. He gave a sharp nod in the direction of the chthonic form lingering in the abyss.

  One of the men rushed forward and flipped the bed over, the other four rifles fired. Ammunition was scarce and Kazan made sure his men used it wisely. The large man twitched slightly as the four bullets tore through his torso, but he didn’t make a sound. The burly bulk just leaked, quiet and unmoving.

  Kazan made his way forward, arm extended and pistol aimed between the man’s blank, white eyes. The realization struck him too late. Everything the doctor had told him about this thing was completely true. It stole the man’s memories.

  “Sonofabitch. It’s a trap!”

  His laggard warning did little good. The telegraph room’s door swung open and the shade reached out and dragged the nearest Mountie into the gloom. The second man charged in to help. His scream became a gurgle. The other men all looked to Kazan.

  “What are you waiting for? Fucking fire!” He snapped off all six shots from his pistol, replacing aim with an educated guess based on the sounds of his dying man.

  The six rifles fired in the rhythm Kazan had drilled into them. Four men fired and then the other two while those men racked in a new cartridge. The captain instilled them with an elite precision unseen anywhere else in the Dominion. As he dumped the spent cases from his weapon, he wondered if it would matter at all. The rifles emptied and the men quickly reloaded. Fifty-four holes riddled the tiny room. Something glinted in the darkness.

  Kazan dived to the side as the bullet whizzed past his head and struck the wall behind him. The next man wasn’t as fast. His head opened up and splattered the men behind him with brain matter. While they tried to clear their compatriot’s mind from their eyes, Pietro made his move.

  The lithe priest rolled across the floor and grabbed Hudson as he rose, burning out his mind in a flash before discarding the corpse and seizing two more constables by their throats. He held them in front of him. Shielding himself with their flesh. His eyes burned brightly in the dark. Pietro moved forward, absorbing the men’s memories as he held them like they weighed nothing at all. He cast them aside as he reached the next two Mounties. One tried to butt-stroke him with the rifle. Pietro caught the weapon and worked his thumb into the trigger guard, firing the weapon into the other man’s throat. The young Mountie quivered as Pietro pinned him to the door with his rifle.

  Kazan watched as his man’s eyes faded into cold porcelain. Blood oozed from the man’s orifices as his brain melted inside his own skull. Kazan fired his pistol into Pietro’s back and tossed the empty weapon to a nearby bed before drawing his sword with a metallic schwing. He didn’t give Pietro a chance to fight back and charged forward, swinging the sword with every bit of his considerable might, right down on top of the priest’s greasy head.

  Clang.

  Pietro knelt with the rifle pressed over his himself. The blow split the wood and struck the receiver. He laid his head back and smiled at Kazan. The Cossack withdrew the sword and tried again, but the priest was too fast. He spun and used the rifle like a club to knock the Cossack to the floor. The rifle’s stock reduced to splinters as it struck the floor just behind Kazan’s escape. Pietro discarded the weapon with a sibilant hiss-wheeze. Kazan’s skin pricked at the inhuman sound—like a snake trying to laugh.

  “I had no idea this host was so… interesting.” The thing pushed a shock of hair away from his face. “He might have been the most dangerous man on this train. The things he’s done. The ways he’s taken apart the flesh. I almost regret the scorn I showed him before. You and that British man are the only other threats that remain.”

  Kazan slapped the dust from his uniform. “You’ll find that I’m more than enough all by myself.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  A gun fired and the bullet struck the ceiling with a sharp snap. Splinters floated lazily to the floor. Both combatants looked to wounded Mountie bleeding out in the corner. Pietro pointed a deformed finger at him.

  “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

  Kazan’s sword flashed through the air. Pietro leapt back—a puff of his beard drifted in the air. He dodged the follow-up attack as well. Kazan spun the ancient weapon, twirling it like a cyclone of destruction. He changed direction quickly, faking a high slash, only to duck and hack low. Pietro shrieked and lashed out wildly. Kazan’s sword clattered across the floor.

  Pietro clutched his abdomen. The dark blood gushed from his ravaged liver. It was Kazan’s turn to laugh.

  “Even the Devil knows to fear a Cossack.”

  The priest’s fingers curled into claws, and he lunged forward. He caught Kazan off guard and dug at the Captain’s face. The thing may have been faster, but Kazan was stronger.

  Much stronger.

  Kazan hefted him off the floor and threw him across the car. The mahogany panels snapped as the priest collided with them. Kazan moved quick, driving a meaty fist into delicate ribs. The bones caved under the force and drew another shriek from Pietro. The Cossack slammed the killer’s
face through a window and pushed his throat down on the ragged glass.

  “I told you I was more than enough for you, suka.” He shoved Pietro to the side slicing his throat open wide.

  The priest staggered to his feet, his throat gaping grotesquely.

  And he was smiling.

  Kazan didn’t wait to find out why. He rushed forward like a rhinoceros and hit the priest at full speed. They crashed through the flimsy wall of the telegraph booth. They rose to their feet locked in combat. They grabbed for each other and exchanged wild blows. Pietro hooked his thumbs into Kazan’s mouth and stretched his cheeks until they tore. Kazan’s fingers twisted into Pietro’s hair and with a hard jerk, he ripped the priest’s head almost completely off. His body collapsed to the floor, and Kazan stomped on his skull until a glowing eye popped out of it. He rubbed the bleeding tears at the corners of his mouth.

  “You eat all those brains and you’re still too stupid to know you should have run from me.” Kazan cocked his head inquisitively and knelt over the priest’s body.

  The torso undulated. Kazan pulled a knife from his boot and slammed it through Pietro’s breast bone and into his heart.

  “No one beats a Cossack in the winter.”

  The thing burst from the abdominal wound. It sprang like a jack-in-the-box from Pietro’s ravaged liver. Kazan’s powerful hands caught it inches from his face. He fell to his back in surprise. The serpentine body lashed in the air overhead and then bound his wrists in a figure-eight, twisting the ridges of its thin body into the muscles and nerves until the Cossack’s grip loosened. He caught it again, but it hovered in front of his eyes. Wormlike tendrils uncoiled from around the creature’s face and worked like fingers, gripping Kazan’s bald scalp.

  Its own head was oblong, spear-like, and bony. It inched closer to his face and he pulled it away as hard as he could. The pencil-thin tentacles made it impossible, though. They burrowed under his skin and anchored themselves to the nerves. Kazan screamed through gritted teeth. Then the bony head of the beast started to split, opening into a dozen claws that clamped onto his lips. They sheared the soft flesh and dug into his gums, curling against the bone, and stretching his mouth open wide. The tendrils led the way down his throat and then the wyrm was slithering past his gag reflex. He felt it ripping down his esophagus like broken glass.