Railroad! Collection 1 (The Three Volume Omnibus)

by Tonia Brown

  Clemet didn’t seem to care either way.

  Dodger slipped the man’s vest off while the professor clipped away the flannel shirt beneath.

  “I worry we might be too late,” the professor said as he pushed the shirt open. “He’s lost an awful lot of blood. Would you just look at that mess. Poor fellow.” Despite the bad prognosis, the professor proceeded to snip and tuck and sew anyway, doing what he could to grasp hold of Clemet’s slipping life. After a few minutes of impromptu surgery, the professor wiped a bloody hand across his wet brow and sighed. “I’ve staunched the bleeding, but that’s all I can do here. We need to get him back to my office aboard the line. I have better equipment there.”

  “He shouldn’t have been alive in the first place,” Dodger said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was supposed to be dead a long time ago.”

  The professor narrowed his eyes at Dodger “Then it’s true? You know this man?”

  It was true.

  Dodger remembered the man from their regimental days together, though there weren’t many to remember. The kid—sixteen, maybe seventeen at the time—was training to be a steam driver before he was transferred to Dodger’s unit in ‘63. (The same year Dodger was stripped of his rank and thrust onto the frontlines for what his boss referred to as ‘insubordination.’) The driving was the sole reason Dodger remembered him at all, for that single thing they had in common. Other than that, he didn’t know much about the lad. He never got a chance. Clemet Jackson was an early casualty of war, dying within months of his transfer to Dodger’s unit so long ago.

  And here he was, dying all over again.

  Ignoring the professor, Dodger turned his full attention to this old colleague. “Private Jackson?” He shook Clemet by the shoulders. “Private Clemet Jackson! This is your commanding officer! I order you to wake the hell up and answer me, soldier.”

  Clemet came awake at this command, heaving a deep, wheezing breath before coughing and barking a bucket of bloody mucus into the dirt. Once this passed, he opened his eyes slowly to stare up at Dodger. “Sarge? Sergeant Dodger? That … really you?”

  Dodger could feel the professor’s gaze boring twin holes into his very being, but he didn’t care. He would have a lot to explain later on, and would probably lose his chance at the work in the process. But he didn’t care about that either. “Yes it is, Private.”

  Clemet smiled, showing a line of healthy but dangerous fangs. “I knew it were you.”

  “What are you doing here? We thought you were dead.”

  “S-s-so did I. But they … the other side … patched me up … and kept me in a camp … ‘til the end of the war.”

  A prisoner of war.

  Dodger had counted him as a casualty after the battle of Kings Mountain, when in reality, the man was recuperating behind enemy lines, awaiting rescue. Even so, just being a prisoner of war wouldn’t cause this kind of change in a man. “I hate to say this, son. But they did more than just patch you up. You’re, well, you’re different.”

  Clemet laughed, and with his humor came another coughing fit. As well as a great deal of barking. “That’s a mighty … funny way … of putting it … sir.”

  “What did those bastards do to you?”

  “Don’t blame the camp … most of the soldiers … they were real nice … regular men … like you ‘n’ me, Sarge. But … that man in charge of us …” Clemet’s lips drew into a nasty snarl as the memories rushed up to meet his anger. “He did this to me. He did this … to all of us.”

  “Whoever was in charge apparently experimented on them,” the professor said, as if trying to explain.

  “Yeah,” Clemet agreed. “He changed us … made us like this.”

  “Who?” Dodger asked.

  “Rex … that was his name. Commander of C-C-camp … Camp Sumter.”

  Dodger went numb from head to soul at the sound of that name. For years, he had heard about the atrocities of the Confederate Prisoner of War Camp at Andersonville, often called Camp Sumter by those on the inside. Even after the war was over and done, folks still whispered about the black deeds and torturous acts inflicted upon her detainees. But this? This was something far worse than anything he had ever heard. “I don’t understand. Why would a man do this to you? To anyone?”

  “Said he wanted … us obedient … trainable … loyal …”

  “I think I understand,” the professor said. “He tried to induce the loyalty of the domesticated canine into them by weaving it into their very genetic code.” His hands curled into fists. “That monster.”

  “We got him … the end. He w-w-wanted dogs? He learned … our bite … worse than … our bark!” Clemet started to laugh and cough and bark once more, bringing a frothy sluice of pink foam to his trembling lips.

  Just as Dodger was wondering what was taking Ched so long, the ground rumbled, signaling the approach of the cab. “That’s enough talking for now, Private. Save your strength. We’ll load you up and take you to town. Doc Willow is a decent surgeon. I’m sure he can-”

  “N-n-no …I can feel it … it’s too late.” Clemet clutched Dodger’s hand, squeezing hard at first, then released it in a slow, limp drop.

  “You hang on. That’s an order, son.”

  “Too … late f-f-for orders … sir. Only one … man left … can order me now.” With a wide, beatific smile, Clemet weakly lifted a finger to the heavens above.

  “No! I won’t let you die on me again, soldier!”

  “Please, Sarge. Let me go. I can’t l-l-live … like this … anymore.”

  “I can ease his pain if you wish,” the professor said.

  Through misty eyes, Dodger found a long look of sorrow on the professor. Not pity. Just a shared grief, and he respected the man for that.

  Dodger nodded at the professor, thankful for his offer. “I’m sorry, Clem.” He hung his head, in shame, in despair. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were dead. I would never have left you behind if I knew you were alive.”

  “It’s not your f-f-fault … S-s-sarge,” Clemet said in a soft, gurgling voice. “Not your fault.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “W-w-what … what is it … you … always say? About war?”

  Dodger raised his damp eyes and recited along with Clemet. “War is hell.”

  “This is worse … Sarge. Bein’ like this … worse than war. W-w-worse than hell.”

  “God speed to your rest, soldier.”

  The professor injected the dying soldier full of some mystery solution. “This should help you get some sleep. Try to rest, son.”

  “Thanks, doc,” Clemet said. “Sarge … you g-g-gotta … gotta watch out for Butch … he’ll kill you … ‘cause you ain’t P-p-pack.”

  Dodger couldn’t trust his tongue enough to agree. He settled for a nod instead.

  “Stay away from B-b-butch … kill you s-s-soon as look at ya… k-k-kill you all.” Clemet sighed with his last breath, just the barest trace of a smile crossing his doggish face as his young life fled his broken body. Then, same as the others, he proceeded to liquefy.

  The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted across the warm morning air.

  Dodger stood and stared down at the slop that used to be Private Clemet Jackson, biting back his sorrow, his humiliation, but most of all, his rage.

  “Shorry about the delay,” Ched said as he joined them. “Losht presshure in the main tank from all that shifting. But she’sh right ash rain now. What are we doin’-”

  Ched’s words choked short, and Dodger assumed the professor must have signaled the man to shut his mouth. Dodger didn’t know for sure, because he couldn’t take his eyes off the atrocity before him. A bitter and vicious anger stole over him, a cold black shadow rising from the depths of his very soul. Defending yourself against gunfire was one thing, but what lay at his feet was an abomination.

  Who could do that to a man? Why? How?

  One question spoke the loudest.

  Did
Dodger really want to find out?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the professor said. “He seemed … he seemed like a fine young man.” He reached out to touch Dodger’s shoulder again.

  “We should get back,” Dodger said, shrugging off the professor’s hand. “Leave the horses. The law can collect them.”

  The professor gathered his wallet. “Come then, Mr. …” he paused a moment, before he settled on, “Mr. Carpenter. I shall tend your wound on the return.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You should really let me look-”

  “I said I was fine.” Dodger climbed back into the cab alone, pulling himself up with his good arm.

  The pair outside the cab fell into a hushed arguing, after which they rejoined Dodger aboard. Ched had them underway again in moments. They were all silent on the ride back. There was nothing left to say. Once they returned to the Sleipnir, no one came out to greet them. Not Mr. Torque. Not the oft-mentioned Feng. No one. It was as if they were never gone.

  Ched eased the cab to the head of the line before he came to a stop. “I shure could ush a hand tying her up.” He raised an eyebrow at Dodger.

  Dodger ignored the driver’s request, instead leaping down from the cab and starting his long walk back to town.

  “Mr. Carpenter!” the professor called after him.

  Dodger ignored him too. The man was bound to have questions, and Dodger was not in the mood for questions right now. What he was in the mood for was a short bath and quick meal and a long nap and putting this whole event as far from his mind as possible.

  “Please!” the professor yelled. “Don’t leave us just yet.”

  Dodger kept his stride even and his pace quick. Should the little man follow him all the way back to town, he would fall well behind the long-legged Dodger before they reached the inn.

  “I would still like to offer you a meal,” the professor said.

  This stopped Dodger in his tracks. He stood clenching his fists as tight as his stomach clenched at the proposal of a meal, surprised to still be so hungry even after what he’d witnessed. But then again, human nature never ceased to surprise him. Over his shoulder, he lied. “I’m not hungry.”

  The professor scurried up beside Dodger, then around to face him. The portly little man was winded, huffing between sentences as he tried to speak while simultaneously trying to catch his breath. “Then at least … oh my, but you do walk very fast … at least return so we can … oh dear, I’m not as young as I used to be … come back so we can … you have quite long legs … we can discuss the terms of your contract.”

  “What contract?”

  “For the work … the posted job.” He swallowed hard, his breathing evening out at last. “I would like to hire you, Mr. Carpenter.”

  Dodger stared in disbelief at the man.

  “Yes,” the professor said, as if reading the question that lay on Dodger’s mind. “I think you have proven yourself more than capable of assuming the position aboard the Sleipnir. I would feel more than safe with you about.”

  “Thank you for that,” Dodger said. “But I don’t know if I am interested in the position anymore.”

  The professor’s face fell into disappointment. “Why on earth not?”

  Dodger motioned to the distance, the place from which they’d just returned. “What happened back there? What were those men?”

  “I thought you understood. They are, or rather were, genetically altered-”

  “Yes, I understood. Yet you talk about it like it was nothing. Like it is an everyday occurrence.”

  The professor shrugged away Dodger’s concern. “Well, I wouldn’t call it everyday.”

  “I wouldn’t call it any day! I have never seen anything like that. Those men melted right in front of us. Melted. People don’t just melt.” Dodger ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I don’t even know what to tell the sheriff. But you … I bet you and your crew see things like that all of the time. That or worse.”

  The professor quickly looked away and proceeded to whistle rather than answer.

  “Probably it is often worse, isn’t it?” Dodger asked. “Much worse?”

  The professor wrinkled his nose, then nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid so. We got off a bit light this time, thanks to you. That’s why I would love to have you aboard. You have quite a gift for gunplay, sir. We are in dire need of your protection. I don’t know how we’ve gotten on so long without a proper gunman.”

  Dodger turned from the professor to look at the glorious line behind them, to the driver still working hard to couple the cars, to the distance where the action happened, and back around again to the professor. He had to admit he did enjoy protecting folks for a change. He spent so long taking lives for nothing more than a paycheck that he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel proud at the end of work.

  But still … this was well beyond his abilities. Not to perform. Performance wasn’t the issue here, as the facts bore out.

  This job went beyond his ability to cope.

  “You folks don’t need a hired gun,” Dodger said. “If this is the weird kind of thing you see on a daily basis, you need to get yourself an army. Of priests.”

  “Mr. Carpenter,” the professor said, his voice terse. “I will not mince words with you. I want to offer you the job. But I will not beg. I will not plead. I have my honor. Just as I am sure you have yours.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect, sir. I just … I don’t know if I am cut out for this sort of thing. That’s all. There might have been a time when a man melting before my eyes would have made me feel as curious as you, but that was a long, long time ago. I’m sorry. I admire your convictions and the way you handle yourself, but it’s not for me.”

  At the compliment, the professor ran his hands down his jacket, like a preening bird. “No harm meant, then no offense taken. But I would still like to keep the offer open. Would you at least consider it?”

  “I don’t know.” Dodger sighed, long and heavy. His instincts were screaming no, but something inside of him wanted to do this. Needed to. If not for the work, then at least to find out what happened to Clemet. Or rather, find out who happened to the poor lad. “I’ll need time to think about it.”

  “I understand. But as you can imagine, we don’t like to sit around for very long if we don’t have to. Trouble tends to find me too easily if I remain a sitting target.” The professor snatched his watch from his vest pocket, flipping it open as he checked the time. “It is a little after noon. The Sleipnir will pull out at precisely three o’clock. Whether you are on it or not. I would prefer the first, but if the latter is the case, then so be it.” The professor clicked his watch closed, dropped it into his vest and stuck out his stubby hand. “Good day, Mr. Carpenter. It has been an honor to meet you.”

  “Good day to you, Professor Dittmeyer, Ph.D., M.D.” Dodger shook the man’s hand before he added, “And you were right.”

  “About?”

  “You are a damned good egg.” Dodger turned and strode back to town, leaving the professor far behind him, giggling his schoolgirl giggle.

  The walk back was quick, a twenty-minute hard push of trying to empty his mind while his feet did all the work. There was much to think about. And much to forget. This job was a rare opportunity, not just because of the train or the odd crew, but because it wasn’t ranch handing or digging in the dirt or serving drinks to ungrateful slobs. Again, the job almost seemed created specifically for Dodger. Which made him want to avoid it all the more.

  Dodger pushed into the saloon and paused to breathe the familiar scent of sweat, beer and whiskey. The town drunk, Wallace, was already perched on his favorite stool at the bar, half pickled on warm ale. A dozen men sat scattered around the tables, some avoiding their wives, others wishing they had one to avoid. Dodger eyed them with pity, as well as a touch of jealousy. This was home for them, or as near as damn it. But he never really had a home. Not since his family’s house burned to the ground whe
n he was just thirteen. Not since his father died a few years before that.

  Not since, well, not for a long time.

  Decker, owner and proprietor of the place, shot a hand up at Dodger as he passed the bar. “Heya, Arnold. Gladys washed your linens like you asked. But she didn’t get around to dressing your cot. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not a problem, Decker,” Dodger said. “Give ‘em to me and I’ll do it now. I want to take a nap before rush hour.”

  “I can send her up later if you like.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Dodger held out his left hand. “I want to nap. Now.”

  Decker shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He motioned to the stairs across the room from the bar. “They are probably on your cot, just not on your cot, if you get my meaning.”

  “Got it. I should be down before the evening crowd.” Dodger tipped his head to the man and mounted the staircase that led to his small room over the bar. “And Dex?”

  “Yeah, Arnie?”

  “If anyone comes asking around about me, tell ‘em I left. Will ya?”

  “You left?”

  “Yeah, left town.” Dodger added a synonym for each step he mounted. “As in long gone. Vamoosed. Went AWOL. Jumped ship. Au revoir. Arrivederci. Adios, amigos.”

  “If you want, sure.” The barkeep returned to cleaning the counter, but before Dodger could reach his door, the man asked, “Arnie? You in trouble?”

  Dodger stopped with the handle in his good hand, staring down at the barkeep. “No trouble. Just tired is all.”

  “Then why are you toting those things?” Decker waved his filthy dishcloth at Dodger.

  “What things?” Dodger asked before he looked down to see the answer parked on his own hips.

  Their weight had been so familiar, so welcome, that he hadn’t stopped to take them off. He hadn’t even noticed. And strangely enough, the professor said nothing to stop him from taking the things.

  Dodger was still wearing Boon’s guns.

  ****

  back to top

  ****

  Chapter Nine

  Ghost of a Chance

  In which Dodger is begged a boon by the last person he expects to meet.