by Tonia Brown
“I drove for a few years. Before I was transferred to the front lines, during the war.”
Ched didn’t seem interested in Dodger’s service record. “What kind of enginesh?”
“Mostly heavy-duty free steamers, hauling cargo and livestock. Sometimes passengers. It was part of my … work.” Dodger didn’t know any other way to describe it without giving away too much too soon. If the driver wanted more, he would have to trade for it.
“Part of what work? Driving ish work.”
Boon’s voice came out of nowhere, brushing Dodger’s mind. You wouldn’t know work if it landed in your lap and started to two-step.
For a moment, Dodger thought the ghost was addressing him. Which seemed most inappropriate, to say the least. It took him a second to realized Boon was addressing Ched, which was odd because that would mean-
“Shmart ash,” Ched said over Dodger’s contemplation. “I thought being dead would’ve improved your mannersh, Wash.”
Why? It didn’t improve yours.
Dodger filed that insult for future questioning. Right now he had a whole different kettle of fish to fry. He got to his feet and asked, “You can hear Boon?”
“Yesh. And he’sh only shayin’ that caush I can’t belt him for it.”
Wrong, my old friend. I said it because I can only speak the truth.
“How is this possible?” Dodger asked. “I thought I was the only one who could speak to you.”
No. I explained that Ched was the exception to the rule, Boon huffed. And now I would like to add that he’s the exception to every rule. Most of them concerning manners.
“Guilty ash charged,” Ched said, then laughed.
Boon joined the driver’s harsh guffaw with a whispered chuckle.
Dodger was more than confused. “You said it had been months since you had been able to talk to anyone.”
No, I said it had been months since I had a decent conversation with anyone. And I stand by that statement.
“Sho I’m not a shcholar,” Ched said. “Shue me.”
The pair laughed together again.
“Would one of you like to explain this to me?” Dodger asked. “Because I’m really, really confused.”
I thought I’d explained that Ched’s condition allows for a certain amount of-
“What condition?” Dodger asked over Boon’s whisper.
The ghost went quiet.
The driver returned his attention to the boiler, tapping the thermometer as if it could help speed up the heating process.
It seemed that no one wanted to address the question. This wouldn’t do. If Dodger was going to be part of the crew, then he needed to be in on at least some of the mysteries. Maybe not all, but some. Before he could say as much, the door slid open again as the professor returned.
And he wasn’t alone.
Shuffling along behind the professor came an elderly man who fell into the race the rail folk referred to as Celestials. In most cases, the label ‘Celestial’ pronounced nothing more than that a man was of Chinese descent. But in this case, Celestial wasn’t just a description; it was this man’s everything. The fellow all but dripped with Chinese trappings, from his silken robes covered in all manner of flowing foreign script, to his split-toed slippers, to his waist-length ultra-thin moustache and beard combination, which dangled from his narrow chin in silver tufts. He was moderately built, carrying a little more weight than Dodger usually saw on a Chinaman, though as far as height went, he was no bigger than a minute. Maybe five feet. On a good day. Maybe.
“Mr. Dodger,” the professor said. “If I can’t show you the rest of my train, then at least I can introduce you to more of her crew. This is our chef and local mystic, Feng.”
The elderly man tipped forward, ever so slightly.
Dodger returned the traditional Chinese greeting, bending at the waist. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Only Dodger didn’t say this in English.
He said it in Chinese.
Feng cocked his head as if surprised to hear his native tongue coming from one, well, not so native.
“You speak Chinese?” the professor asked in a gasp.
“A bit,” Dodger lied. “When you work the rails long enough, you pick up a smattering of the language.” The truth of the matter was that Dodger knew plenty of Chinese. And a little French. And a wee bit of Russian. And a whole lot of Indian. Both the faraway and the at-home kinds.
“You speak it beautifully,” the professor said.
“Thank you, sir.” Still keeping his eyes on Feng, Dodger added, “But you don’t speak at all?”
Feng brought his thumb and forefinger together until there was a small gap between the two. A little bit.
“Don’t let him shcam ya,” Ched said. “He talksh. Great gravy doesh he ever talk. But only when the mood takesh him. Which ain’t often. Thank God.”
“Then when he does,” the professor said, “it’s only in Chinese. Precious little good it does most of us.”
“You understand English?” Dodger asked.
Feng nodded. Which was good, because Dodger didn’t like to speak Chinese if he didn’t have to. The language was beautiful, true, but also complex. No matter how much he practiced, he often worried over whether he was commanding his fireman to shovel faster, or propositioning the poor man to show him a good night on the town, or worse.
“Yesh,” Ched said. “But don’t ashk him to shpeak it, or we’ll be here all night trying to transhalte hish jibberish.”
Dodger looked again to the Celestial, who gave a serene smile. Dodger had seen many a smile just like it and wasn’t fooled one iota. It had been his experience that old timers loved to hide their sharp minds behind wistful grins and doddering steps and shaking hands. They also could hide a thunderhead of rage under all that too. Or at least Mrs. Bolton did. No, Dodger wasn’t set at ease by the frail elder act. If anything, it put him on guard. He suspected the man had an interesting tale to tell, and Dodger couldn't wait to hear it.
“Now the formalities are done with,” the professor said, “let’s see to your injury. Feng, the box, if you please.”
Dodger had been so distracted by the presence of the old man that he failed to note the case the Celestial was toting. Feng passed a wooden chest the size of a breadbox over to the professor, who set it on the cabinet and motioned for Dodger to return to a seated position. Dodger sat again while the professor produced a very small key from one of the lab coat’s many pockets. Key in hand, the man unlocked the chest and began to rummage around inside.
“Number three,” the professor mumbled over the bright tinkle of glass rapping upon glass that arose from the depths of the box. “Number four. Five. Two. Ten. Seven. Sixty-nine?” The professor paused in his search and held up a vial filled with a bright green fluid. “When did we make a number sixty-nine? Oh yes, I remember now. After that thing with Boon and Lelanea and the … what was that thing again?”
“A shuccubush,” Ched said, his usual grimace taking on a distinctly dirty grin.
“Yes. Well, we shouldn’t have that trouble again. One of these babies to the groin and … well … yes. The less said about that the better.” The professor returned the vial to the box as he got back to rummaging. “Ten. Seven. Six. Another sixty-nine. Good to know we have a few of those. Four. Four. Four. Dear, I seem to have quite a few fours. Will you make a note of that, Feng? Some of those can be converted to ones, which I don’t seem to have any of … no … I take that back. Here’s a one. And ah-ha! Number eight!” With this proclamation, the professor withdrew another glass vial, closed the box lid and passed the whole wooden works back to Feng.
Eyeing the vial, Dodger asked, “What’s a number eight?”
“A medicinal compound,” the professor explained as he patted his coat pockets. “Instantly heals muscle sprains. Restores burned flesh to relative normality. Knits bones within moments for a speedy recovery. Overall, it is a curative of the highest caliber.”
Dodger snorted. “Sounds like snake oil to me.”
The professor cut his eyes at Dodger. “How did you know that?”
“Know what?”
“Never mind.” The professor huffed as he continued to pat his pockets, searching for something he wasn’t able to find. “Where on earth did I leave it? Here, hold this.” The professor shoved the vial into Dodger’s good hand.
Dodger raised the vial to his eye level. The viscous silver liquid inside the glass shimmered with a greasy sheen. “So what, I drink this?”
“I wouldn’t shuggesht it,” Ched said.
Everyone in the cab chuckled at that. Even Boon.
“Then it’s topical?” Dodger asked.
Boon whispered, Not by a long shot.
“Shpeakin’ of shotsh,” Ched said and nodded to the professor.
Dodger almost jumped out of his skin when he laid eyes on what Dittmeyer had been so eager to find.
****
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Chapter Four
Number Eight
In which Dodger gets shot.
In the hands of the professor rested a strange and ominous weapon. The body of the thing was a hand span in length, consisting of a coiled mechanism attached to a hollow chamber of sorts, with the whole affair backed by a plunger that led to the gun’s trigger. Beyond this extended a thick needle at least twice as long as the rest of the gun.
“Vial, please,” the professor said, holding his empty palm face up and wiggling his fingers at Dodger.
It didn’t take a whole lot of thinking for Dodger to put the obvious clues together. The empty chamber. The needle. The trigger on the ‘gun.’ He clutched the vial to his chest and stared at the offensive mechanism. “Uh-uh. No way. You are not sticking me with that thing.”
The professor sighed. “Mr. Dodger, give me the vial so we can get you ready for your little tête-à-tête.” He waggled his fingers again.
But Dodger wasn’t having any of that. “No. I … I just … I don’t like needles.” Which was putting it mildly, to say the least. It was one of his many secrets, a truth to which Dodger clung with cheek-reddening embarrassment. Dodger more than just disliked needles.
He was terrified of them.
Here was a man who had pulled many a lead plug from his bruised and battered body over his years of service to his country. Dodger had reset his own broken bones, bandaged his own wounds, even cut away the occasional chunk of snake-bitten flesh. Sure, he had employed a needle for its natural intention, sewing many a wound shut, both his and others. But when it came to a needle designed for the sole purpose of squirting some unknown substance into his body, well, that was where Dodger drew the line.
“Mr. Dodger,” the professor said. “If you plan on going into the fray with just your fists as weapons, then you will want those fists to be at their peak performance. Now give me the vial and stop acting like such a child.”
“I’m not acting like a child,” Dodger whined, even though he knew he was.
“Shuck it up, Sharge,” Ched said. “We’ve all been on the resheiving end of Doc’sh medishin.”
“Is that how you obtained your mysterious condition?”
“No,” the professor interjected. “Ched obtained his mysterious condition because he is a stupid, stupid, stupid man.”
The driver didn’t argue the point. Instead, he tapped the thermometer once more and said, “We’re at prime if you’re ready to run, shir.”
“In a moment,” the professor said. “I don’t want to be underway while administering a number eight.”
“You can go ahead and leave,” Dodger said. “Because you aren’t administering anything today.”
The professor clucked his tongue in reproach. “Now, now. I promise it’s completely safe. You’ll hardly feel it. And the end result might surprise you. That sprain will become but a memory in moments. It’ll boost your energy too. Give me the vial.”
Dodger held fast to the vial with his good hand as he glanced at his bad one. “I don’t care if I grow a whole new hand, I’m not letting you shoot me up with some kind of drug.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Grow a new hand. The very idea of a number eight growing a new hand is preposterous.” The professor chuckled a bit, and Dodger smiled with him before the man stopped his laughter short to add, “That would take a number thirteen. Which I’m out of at the moment. Do you know how very hard it is to find gargoyle guano in this area?”
Dodger cringed farther away, narrowing his eyes at the men in the cab. “You people are insane. This isn’t a train. It’s a mobile Bedlam.”
Boon begged, Please, Dodger. Let him treat you.
“No. He and his needle can go to hell.”
He is correct. If you are going to go into a brawl, you will need both of your fists.
“I can fight one-fisted just fine. I’ve done it plenty of times.”
That’s as it may be. You could do worse than accept the doc’s help. Trust me.
“Trust you?” Dodger waved his injured hand at the professor. “This is the same man who got you killed!”
“Is he addressing you, Ched?” the professor whispered.
“I don’t think sho,” Ched said. “I think he’sh talkin’ to himshelf.” The driver twirled a long index finger in the air beside his temple. “Boy ish touched in the head.”
Dodger threw him a vile stare, to which Ched but beamed in response.
If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Lelanea. She is in a danger even worse than you understand. She needs you at your best. We all need you at your best.
Dodger glanced around the cab, from man to man, wondering if he was alone in his hatred of the needle, or if the others were silently reveling in the fact that it wasn’t them under the gun this time. He relinquished the vial. “For the record, I don’t object to the needle. It’s the idea of not knowing what you’re filling me full of I don’t like.”
“I can’t fault you for that,” the professor said as he shoved the vial into the gun. It emitted a soft click as it fit into place. “But all you had to do was ask. I will be glad at any time to divulge the ingredients of each vial.”
“You will?”
“Certainly. I make the offer to all of my staff. You have every right to know what I’m filling you full of, as you put it.”
“Well … thank you. I appreciate that.”
“It’sh all gibberish anywaysh,” Ched said. “Polytri-blah-blah thish. Neutrino-ashidic-blah-blah that. It’sh besht to call it medishin and leave it at that.”
The professor leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he said, “For once I suspect I have an employee who will not only understand my gibberish, but who might also appreciate the beauty of the chemical makeup. Yes?”
“We’ll have to see,” Dodger said.
“But enough talk,” the professor said. “I need to get this in your veins right away so you will have time to process it before you attempt to retrieve our Lelanea.”
Rolling up his sleeve, Dodger said, “You just do what you have to do.” He bared his forearm, ready to take the injection like a man.
The professor uncapped a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured a bit onto a square of clean cloth before he noticed Dodger’s bare arm. “No, no, no. I’m afraid this doesn’t go there.”
For a moment, panic fluttered up Dodger’s spine. “And just where do you think you’re going to stick that thing?” A few very inconvenient—not to mention uncomfortable—places sprang to mind.
“Number eight must be injected directly into the heart. It’s the only way to evenly distribute the compound before it breaks down into its basic chemical composition.”
An injection into the heart explained the impressive, if not daunting, size of the needle. Dodger wanted to refuse again, but supposed it wouldn’t do much good. With a groan, he set to unbuttoning his shirt, much to the pleasure of the professor.
“Excellent,” the man said. “I’m
pleased to see you’re up to the challenge. Shall we discuss the contents now, or shall I shoot first and ask questions later?” The professor tittered at his own joke. “Sorry, I don’t get to say that very often.”
“Just get it over with.” Dodger pulled open his shirt, then lifted the undershirt to expose the pocked and scarred landscape of his bare chest—the end result of a point-blank shotgun blast to the breastbone.
Ched gave a low whistle through his clenched teeth. “Damn, Sharge.”
Son, you’ve seen some sorrowful times.
“I know, I know,” Dodger said as he ran a hand across his scored skin. “It’s not pretty. It’s also one of the reasons I left my last job. Not the main reason, but a close second.”
“If scarring like that is second down the list,” the professor said, “then I wouldn’t dare venture a guess at the main reason you left the work. I now understand why you didn’t want to talk about it.” Despite the cheerless sight of Dodger’s old war wound, the professor managed a weak smile. “I wish I could’ve been there to help you then. I can help you now, if you will allow me.”
“Go ahead,” Dodger said.
Without further warning—which came as a bit of a surprise, considering how much jaw jacking the professor had done up to that point—the doc leaned in with the rag and needle. In one swift motion, he swiped the wet cloth across Dodger’s skin, then rammed the long needle straight into Dodger’s chest. The professor squeezed the trigger before he pulled the gun away, the needle slipping in and out of Dodger’s heart with little resistance, smooth as warm butter on a hot biscuit. The whole thing took maybe three or four seconds at the most. When it was done, Dodger almost felt like a fool for making such a big deal about the whole thing.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Dodger admitted.
The professor dislodged the empty vial, capped the needle and stowed the whole works in his lab coat again before he said, “Oh, now it might take a moment for you to fully … ah yes, there you go.”
Dodger gave a gasp followed by a grunt as his eyes flew wide. He seized in a wild spasm, shuddering all over, clutching his chest as a frozen fist squeezed his heart. Ice raced along his veins, seemingly spreading everywhere at once, until his entire body came over with a bone-cold chill. Warmth fled his body, leaving him frozen to the core. The beds of his fingernails went blue. His skin took on a pale shadow of its usual healthy tone. Dodger exhaled, watching his breath curl away from his mouth in chilled tendrils.
