by Tufo, Mark
No, assuming this all wasn’t just some kind of accident, bringing in the three of us just doesn’t hold water. There has to be something else. However much I try to look at it from different perspectives, I keep circling back around and I end up at the same place: none of this makes any sense.
Without coming any closer to a revelation, Trip and I arrive at the engines. I shake my head to clear the endless circle of thoughts. Grabbing a handrail, I climb aboard. It took us longer to get back. Trip kept wandering off, wanting to look in boxcars. Apparently, our terms of agreement had been met with our return to Mike. There were times I wanted to put a leash on him.
Well, we made it and we’re here, so at least there’s that, I think, stepping into the cab.
I take a seat and begin poring over the manual, skipping all of the schematic breakdowns and technical details of the systems. I don’t need to know the fuel or hydraulic system routing or the parameters at this time; I just need to know how to start it and get it motoring along the tracks without turning us into a fireball. All the while, I keep an eye on Trip, watching him from the corner of my eye. He keeps himself busy looking over the controls, either lost in thought or trying to fathom their functions. It appears that he knows what they are and that he’s just trying to put the pieces together or translate the various symbols. I would skip the tedious manual and ask him, but I have the feeling that would only lead to frustration. I leave him to his, well, whatever he’s doing. At least he isn’t running off and forcing me to track him down. The sun is settling into latish afternoon and I don’t have time to babysit. There’s a horde of zombies encircling part of the train, making their way along it, and I get the feeling that there are whistlers somewhere in the vicinity. With night approaching and the city in the near distance, the odds are that night runners will put in an appearance. I pause and reach out with my mind, sensing packs within the metropolis.
If there are whistlers in the city, I bet it gets interesting at night.
I abruptly close down, sensing that a few of the resting packs have taken interest. I wish that I could open up one-way, but as much as I try, I haven’t found a method to do that.
As I close back down, I glimpse Trip make a sharp motion toward the power switch. The dials, as before, come alive. Anxiety fills me instantly, as it does anytime I see Trip do something unexpected. He then glances upward and, before I can utter a word, pulls on a cord.
The sound of the immense bank of air horns overhead blast out across the countryside. Inside the cab, the thick steel plating mutes the sound to a degree, but for me, it’s still deafening. Like a foghorn, the noise sweeps across the expanse, leaving an echo in its path.
I’m stunned. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why he did that. It’s just another, well, “Trip thing,” and infuriating to say the least. Here we are, trying to maintain a low profile, surrounded by enemies, and he does something like this. I swear that I’m going to duct tape him to a chair and move everything out of his reach. As the lonely sound fades into the distance, I am already picturing how to rig up a harness for him.
“You realize that you just rang the dinner bell, right!?” I state. “And take your hand off that.”
He looks from his hand, still holding the suspended cord, to me. Removing his hand, he glances outside at the shadows cast by the afternoon sun.
“Is it dinner time already? I’m famished. Can we go back and get another box of Phritos?”
“No, we can’t. And now, it will be dinner time shortly, although not in the manner you’re thinking of.”
Trip turns his head and tilts it like a dog trying to understand what’s being said.
“Don’t fucking do that again. Good God, man! You’re like a fucking five-year-old. Do you have to fuck with everything you come across? I mean, what in the world made you think that was an okay thing to do? Seriously, why did you do that?” I rant as quietly as possible.
I’m fuming inside. After what he just did, there’s no need for silence anymore, but I keep my voice low anyway. Possibly because if I don’t maintain at least a semblance of control, our threesome may become a twosome.
Fucking blows an air horn in the middle of this shit? And not just any air horn—oh, no. A fucking train horn. Really?!
“Wouldn’t you?” Trip replies, in all seriousness.
Well, he does have a point there. The child in each of us would. I’m reminded of the time we turned off our path in the 130 for a little low-level fun over Puget Sound. Yeah, I just might, but not in our current situation.
“No, no I wouldn’t, Trip. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a horde encircling Mike behind us, and who knows what else lies in the city.”
Trip stares hard into my eyes: a deep, penetrating gaze.
“Maybe, Jack, I was ringing the dinner bell to bring guests. And maybe, just maybe, we aren’t the meal.”
The focused and clear look, held for just a moment, vanishes. Trip’s eyes return to their usual, blurred, I’m-living-in-fantasyland look.
I’m taken aback, speechless. That’s the clearest I’ve ever heard Trip speak. And so direct, as opposed to his usual vague off-hand references. I’m so stunned that all other thoughts vanish. What he said implies so many consequences that my mind basically shuts down trying to fathom all of them. Once again, I’m left with the feeling that I should never doubt him, regardless of what he does. I can’t help it sometimes, though. I mean, who would even consider blowing an air horn with so many enemies about? It takes a Trip to realize that they are also enemies of each other. Damn…my mind shuts down again and I return to the task of getting this train moving.
“Sorry, man,” I comment.
“For what, Yack?” Trip replies.
“Never mind,” I say, returning to the manual.
Mike Talbot - Chapter 2
I didn’t shoot any more. Even though they were zombies now, they were human once and unless I was going to kill them, I wasn’t going to put them through perpetual immobilization. For some reason I did not want them to suffer. I was humanizing them, giving human qualities to something that was obviously not. Not that they would offer the same quarter, given the chance. I moved to my next rationalization when that first argument began to crumble: ammunition. I had no clue how many shots I could get from the metal rod. In reality, I was afraid to touch the thing unnecessarily—who knows if you could get poisoned just by scraping the rod against an open wound? I had enough cuts on me that it was a valid concern.
It might have been an hour, maybe more—long enough for my initial disgust with the food to pass to the point that I was thinking of going for round two, when I was startled. Although that’s a very mild word for the reaction that coursed through my body. Damn near gave me a heart attack when that train whistle bellowed.
“That has got to be Trip,” I said when my breathing calmed down. “No way Jack would have done that.” What was not lost on me when I heard that bleat was the involuntary twitching of my legs. The adrenaline shot seemed to help push the whistler poison along, and hopefully out. A few more scares like that and there was a good chance I’d be dancing by the end of the evening, not that anyone wanted to see that. I made a fist and brought it down as hard as I could on my thigh. Two things happened; one I was happy for, the other not. There was pain from the impact, so yay on that, and there was pain on impact, nay on that. My legs were coming back.
“Finally.” I could almost enjoy the day knowing I would once again be able to move under my own power. I knew the food would help no matter how much I hated it, so I tore into another piece of jerky, trying to convince myself it was some strange form of beef or possibly even squid, anything but the dreaded ham flavor. I was chewing as fast as I could, forcing it down with that awful juice, when I nearly choked. I was mid-swallow when I noticed something far off in the distance: dust. In and of itself, nothing to be overly concerned about—it was what could be causing the dust to kick up that troubled me. I absently kept eating, grimacing with
each mastication and swallow while I strained to see what was in that haze. Good or bad, it was of paramount importance.
“Oh shit.” I dropped the package, put my gun in my lap, and started to pull my body to the end of the car. I had to warn them. Unless I was completely off the mark, it was motorcycles, and lots of them. So far, in every world I’d found myself in, motorcycles did not mean good news. If whistlers found me up here, I’d be a steaming pile of waste by sundown. I made it over to the edge of the car in pretty good time. The trick now was how to swing my nearly useless legs over, grab the ladder, go down across the expanse between cars, and then back up without the zombies coming over to help.
“Wow, this sucks.” I looked down. Might as well have been the Grand Canyon. Zombies were down there. Not on the juncture, but on either side. If they reached for me, they would be within inches. Choices were at a premium, or maybe minimum is a better word.
“Shit.” I had no way to hold onto the whistler weapon, and Jack’s bag was back over by the middle of the train. I lost a precious minute or two retrieving it. I put the weapon in it and threw the bag handle over my head, turned my body around, let my legs drop, and grasped the first rung. Thankfully, it was on top of the car.
The zombies started crowding in. I think they appreciated the fact that I was coming down to see them.
“Are you kidding me with this shit?”
I went down, rung after rung, fully recognizing the futility of my efforts. I’d be dead long before I could traverse a hundred cars in this manner. Either my heart was going to burst or I was going to be reduced to tiny bite-sized chunks. Adrenaline was now being manufactured in vast quantities; I was on the bottommost rung, my legs dangling like a marionette. Outstretched zombie fingers were scraping against my pants and boots—the inches I expected between us would have been welcome. I could not rest on the train coupling or the zombies would have me. I looked to the next car, which seemed hopelessly far away. With my left hand firmly gripping the ladder, I reached out with my right. I was short.
“Oh Talbot, I wish you’d think before you acted.” But that wasn’t who I was. I pulled myself back in tight as I could against the ladder, and then with all the force I could muster, pushed out and let go. I’d like to say I caught flight like a sparrow, but it was more like a stone. I reached out wildly with my right hand, completely missing the rung I’d been aiming for. My fingers bounced off the next rung down and still I plummeted. Something snagged my pants just as I caught the following rung. I pulled in close, grabbed with my left, and went up hand over hand as fast as I could, dragging a zombie halfway up with me before he fell loose. By the time I got to the top of the next car, I was bathed in sweat.
“Yeah, this is going well,” I said as I caught my breath. “One down...” I let the tally go. I was already losing faith; I didn’t need to compound that feeling.
“Come on, come on, come on.” I pounded on my legs. I could feel the hits and I knew my legs wanted to act, but a synapse was missing somewhere between me telling them to move and them actually responding. I dragged myself to the edge of the car. A small victory of sorts, since there weren’t as many zombies. Only takes one to ruin your day, though. I repeated my struggle on the next ladder, only this time not going as far down in the hopes that it would give me more of an opportunity to grasp a rung as I fell. Must have been the added adrenaline, but I got more of a push-off this time, and was rewarded with the solid thwack of my head on the ladder.
I clambered up quickly, pausing at the top long enough to touch the tender spot on my forehead that would soon swell to the size of a golf ball. I scooted quickly, hoping I could outdistance the zombies. Out of sight, out of mind on their behalf, right? This held true to a large degree: by the fourth car, I was down to seven zombies—but they looked familiar. I’d started taking notice that it was the same pack from car to car. They knew what was happening and were no longer following my progress across the car, instead opting to wait for me on my downward approach. I only had to make one mistake, and they seemed to know that the odds were in their favor.
“You guys suck,” I said looking down at them—although out of the seven, five were women. I’d known all along that women were smarter than men, this just proved it. In all likelihood, the two males were only here because they were following zombie tail.
“Oh, that’s just gross,” I said, letting that image and all it entailed take hold in my mind. I was in the midst of turning myself like I’d done a half-dozen times already when I was wracked with another spasm—it was all I could do to not black out and roll off. My legs started firing off in different directions like I was the Lord of Riverdance.
“What the fuck?” I exclaimed, pulling myself away from the edge. My body was bouncing around like I was on a trampoline with a metric ton of Mexican jumping beans alongside me. After a long moment, my legs calmed to the point that they only twitched like a spider’s legs after being given a healthy dose of Raid. Once my eyes stopped rolling around, I took a glance toward the approaching motorcycles. They’d gotten closer and would certainly be upon us before I could move across another ten cars in this fashion. I looked to the front of the train. The sight of the engine compartment still eluded me. I won’t lie, I thought about calling it quits, finding what little cover I could, and taking out some of the bastards if the opportunity presented itself. If I was alone, that would have been my plan, but I had to keep trying. Due to the angle at which the motorcycles were approaching, odds were Jack and Trip had no idea of our impending dinner guests.
I plodded on. “Kiss my ass,” I told the Slimy Seven. Up, down, all around; now if I could just do the Hokey Pokey. I had to dry my hands before going down the next ladder; it was like I had fountains sprouting from my pores, coating everything in a thick layer of sweat. I smiled as my right leg seemed to take a modicum of direction from me. A restless leg syndrome sufferer high on cocaine probably could have done better, but it was a start. Midway across the next car, my legs started burning with that intense pins-and-needles feeling of being asleep—only these needles were turkey-baster sized. I was thankful my tongue wasn’t parked between my teeth, or else I would have neatly sheared it in half when I clenched my jaw. I lost precious time again waiting for the sensation to subside. I almost—nope, scratch that, I’m man enough to admit it: I blubbered like a fucking baby when I kindly asked my legs to move, and they did. Like the brainiac that I am, I immediately decided to test my limits. I no sooner made it vertical than I had to catch myself as I fell back down, and fell hard. BUT! There had been a moment, a brief one, sure, but a moment nonetheless wherein I stood on my own.
Now the question was if I should keep plodding on in the same fashion or wait until I could move with more speed. Both had merits; I erred on the periphery of suicide. Just my style, every inch I got closer to Jack and Trip could mean the difference. I made my twelfth jump, or was it the twenty-fifth? I only know that when my right leg, instead of just colliding into the ladder, actually found purchase I almost cried again, and I would have if I could have spared the hydration. Like a stroke victim, my left leg was still dragging behind me. I knew I was running out of time, but that didn’t stop me from laughing out like a damned loon as I lumbered my way across the top of that next car. Shuffling along, dragging my left leg, I looked very much like the enemy I was trying to get away from.
“Shit,” I said, staring at my next, much more dangerous obstacle. The car ahead was a tanker, rounded at the top. It had a walkway built in, but it couldn’t have been more than a foot wide. Any collapse on my part and I would pitch off the side. The Slimy Seven was now the Scuzzy Six—one of the men must have lost interest when the zombie women said they didn’t want anything to do with his raggedy ass. Not that it made me any keener on their pursuit.
“Well, sorry guys,” I said as I fished in the bag. “Not sure why I didn’t think of this earlier, but I’m going to need to improve my odds.”
The zombies stared at me as I aimed the
little box, two of the women’s heads tilting to the side as I did so. If I was a little smarter, I would have shot them first. Hindsight is always so crystal clear. Like the chauvinist that I am, I figured the dipshit male to be my biggest threat. I nailed him in the forehead; his eyes crossed and he went down in a plume of dust.
“Score one for the good guys!” I shouted triumphantly. I killed two of the women in similar fashion. The two that had been watching me intently figured out that I was dangerous and screwed out of range, their friend following quickly.
I’d said it before, but it’s worth reiterating: “I really hate smart zombies.” I tucked the gun back in the bag and went down the ladder, this time my recalcitrant leg beginning to work with me. It appeared the strike was over and we could begin working together in concert toward a common goal, though they did still exhibit some lingering dissatisfaction.
I actually stepped on the coupling between the two cars, though only for a heartbeat or two while I reached over and grabbed the ladder. It was a success, but I was not in a rush to test just how successful. I climbed the ladder, fearful that the Terrible Trio would take this opportunity to come at me. Looks like I’d put the fear of some zombie deity in their heads: they did not show. I wanted to walk up top, but the curvature of the car had me concerned. I found middle ground and crab-walked across. I was happy I had no company on the other side. I listened intently as I got down on the next coupling. I held on to the ladder to see just how much weight my legs would bear. I finally let go, wobbling a bit but otherwise staying erect. Yeah I said erect, it’s my journal.
