Mr. Shivers

by Robert Jackson Bennett

“Yeah.”

  “Just… I don’t know, just walking by. I saw him pass through the town and go down into the yard. I thought I had gone nuts. Nearly… Well, I nearly pissed myself. People got out of his way like Moses and the sea. It was like just him being there made them want to run. I couldn’t get away,” he said softly. “Because of my leg. So I sat and he passed by just inches away and I looked into his face and I wished I never had. Not ever. I didn’t want to sleep in the camp after that. He’d know where I was, see, and come and get me.”

  Connelly’s mind reeled. He struggled to control it. “And before that? The part about… about all those men who’d chased him?”

  “What about it?”

  “What did you say happened to them?”

  Korsher looked at him. “He killed every single one of them,” he said. “Tricked them. My father said it’d been going on since before men could speak.”

  Connelly jumped to his feet. “You stay there,” he said. “You just stay right there, you hear?”

  “Well, sure, where the hell else am I gonna go?”

  Connelly sprinted down to the camp, dodged between shanties and broken-down cars. He found Pike and the others crouched in the shadow of a tent. He grabbed Pike and said, “Come with me.”

  “What? Why?” said Pike.

  “Just come on.”

  “Well, hell,” said Monk, and stood.

  “N-No,” said Connelly. “Just Pike. I just want him to hear this. Just at first.”

  “Why?” said Monk, suspicious.

  “I don’t… I don’t know. I just want to see what someone else thinks.”

  Connelly led Pike out to where Korsher lay. The cripple sat up again and said, “Who’s that?”

  “Tell him what you told me,” said Connelly.

  “Why should I?”

  “Just shut up and tell him what you said.”

  Korsher frowned but went through it again, stumbling through his story. He was deep in a drunken stupor now and Connelly had to prod him along. Pike watched the cripple with flat eyes and did not speak. When Korsher finished Pike was quiet for a long time and said, “That’s quite an interesting story, Mr. Korsher. I thank you for telling it to me.”

  “Why the hell are you folks so fired up over this anyway?” said Korsher. “It upsets a fella, you know.” He lay back and drank more.

  “My colleague here is somewhat… superstitious. I’m sorry if he upset you.”

  “Didn’t upset shit. Just… just crazy is all.”

  “Yes, well. Good night, Mr. Korsher,” said Pike, and tipped his hat. “Stay safe.”

  Korsher muttered something and Pike began to walk away. Connelly followed.

  “Well?” Connelly said.

  Pike kept moving and did not turn.

  “Well?” said Connelly again, and he reached out and grabbed Pike’s shoulder.

  Pike spun around, angry. “Well, what?”

  “Well, what do you make of that?”

  “What do I make of it? What do I make of it? You mean, what do I make of a… a drunken cripple so besotted with moonshine he can barely sit up? What do I make of a bunch of silly ghost stories his father used to tell him to scare him? What do I make of that, is that what you’re asking?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m asking you that.”

  “I think it’s nothing. I think you dragged me out here to listen to idiocy.” He began walking away.

  “But what if it’s real,” said Connelly quietly.

  Pike stopped. Then he turned and said, “Are you being serious with me, Mr. Connelly? You actually think this man may be the… what, the devil?”

  Connelly shrugged.

  “You know there’s ghost stories about him. You know that and you didn’t believe them. Just stories.”

  “Not like this. Not like what’s going on now. He said other men had chased the scarred man. Said he’d trapped them. Killed them.”

  “And? Could it be that he spread those stories himself, fearing for his life? Could it be just mere chance? You caught the stink of that man, you know he could barely see you, let alone Shivers.”

  “This has happened before,” said Connelly. “It’s been going on since forever, he said.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But what if it has?”

  “But what? Would that change anything?”

  Connelly hesitated. “It might.”

  “No. It wouldn’t. We would still be doing the same. And besides… Even if it has, Lottie says the shiver-man is afraid of you,” said Pike, his eyes shining. “Is that so?”

  Connelly looked away.

  “Yes,” said Pike. “So if it’s happened before then things are different this time. Oh, yes. But I doubt the whole thing. I doubt it very much.” He snorted and spat. “This is child’s foolishness. We have business to do. Come back to the camp and rest.”

  Pike walked back toward the little sea of fires. Connelly watched him, then looked up at the moon. After a few minutes he left.

  They awoke on the morning of their departure and traded for scraps among the other freight rats. They held stilted conversations over bogwater ditches and flaming oil cans and as the sun reached the top of the sky they moved out to where the train would pass through. They hid in the brush and readied their grips and watched for the numbers on the engines. Theirs was the second. They bolted out, sprinting through the grit and smoke, and managed to climb up onto one of the last few cars. They walked down its edge like tightrope walkers, jimmied open an empty grain car, then stowed themselves away in the musty dark.

  They stayed as quiet as they could. Roonie said softly, “I once heard of a few ’bos that got caught in an empty grain car. The railroad man found out about it and filled it with grain anyways, laughing. They drowned in it.”

  “I heard the same damn thing, only it was a cattle car,” said Hammond. “They loaded the cattle in and the hobos were crushed. It’s crap. No one does that. Not really.”

  “No?” said Roonie.

  “No. If they want anything they want your money. Not your blood.”

  “The train is still a dangerous mistress,” said Pike.

  Roosevelt grinned. “All mistresses is dangerous. ’Specially when they find out they’re just mistresses and not the main event.”

  Pike shook his head, bemoaning the state of the world.

  Monk took out a pack of cards. They took turns playing gin rummy and five-card draw for corn kernels they found. Connelly watched and began to nod in sleep in his corner, lulled by the throb of the wheels. As he drifted off he heard a distant thump and snapped awake.

  He held a hand up for silence. Roonie began to speak, but Lottie grabbed him. Connelly pointed up above them, then cupped his ear. They listened carefully.

  Footfalls. Someone was walking over the car before them. Several people, from the sound of it.

  Then they heard voices, just barely audible over the sound of the wheels and the wind.

  “… not seen anything yet,” said one voice.

  “We will.”

  “We been over most of this train careful as fuck all. How are you so sure?”

  “He said they’d be here. I believe him.”

  “And how is he so sure?”

  “What? Are you doubting him? Is that it?”

  “N-No,” said the voice, frightened. “I’m just wonderin’…”

  “Well, wonderin’ is a bad idea with him.”

  “-I-I know. But still…”

  “Listen, if they’re following him there’s only one engine they’d take, that’s why, and it’s this engine,” said the other voice. “So shut up and do your job. Come on. Help me over this gap.”

  Scuffling sounds from the corner of the roof. The boards above shuddered and seemed to bend, sending spirals of dust down among them. There were grunts, and then the weight increased.

  “Here, is this one empty or full?” said the voice.

  “Don’t know. Probably empty. Check it to be sure.�
��

  They looked at one another. Pike leapt to his feet as silently as he could and grabbed the handle of the trapdoor in the roof and held on. There were more footfalls from above, and then grunts as someone pulled.

  “It’s locked.”

  “How do you know?”

  “ ’Cause it ain’t coming up. Must be full, then.”

  “That don’t mean… Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Shh!” said the other voice.

  Drops of sweat ran down Pike’s face as he hung from the ceiling. Connelly moved to look through the cracks in the ceiling and he saw something iron black and shining, something in a man’s hand.

  He waved frantically at Pike. Pike looked at him, confused, and Connelly made the motion of cocking a gun and waved again.

  Pike’s eyes shot wide and he dove away, crashing into the corner.

  “Bastards!” shouted one of the voices. “They’re in there!”

  For a moment there was nothing. Then the boom of a shotgun crashed through the car and a shaft of sunlight ripped into the dark, a gaping hole right where Pike had been hanging. Splinters of wood flew like chaff and Connelly saw Monk roll away, his head dotted with blood. Roosevelt dove for cover as well, his pack falling to the ground.

  “Jesus Christ!” shouted Monk.

  Connelly staggered to the door and began trying to undo the wire they had used to shut it. Harsh pistol snaps rang out and more holes began appearing in the ceiling. Something cracked by Connelly’s head. Roonie cried out, clutching his forearm.

  “Out of the way!” Pike roared. “Out of the fucking way!”

  “Shoot!” Connelly heard himself say. “For God’s sake, someone shoot back!”

  The shotgun roared again, this time clearly aimed at Connelly’s voice. He felt splinters fly and a rush of air behind his back as slugs and buckshot bit through wood. It was like a hot tidal wave had passed him by.

  “The gun!” shouted Hammond. “Rosie, your gun!”

  Roosevelt came to life, crawling forward on the floor and grabbing his satchel, trembling hands digging through it. Someone laughed harshly above. There was a click as some deadly piece of machinery slid home, then a new wave of gunfire. Everyone sought cover again as the shots rent holes in the boxcar and the air. Roosevelt tumbled to the corner again and the gun slipped out and spun across the floor.

  Connelly looked back up and saw the pistol beside Lottie. She gaped at it in terror, uncomprehending.

  “Lottie!” he screamed. “For God’s sake, Lottie, do something!”

  She looked at him, then again at the pistol. She fumbled forward and grabbed it. Connelly’s fingers sought the tangle of wire again.

  “Motherfuckers,” muttered one of the men above. There were so many holes in the roof Connelly could see them clearly now. Pistol round casings rained through the ceiling, twinkling and golden. Lottie stared at the pistol in her hands, then looked up uncertainly.

  “Fuck’s sake, Lottie, shoot! Shoot!” shouted Hammond.

  She shuddered, then lifted the pistol and began firing through the roof, careful, measured shots in spite of her fear, one, two, three. Someone bellowed in pain up above and there was a crash as the men tried to move out of the way and still stay on top.

  The last bit of wire came undone and the car door slid open. Connelly recoiled from the sting of the smoke, then braced himself and vaulted up and out, looking over the top of the car.

  Two men were lying on the roof of the car, one injured and holding the inside of his leg, near the crotch. The injured one held a .38 in his free hand, the other clamped over the spreading stain on his leg. The other man had a shotgun and was trying to load another two shells. He looked up and saw Connelly and tried to snap the shotgun shut and butt him in the face. Connelly reacted faster, reaching forward and grabbing the man’s ankle to throw him from the train. He pulled and felt the man slide forward, the man’s face changing from snarling rage to shock. Connelly’s shoulder strained to the point of popping and he felt Hammond grab his waist to brace him against the door. The corner of the boxcar dug into his belly as he dangled on the side of the car and someone somewhere screamed.

  Connelly gritted his teeth and pulled again, harder. The gunman slid forward more and he shouted, “No! No!” as his fingers tried to find purchase somewhere, the nails digging into the splintered wood as the other hand stupidly held on to the shotgun. The corner of the boxcar bit into Connelly’s ribs, creaking and cracking. The man with the .38 looked at Connelly, his eyes woozy. His hand shook but he lifted the big pistol and waved it at Connelly’s face. Connelly kept pulling, not thinking, and when the gunshots cracked through the sound of the train he was sure he was dead.

  He opened his eyes and saw the side of the man’s belly erupt. Red shining ropes of blood leapt up in the air like fireworks and arced back down. More holes punched up through the roof and Connelly heard Lottie cry out from below. The wounded man shivered and rolled as though trying to hold his entrails in and when his weight changed he tumbled off the roof of the car and out of sight.

  Connelly pulled the remaining gunman toward the edge of the train. His shoulder screamed in raw pain and his teeth hurt from gritting them so hard but still he pulled. The man shrieked, his free foot kicking out at Connelly’s face and striking him once, twice about the ear, opening up the rim of his eye, but Connelly barely felt it and instead waited for the moment when the man’s center of gravity would reach its tipping point and then, and then…

  The man’s mouth opened in dull surprise. The shotgun clattered from his grip and was devoured by the wheels below. Connelly’s arm was made of broken glass and barbed wire but the man was slipping over, screaming madly and slapping at Connelly, but Hammond held fast. The man’s body began to move, pulled by wind and momentum and gravity. Connelly let go and saw the man twist as he dropped. He was struck by the next car and he flipped and tumbled and then there was a hideous flash of bright red blood as the wheels found something finally worth eating.

  Someone screamed. Connelly did not know if it was his own voice or the train’s. Hammond pulled him in and he saw Lottie kneeling on the floor of the car, face to the sky and hands together almost in prayer. The sinister black gun was clutched in her fingers. Drizzled blood ran across one of her cheeks and she was saying, “Blood… There’s blood on me. I think I hit him, Roonie, I think I… I think I…”

  Roonie did not answer. He was squealing and trying to stop the flow from his arm. Monk was holding his face, picking out splinters of shrapnel and wood, wiping away the blood that welled up in his forehead like water from underground springs. Pike stood to his feet and the overwhelming violence of the train car seemed to focus around him.

  “We need to get off!” he shouted. “We have to get off! The train’s already slowing. Whoever sent them knows something’s wrong or is coming to check. We have to get off!”

  Connelly was trying to listen but everything was still screaming. He was, his attacker was, the guns were still going off and the train was still screeching, fingers still clawing over gray wood and the wheels churning below…

  Pain again. His cheek. He looked up and saw Pike had slapped him.

  “We need to get off,” shouted Pike again.

  Connelly nodded. “We need to get off,” he mumbled.

  “Come on.”

  They got to their feet, Hammond and Pike rounding them up. When they judged the train was slow enough they leapt onto the dry ground below, their bags falling around them. It was dangerous, still too fast, but they were forced to risk it. Monk sprained his ankle and Connelly knew he hurt himself falling but he couldn’t tell where because everything hurt, all of him, face and arm and waist and knees.

  “This way,” said Pike’s voice. “This way.”

  The sun was fading. They sped into the forest, limping underneath the leafless trees. Behind them the train was slowing to a stop and men were shouting to one another. The musk of dead leaves and old earth filled Conn
elly’s nostrils. He wiped at his nose and found half his face was slick with blood.

  “Come on,” murmured Hammond. “Come on, Con. Come on.”

  They ran as far in as they could. Soon the sky overhead was choked out by trees and they could see only by the blades of dusklight that rained through the branches. Hammond said something about hearing dogs and Pike rebuked him harshly and dragged Lottie forward.

  “We need to go as far as we can,” he said as they ran. “We have to get away from the rail. There’s bodies back there and they cause a fuss, yes sir, they do. I don’t like it but I like not being one of them even more, and I don’t plan to join them, so come on.”

  Hours passed. Maybe days. Connelly lurched from tree to tree. Soon he saw the shattered moon glaring through the woven branches. Hidden watchers observed their ragtag procession from the dead canopy above and made comment or warning. Soon the forest was alive with hoots and calls, snaps and whistles. The song spread through the treetops like wildfire. The sounds mixed together in Connelly’s head and he turned aside to vomit beside a tree. The others watched him retch with worried faces. He said nothing as he rejoined them.

  “… concussion, probably,” said Lottie. “The guy nearly kicked his head off.”

  “What?” said Connelly, slurred. “What was… What was that?”

  “Hush,” said Lottie. “Just hush.”

  They found an old stream in the woods, no more than a trickle, but it had eroded through enough soil that they could use it as shelter. They camped on its banks and drank their fill but they had no food to eat and Pike would not risk a fire.

  “The woods may be crawling with men for all we know,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll give them any signals we’re over here, no thanks.”

  “What in the hell makes you say that?” said Monk.

  “Because that, back there, was a trap. Pure and simple,” said Pike, slapping his arms to stay warm.

  They looked at each other.

  “Set by who?” said Hammond.

  Pike thought, then looked at Connelly, lying barely conscious on the riverbank.

  “We’ll discuss this when… Well. We’ll discuss this when we can all discuss this,” he said. “Get some rest.”