Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  Red eyes and fetid breath breached the dark cloud enveloping him. “Touch it and I’ll rip out yur God-damned throat.”

  “Fuck you,” Vincent forced through the yegg’s squeezing fingers, his hand closing over the weapon’s haft. He felt himself lifted off the ground by the other’s iron grip. Jake shook him as if he were little more than a rat in a terrier’s mouth. The weapon fell from useless fingers. He fought for one final breath, managing one last spit in the foreman’s face.

  “That’s m’boy,” Jake laughed. “That’s what I was look’n for. You want her? Go git her.”

  The next moment found him flying over the heads of the other combatants. He barely missed a tree trunk. The ground’s impact added a few more bruises but otherwise jarred his senses back into some semblance of order. He rolled to one side an instant ahead of his own lining rod impaling him.

  Jake’s guffaw followed. “You’ll spend your honeymoon in Detroit if you ain’t quick, boy.”

  He stared at the steel shaft, and back toward the battle. The yegg were leaving in a hurry despite having overwhelmed the knights. Hobos gaped at experiencing a swift retreat instead of certain death.

  Go get her. He found his feet and cane, and focused on Jake’s last directive. His future father-in-law knew this wasn’t where the last fight would take place. Thin black plumes atop the hill told him the baron’s diesel was already on the way down.

  He raised his voice. “Tommy! Get’em back. Forget this. The train’s on its way.”

  There was no time to wait for replies. Was there even time at all? He didn’t see the diesel, but he could hear it rumbling along the curve heading for the power plant. The yegg noticed the sound too, and hastened to meet the engine.

  Vincent ran across the yard, aiming for the southwest side of the plant where he’d earlier laid tracks. Two spurs away would be the Detroit line and the baron’s only hope of refuge. Lungs burning and muscles cramping, he stumbled and sprinted in gasping bursts over the rails. He had Dad’s job to finish.

  Sounds of fighting faded, replaced by his laboring breaths. His legs went out from under him courtesy of a loose tie. He scraped across sooty gravel between the roadbeds. Cursing, Vincent forced himself upright. New desperation energized him at the sight of the green diesel coursing its way through the yard. The engine, with two private cars in tow, moved in a wide semi-circle to the north. A storm of yegg escorted the train, throwing back any hobo daring to approach.

  There were nightmares where you couldn’t run fast enough. This was one of them. The diesel’s blunt prow was already turning southward by the time he arrived at the final line of tank cars. He thought of his father and imagined Samantha’s fading prayers for rescue. Freedom pressed against the pipes, her eyes transfixed on the last chance left to stop a machine she couldn’t control. He ran. Ran hard.

  The sight of a big Berkshire engine sitting on bright rails came and went. He concentrated on the two sets of track ahead. Thunder grew behind him. One pair of rails curved off. Perhaps it was instinct telling him to run his lining rod along the rail. The ring of steel on steel raced up his arm, telling him this line headed to Cleveland. The next spur said something else. Here was the hollow in Dad’s eyes. The rusting metal and gnarled ties ran along a roadbed that knew it was damned. Taylorism waited at the other end with soulless assembly lines and corporate exploitation. Even the trees extending along the line looked wilted and spiritless.

  He spun to face the bright yellow orb bearing down on him. The diesel’s vents spewed foul gasses. Yegg scrabbled into open coach windows. The train rocked back and forth, the hybrid clinging to the rails in a throb of acceleration. Ballast leaped along the roadbed in front of the beast.

  Vincent stood his ground, feeling his father’s spirit standing there with him, Dad’s fingers folded over his on the lining rod.

  The diesel’s air horn shrieked as if suddenly realizing his intentions.

  The rod’s wedge bit deep into the roadbed beneath the right rail. What came back up the steel was something vile, diving into the darkest hate-filled memories he possessed. He’d thought losing Katy was the worst thing coiled up inside him. The next moment proved otherwise.

  It wasn’t Katy. This was Mom after the nightlong search for his sister proved both fruitless and exhausting. What hit him included the look on her face every anniversary thereafter, along with the venom spat from drawn-back lips. Loss congealed into the kind of bitter anger strong enough to turn a mother against her only son.

  Murderer.

  The steel rail groaned as the lining rod tore it free from the ties.

  Monster.

  Wood cracked and shattered.

  No son of mine.

  Spikes flew off their planks.

  I wish you hadn’t come back either.

  Hot tears flowed from Vincent’s face, blurring his vision of the onrushing diesel. The tracks cried out for him. Steel rails lifted from the roadbed in angry twists. They sent a ripple of erupting spikes and warped metal toward the locomotive. The diesel plowed into the maelstrom like a broken zipper, throwing up a thundering wall of splintered wood and writhing steel.

  He threw himself to the left of the oncoming wreck. The locomotive buckled in an explosion of flying metal panels and bursting pipes. Its containment system ruptured. Hot blasts of steam drowned out the screaming horn.

  The doomed machine drove itself into the ground. A tsunami of earth and debris engulfed him. Rusted rail writhed and screeched over his head, freezing itself in a tortured loop. The two private cars slammed into the disintegrating engine’s remains. The coaches folded like slow-motion accordions, momentum rolling the second car sideways up over the first. Pinned beneath broken ties, Vincent could only watch helplessly and pray Samantha survived.

  A terrible silence ensued. Roiling steam rolled from burst pipes toward him. Puffy clouds coalesced into substantial arms. Freedom embraced him, her face moist against his cheeks. “See? You rescued me after all.”

  “What about Samantha?”

  “Who cares about her? I’ll go find King Willy and get you free.”

  “I love her. We’re going to get married.”

  The steam child lost her shape for a moment. Freedom gathered herself, her gray eyes widening. “I’ll…go get help.”

  “Help her, damn it!” he shouted as Freedom jetted off.

  The steam cleared quickly enough to leave that job to him, assuming he wriggled himself free. Nothing felt broken. He glanced up at the bent steel suspended over his head. A little lower and he wouldn’t have had a head. What was left of the diesel looked to have made its own grave. The smashed frame lay half-buried and oozing fuel into the gouge it created. The smell of oil and pulverized ballast choked the air, but the real threat crawled out from broken coach windows. Men in blue dungarees pulled each other onto the car’s side, some of the workers exhibiting agitated swirls of black vapors.

  Reminding himself that Samantha was a tough girl even out of her yegg form, he hoped for the best and continued to struggle against the heap keeping him pinned. He couldn’t even roll over and sit up to attack the pile.

  The yegg were too busy extricating themselves to see him, but those standing on top of the tipped cars took notice when a string of hobos ran up alongside the tracks. The two groups exchanged glares. Nobody seemed eager to resume the fight. The knights gave the coaches a wide berth, many of Willy’s men showing marks from the switch house fight.

  Long Tommy was the first to arrive at his side. “Your sister sends her regards. Let’s get you out of this.”

  “Much appreciated,” Vincent replied. The hobos removed debris at a hurried pace, their eyes on the yegg lining the cars behind them. His rescuers carefully pulled him free, supporting his shoulders until he found strength in his numbed legs.

  “Truce is running thin,” Tommy warned, gesturing to where workers dropped to the ground in a defensive ring around the first coach. Several wore the distinctive blue uniforms of Erie’s ra
ilroad police. They also held rifles.

  “I only want two people,” Vincent said, having his fill of blood. Killing the baron wouldn’t fill the hole in his life where Dad used to be. Van Erie’s day would come, and God knew what kind of train would be picking that wretch’s soul up when it did. “The rest can start walking for Detroit while those tracks last.”

  “We don’t exactly have the upper hand, here,” Tommy pointed out. “Most of the boys are up with King Willy. It’ll be a spell before they get here. I’ve got a couple dozen, and maybe two rifles among us.”

  “Baron doesn’t know that, does he?”

  Tommy grinned. “Truth be told. You want to talk, you’d best lay the blarney on thick.”

  “Bullshit’s my middle name,” he returned with a smirk, not wanting to dwell on how close to the mark that statement was. Didn’t matter. Once he got Samantha next to him, he could outshine anybody. His confidence bandaged itself enough to present a poker face. He strode toward the yegg line. “I’m here to offer a deal. Get the baron out here if he’s in one piece. Have him bring his daughter and the conductor.”

  “Close enough, bub,” a yard bull snorted. The cop gestured to a companion who ran up to one of the coach windows and bent down in conversation.

  The flipped car’s rear door flew off its hinges in a crash of splintered wood and glass. Jake’s massive figure squeezed out of the crosswise exit, a brawler’s grin pasted on his stubby jaw. “Yeah, I bet you got a deal. I got one too. You’re coming with us.”

  The supervisor guided the next passenger through the tricky passage with an uncharacteristic gentleness. It was Samantha, dressed in business attire, her gray skirt slit up the side to expose a bruised leg. Wincing, she let her actual father lift her to the ground. She regarded Vincent with a short-lived smile that told him his troubles were not over.

  The baron emerged next, his long black coat making him appear like some monstrous bat in muttonchops. Bram Van Erie hopped to the earth next to his foreman, a pistol revealed in a shoulder holster. He set his arms on his hips. “I will be making the propositions here. You, Mr. Maloney, will be joining me on our trek to Detroit. Mr. Blake, show him why.”

  Jake sauntered over to the exit and jerked Timepiece out by his shoulder, banging the conductor’s head against the doorframe in the process. The yegg leader let Timepiece lie where he fell. Jake folded his arms and threw another of his big smiles in Vincent’s direction.

  Vincent felt Long Tommy’s hand on his shoulder, restraining him from rushing forward. “Timepiece! You okay?”

  “Do I look it?” the conductor replied with a groan, rising stiffly. He looked about to swing at Jake.

  “Careful,” the baron warned. The pistol Vincent glimpsed earlier was now in his hand, and aimed at Timepiece’s throat. “I’m not looking to worsen my relations with your precious union, but these are indeed trying times.” Bram’s glare centered on Vincent. “I suggest you make them less trying. Step over here. Detroit will require a new set of tracks when I’m ready to return.”

  “Never,” Freedom’s voice hissed overhead.

  A blast of hot steam swept over everyone. Seeing nothing but roiling gray in front of him, Vincent barged past the shouts and shapes until he saw the two silhouettes that mattered. “Go!” he yelled, propelling Timepiece away from his captors.

  He seized Samantha’s arm. The baron grabbed her around the waist in turn. A sharp popping sound followed. Vincent stepped back, staring at the blood welling from an unresponsive left arm.

  “No!” The exclamation came from both Samantha and Freedom in horrified unison. Samantha wrenched free from her father’s grip and pressed a hand over Vincent’s upper arm.

  “That’s enough from you too,” Bram spat, pushing her aside.

  The baron reeled from Samantha’s vicious slap, her nails raking his face. “I’m never going with you! I’d rather die than be your daughter.” She turned to Vincent. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

  Bram wiped crimson from his scored cheeks, then raised his pistol again. “So help me, daughter, if you take another step…”

  Vincent gulped back his pain. He stepped between Samantha and the baron. “Go rot in Detroit. Samantha isn’t your daughter, and we’re staying here. You want to shoot the only success you’ve ever had, you’ll go through me to do it.”

  A new voice broke into the drama. “Brother, don’t.”

  King Willy stepped forward, his battered gambler’s outfit traded for that fancy suit Vincent had seen in his tent when they first met. Behind him gathered enough knights to easily turn the tide. “Your wife didn’t die for this.”

  “No, William,” Bram responded through clenched teeth. “She died giving the Erie name a lasting future. Something you couldn’t provide.” His voice lowered. “Apparently, neither could I.” The pistol’s hammer cocked back.

  Jake’s laugh froze everyone with its jarring impropriety. The large man walked up to the two of them as if sharing a joke.

  Vincent tensed, seeing black tendrils swirling in Jake’s eyes.

  The foreman clapped a heavy hand on Bram’s shoulder. “Like the man said, Boss. She ain’t yur daughter. She’s my Sammy, and you ain’t gonna hurt her.”

  The baron whirled too late to face the blossoming nightmare. Darkness enfolded him, leaving only screams and bloody spatters in its wake.

  Holding his arm, Vincent could only stare into the yegg’s red eyes and wait. Even his sister, hovering overhead with traces of lightning in her eyes, wouldn’t be able to stop those dripping talons in time.

  Jake blew out a sour breath, a foot appearing from the dissipating swirls to kick the ravaged corpse at his feet. He smirked at his daughter. “Your man keeps lose’n this.” He tossed Vincent’s cane to her and finished his transformation back into a hulking supervisor. His guttural voice rose to address the stunned workers. “Well, boys, we got ourselves a long walk to Detroit. Let’s git to it.”

  Samantha stepped away from Vincent. “Father, no. Stay here. If I found a way, you can too.”

  Jake grinned at her, his broad arm sweeping out to encompass King Willy and the rest. “Maybe later, Sammy.” He retrieved a yellow-jeweled ring from a mangled hand and slid it on her index finger. “Keep it. I’ll dice up ol’ Willy nice and sweet for ya.” He winked at Vincent. “Call it a wedding present.”

  Vincent ignored his throbbing arm. He watched with dread as Samantha raised her adorned hand. Slowly, and with the utmost contempt written on her narrow face, she removed the ring. Samantha tossed it to King Willy. “Keep it. I’ve better.” She smiled toward Vincent.

  Her father wrapped a big arm around her shoulder. “That’s m’girl.” Jake turned to Vincent, darkness creeping back into his eyes. “Like I said before. You gonna take care of her.”

  “Damn right I am,” Vincent swore.

  Epilogue

  Vincent forced a swallow down a dry throat, cursing the weakness in his legs and gut. He’d faced down yegg and not felt this scared. There were a thousand ways this could go wrong. Gripping his cane, he forced a worn shoe forward onto the dusty road. He wondered how different he looked, despite the same jeans and black T-shirt he’d worn those many months earlier. Seemed like years. So much had changed. He took another step, hearing his rasping breath accompanying the crunch of gravel.

  His motorcycle sat where he’d left it, though now a green canvas tarp covered the old Indian bike. The barn in back was now just a pile of wood and shingles. Well, the roof had been threatening to give in for some time. Trees behind the crumpled barn displayed the early traces of autumn. He crossed over to the driveway. Was she even home? Is she even alive?

  The creak of an opening screen door quieted his worst fear, and gave substance to the rest. Frayed jeans and an old brown plaid shirt hung from her frame, though the blue slippers looked new. Gray hair fell across her shoulders in unkempt swirls. Frail eyes stared out from truths Dad never brought back.

  Vincent licked his lips. “Mom.”


  Her mouth worked, as if chewing on thoughts best left unsaid. She glanced over at the bike, then at him. Her words were as listless as her expression. “Where were you?”

  He shrugged. “Down those tracks looking for Katy. I found her, Mom. She’s alive.”

  Color returned to her voice. “Ain’t no tracks.” She turned.

  “Look out in the field, Mom. It’s not much of an engine, but you can see the steam rising.” He held his breath, feeling this one chance slip away.

  It seemed like an eternity before she paused, her hand outstretched for the door handle. Brow wrinkling, she looked over a shoulder. “That really you, Vinny?”

  Stunned, he let the carefully prepared explanations fall to the ground with his jaw. Vinny. Christ, she hadn’t called him that in years. A younger version of himself answered, “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Let’s go see this track.”

  Something in the timbre of her voice chilled him as if she spoke from inside a dream. He took her hand just the same. “Mom, it’s really me. I came back.”

  She stared passed him across the field. “Nobody comes back. Had the police looking for days. Just like Katy. Your father out there too?”

  “No, Mom. Just Katy, and someone else I’d like you to meet. I’m married. You’ve two daughters now. Her name’s Samantha, though she prefers to be called Sammy.”

  “Married?” She pulled away, her gaze running up and down him in a confused manner. The hand he’d held now rested over his heart. “Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “Oh sweet Jesus.” Her arms wrapped around him in a shaking embrace. His mother said nothing more, but the tears welling from her eyes said more than he could bear.

  “I’m alive,” he choked out, returning her hug. “You thought I died?”

  “It’s what I deserved,” she said between sniffs. “I kept saying I wanted you dead. Then the field took you. Just like Katy. Took you away as God’s punishment for what I said.”