Knight's Late Train

by Gordon A. Kessler

  This place was truly starting to creep me out.

  I asked, “Yeah, what do you know?”

  “I’m the last one to speak with Doc and Specks. Doc radioed in their location about an hour before Specks gave the last transmission. Doc sounded normal to me. Said the snow had started heavy and they were pushing it east from Rangely. Then Specks came on fifty minutes later and said Doc got a cell phone call and seemed to have gone nuts. He was talking about dog catching another train. Haven’t heard a thing from either one, since. That was seven days ago.”

  “What’s ‘dog catching’ mean?”

  Chick said, “Generally, it’s when a fresh train crew, usually an engineer and conductor, go out to relieve another crew that’s DOL — dead on the law. That means they’ve exceeded their Federally-allowed hours of service, and they can’t work any longer or go any farther operating any Federally-monitor equipment until they’ve rested according to Federal guidelines — law.”

  “Have any ideas where they could be?”

  “Not a one. I do know they sure got a ton of work to do. That weather set in faster than anybody’d expected, and then a second front hit and stalled out on top of everything west to Salt Lake City. We’ve got five stranded trains between here and Gold Miner’s Bend; two are loaded ore trains and two loaded mixed manifest.”

  “One of the stranded ore trains is the Mother Lode Express?”

  “Yeah.” Chic nodded. “And that’s the one Specks said Doc wanted to dog catch.”

  This whole thing bothered me. I was overlooking something, or pertinent information was passing me by. I scanned the room to find an impetus to push my analytical mind out of the rut — out of the paradigm box — to key my imagination.

  I gazed at the framed photos on the wall; pictures of old railroaders, of locomotives, of freight cars.

  “What’s the fifth train?”

  “It’s just a local. Goes from Rangely to a small ski resort community named Fool’s Rush. Mostly carries dry goods and supplies, especially during ski season — when the trucks have a hard time gettin’ through.”

  “Anything unusual happen around here lately — out of the ordinary?” My gaze landed on the photo of a large tanker freight car. “Derailments? Missing material?”

  “Nothing,” Big Deal interrupted, again. “What are you, some kind of detective? You’re not the police. You’re an ex-con.” He glanced at Chic. “Don’t answer any more of his questions.”

  Chic acted as though he didn’t hear him — seeming to have an epiphany as he glanced at the same wall-hanging photo I was viewing. “The missing cars!”

  “Missing freight cars?” I asked.

  “Shut up!” Big Deal said, “This man’s a criminal. He’s up to no good, and so’s his father.”

  “Yes,” Chic said. “We lose freight cars all the time. Shit happens. Cars get left on sidings by mistake, get switched into industry tracks that they’re not supposed to go to. Their numbers get mixed up. Cars get lost all the time. But they usually turn up sooner more often than later.”

  “So, what’s so unusual?”

  “These missing cars are loaded with hazmat.”

  “Why’s that different,” I asked.

  “Hazmat? All railroad movement is regulated by the government, but hazardous material is especially scrutinized due to broader safety concerns. It won’t be but the blink of an eye after this blizzard before you see the Feds running around here thick as flies at a dead possum’s funeral. You just don’t lose hazmat cars — not even for a minute.”

  “So what sense does that and dog-catching a copper ore train make?”

  “Doesn’t make any sense. We can’t get to any of those trains in this kind of weather. In emergencies like these, we just outlaw ‘em. You know, try to sneak the train crews in no matter what their hours-of-service are — don’t matter twelve hours or twelve days. The Feds generally look the other way. All those trains and even Ol’ Windy are way over their time already — went dead on the law days ago. We don’t even know where Mother is.”

  “You can’t find the ore train?”

  “Nope. Won’t talk to us, no GPS on the damn thing, yet. Don’t have a clue where she is. With half our signals and comm lines out as well as dual control switches all the way from the Colorado line in, we can’t tell where the hell they are until they report in or someone finds them by air. The storm’s too strong for air travel, right now. Weather service doesn’t expect any change for the better for at least another twenty-four hours. The state and the National Guard won’t send their people out in that direction until after that.”

  “I’ll fly out now and report back what I find.”

  “We’ll fly out there,” Rillie said and took my arm.

  Chic said, “You must be an exceptionally talented pilot or extremely crazy.” He smiled. “I’m guessing a little of both.”

  Big Deal was back. He glanced at the man still lying unconscious in the middle of the floor, nose bleeding and a knot swelling up on the back of his head. “You two aren’t going anywhere. You’ve assaulted an officer of the law.”

  I found a half-full mug of cold coffee on Chic’s desk and stepped over to the railroad dick. “That should be up to Officer Dye.” I threw the coffee on the side of his face, and he instantly reacted, squinting, raising his head and trying to shake off the cobwebs.

  I knelt beside him. “You want us arrested, Dye?”

  The stocky man sat up and shook his head again. He frowned and rubbed his crown.

  I was pretty sure he’d be the type who hadn’t had an ass-whipping since sixth grade — he’d rather get even in a less public way. I told him, “We won’t say anything if you won’t.”

  His focus seemed to return. If his eyes could’ve burned a hole through me, I would have been smoking like a smudge pot.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want them held. I’m not arresting them.” He turned to Big Deal. “And you’re going to keep your mouth shut, or I’ll tell everybody about Sadie being your own aunt.”

  Rillie held her mouth with both hands, but a laugh pushed through.

  Chic blurted out, “Then it’s true? The Big Deal Dill Jones is married to his own aunt?”

  Big Deal was stifled, his jaw dropping, wanting to speak, but his brain not making a connection.

  I was sure my eyes were as big as silver dollars. “Ho-lee shit,” I said under my breath. I was really wanting to get out of this madhouse as quickly as my feet and the rotary wings outside would let me. But I needed more information.

  “I’ll catch up with you later, Knight,” Officer Dye grunted. He rolled to his side and tried to find his feet. The other man and two women who’d kept out of the way during our little battle went to Dye to help him. He pushed them away, stumbled, then gave in and welcomed their assistance. They ushered him to a nearby chair.

  I smiled at him and went back to Rillie at Chic’s desk.

  Big Deal said, “Not good enough for Big Deal. Big Deal’s had enough. Big Deal was a Golden Gloves boxer, a college champion wrestler and pitcher. Dye’s nothing compared to Big Deal.”

  “Strike two,” I told him. Strike one was pulling the gun on me.

  Fast and quick are two very different things to me. Fast takes stamina; quick is near impossible speed in short bursts. I’d been told I’m both.

  * * *

  It’s preferential to be the one choosing when to have a confrontation, and I decide there’s no better time than the present. We face off three feet from each other.

  Big Deal says, “Don’t push your luck, Knight. Big Deal’s fast and deadly. Big Deal’s trained with SEALs.”

  I’ve never liked braggarts of any kind, but especially the ones with unwarranted boasts and empty threats. I’d trained with SEALs and about every other Special Forces counterpart in the Free World — as well as a good part of the not-so-Free World. Most are great guys and gals. This prick isn’t.

  “Big Deal SEAL?” I ask. “You mean like you can bala
nce a beach ball on your nose?” There I went with the circus reference, again. Must have been the atmosphere these clowns created. I tell him, mocking his third person, “Well, you’re a big dud to E Z — a no deal, a pompous little deal, and E Z’s about to make you a done deal.”

  I reach quickly and twist his nose.

  He tries to block, but way too late, and my hand is back at my side before he reacts.

  He frowns. “What the…?”

  With one foot, I raise his left pant leg high enough to shove his sock down to the top of his loafer with my boot toe, and I’m flat-footed before he knows it.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you,” he says and raises the disheveled foot to pull his sock back up.

  Rillie is chuckling. Chic is rolling his eyes. Even Dye shakes his head.

  While his left foot’s in the air, I do the same to his right sock.

  “What are you…?”

  He adjusts his right sock, his jaw clenching.

  While he’s on one leg, I poke him in his glaring eyes with my fingers, like Moe, and I give him a Curly chuckle.

  He stumbles back and rubs his eyes. “You’re mental.”

  I step up and slap his forehead with the heel of my hand.

  He tumbles over the corner of his desk, but catches himself before he falls flat.

  I ask, “Want more?”

  “Screw you,” he blurts, stepping out from behind his desk, and gets into the pugilist’s on guard position. “Fight like a man!”

  I strike, slapping his face, and my hand’s back at my side before he swats at it.

  He shakes it off. “Asshole!”

  “Name calling?” I tongue cluck at him. “Stinky feet.”

  “Listen you prick,” he says.

  I strike again, my hand going past the side of his face this time, and I yank hard on his left earlobe. “You listen, pee-pee pants.”

  His block misses again. But he comes back and takes a wide swing at me.

  I duck, grab his arm, and spin him around so that his back is to me. After giving him a reach around, I unbuckle his belt and yank his pants down to his ankles in an instant.

  Then, I step back. “Didn’t your mama tell you to always put on clean underwear, poopy head?”

  He turns, face as red as a tomato. In annoyance, his first step becomes an awkward lunge, and he falls at my feet.

  If Rillie wasn’t watching, I might have pissed on his head.

  When he grabs at my ankles, I hop and land, my feet atop his hands.

  “Now what, Little Deal?”

  He’s struggling. He’s wearing stained white boxers with little hearts and sheep on them.

  “That’s got to be embarrassing. Can’t run crying to your wife this way — can you, aunt bugger?” I think I’m rather clever. I hear some chuckles from the onlookers, and I’m pleased they get my double entendre.

  He’s so frustrated, he’s near tears. “She’s my aunt by marriage!”

  I don’t take the time to figure out how that works. “Aunt-wife — by marriage?” I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to play with you anymore.” To Chic, I said, “I’m hoping we’ll be back by early evening with Doc and Specks. Will you still be here?”

  “Me? Oh, yeah. Storm’s got us locked up tighter than a bull’s ass at fly time. None of us are going anyplace until the roads open back up. We’ve already been here for three days. Second and third shift can’t come in, and we can’t leave.” He looked at Big Deal and Officer Dye. “We’ll all be here. Just not sure we’ll all still be alive.”

  Chapter 5

  Snowblower Down

  3:00 PM MST

  We took off west from Slaughterhouse Yards before it got any uglier and battled the same gusty, fifty-knot crosswind as before in the Bell helicopter.

  All we had to go on was that my father and Specks had entered dark territory coming back toward Slaughterhouse, and no one had reported hearing from them since. I figured we’d follow the rail west and pass through dark territory to its western limit. If we hadn’t found the missing snowblower by then, we’d return the same route while doing a more careful and extensive search on the way in. Surely they wouldn’t be hard to find — after all, it was a railroad-track-confined locomotive consist we were looking for.

  In ten miles, while scanning what little I could see in the storm, I spotted something that appeared to be a derelict structure through Rillie’s floor window.

  “What’s that?” I asked and pointed.

  Rillie had brought enough food for several meals, and she was taking out a couple of sandwiches and juice for our lunch on the go. She glanced about.

  “You handled yourself remarkably well back there.”

  She was off the subject, her mind seeming to wander.

  “There,” I said and pointed down at her floor window.

  “I don’t see anything.” She handed me a bottle of orange juice. “You know, when your daddy told me all those stories about you, I used to kind of fantasize. There just aren’t too many heroes out there in the real world, anymore. I was sure you couldn’t be as great as what Doc told me and what I imagined.”

  A bit frustrated, I said, “Looks like a tower of some kind lying in the snow.”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “Anyway, I was wrong. Back there at Slaughterhouse, you proved to be everything your daddy said and I’d imagined — and more.”

  She seemed infatuated. I didn’t need that right now. At another time, I would have welcomed it. I quit listening to her and flew in a slow circle.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “It’s not them.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not normal, either.”

  We came in low. “It is a tower.” I noticed the large ball-and-dish-like receivers lying at the end of the steel-beam structure. “A microwave tower.”

  “Must have blown over in the storm.”

  “Odd,” I said. “They’ve had higher winds than this, up here. These towers are made to resist hurricane forces.”

  “Probably old. Finally quit resisting,” she said and handed me a ham sandwich.

  We got back on our course, but I still wasn’t convinced. These towers don’t just fall.

  When I noticed a second tower down in another fifty miles, I knew it wasn’t normal. But I didn’t mention it to Rillie.

  At about ninety miles out, we entered what was considered dark territory for the WCE railroad. The route snaked through valleys, between mountains and alongside iced-over streams. Visibility was poor but good enough to make out the ground and rail below us. The storm had pretty much blown itself out of snow and any sort of moisture, but the strong and gusty crosswind was still a bit hairy to fly through. I hated to admit it, but if the wind got any worse, we’d have to set down and wait until it let up. I hoped the return trip would be an easier run — especially if we’d found my father.

  In another ten miles, Rillie spotted something.

  “There! On the left,” she said.

  We came in low, banked for a better view and passed over what appeared to be the burnt-out hulks of three linked locomotives and one tanker freight car. Derailed a hundred feet from the burnt-up tanker were another ten that appeared relatively undamaged.

  Rillie said, “It’s them! It’s Ol’ Wendy and her remotes.”

  I was slightly relieved, but not too keen on the locos’ conditions. Then I noticed a long string of cars on a set out track about 500 yards away, so I turned the chopper toward them.

  She asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I want to check those cars out.”

  “Just set outs. They’re probably being stored there.”

  “But they look like ore hoppers.” I asked, “You think they could be from the Mother Lode Express?”

  “Could be, but why does that matter?”

  We flew in close. I counted over three-dozen, open-top-hopper cars.

  “It just seems odd,” I said. “Do you think Doc and Specks ran into the ore train or a hazmat?”
>
  “Ore trains don’t pull hazmat. Hazmat trains don’t generally pull ore cars.”

  I let it go, and we set down about fifty yards out on the first level but snow-covered ground I could find. Drifts were high, but the wind had cleared a significant portion of the tracks.

  We bundled up and stepped out into an atmosphere that could have as easily been on an alien planet. The cold, frozen-snow-filled wind felt like fire on my eyes, nose and mouth and any other flesh exposed for even a second.

  Once inside the wreckage, even with the windows knocked out, we found some relief from the weather. But a careful inspection revealed little — no bodies, no signs of life. Both a good and bad indication.

  Scanning the inside the snowblower cab, Rillie said, “With the wrecked locomotives derailed and fouling the main line, and that hazmat tanker all blown to hell, it looks like they ran smack into the local manifest train. Doc and Specks must have jumped before the collision then climbed aboard to ride back. I’ll bet they’re okay.”

  “This was the manifest train? There are ten more tankers derailed to the west.”

  “Manifest trains carry mixed freight. Especially through this passage, sometimes a considerable portion are tankers carrying LP gas or other fuels.”

  I’m no railroader, but I’m naturally skeptical. “Hmmm.”

  A moment later, I noticed some fresh scratches on the snowblower’s control stand. It was a message that seemed to confirm Rillie’s supposition. Scraped into the paint in six-inch letters, it simply said, “We’re OK!”

  Obviously, the message was meant for any rescuers who might come across the wreckage before my father and Specks were reported found.

  It just didn’t look right. “Is it possible they did this on purpose? Could they have purposely rammed the train?”

  “That’s crazy. They’re lucky they weren’t killed,” Rillie said. “Looks to me like we need to take care of ourselves and get back as soon as we can before they have to send out people to rescue the rescuers.”