Cris waved his hands over the can to flush away the angry flies, then began to gingerly pick through the refuse.
He quickly found one of yesterday's train line-up carbons on top. He began to gather up the three-page report, careful not to smudge the sheets as he folded them into an old newspaper he also found in the trash. After some more digging, farther down in the second drum he found the consist sheets. Cris included them in his newspaper package and made his way back to the Blazer, where Buddy and Stacy were waiting.
"Let's go over there," he said, pointing to a small park across the street. They walked to the nearest shaded picnic table, then Cris unfolded the newspaper and began to sort the track line-up carbons from the consist sheets.
"What the hell's all that?" Buddy asked, looking at the sheets.
"Each day, the Trainmaster gets a train line-up, which lists all the trains scheduled to come through the yard in that twenty-four-hour period. That's these sheets up here. He also gets 'consist' sheets, detailing what cars are on each train, and what cars need to be switched in his yard, or held for transfer to other trains. There are always five copies of everything: one for the Yardmaster, one for the Trainmaster, and one for the Engine Foreman; the extra copies are for us." He smiled, and finished spreading them out on the picnic table. First he studied the train line-up and thinned out the choices. He began by eliminating the "locals," trains that made multiple stops.
"A seasoned hobo will rarely ride a local," he explained. "All the stops increase his chances of getting busted by some nosy cinder bull. Plus, locals are slow, and often have to 'go in the hole' to let a 'priority train' pass. You can bet Kincaid and his band of thugs won't be on a local."
Finally, Cris ended up with three sheets: one for manifest trains, with many different types of cars and products, all headed to the same destination; one for unit trains carrying just one type of cargo; and one for passenger trains. He spread them out and started studying them.
"Okay, according to the slip we found in the bottom of the boat, the next place they said they would go is Grandview, on the Kansas City Southern Line. Grandview is up in Colorado, just across the Continental Divide. So if Buddy is right and this slip we found is bullshit, then we got three choices. Either they took this grain unit train to Sheriland, Louisiana, or they went south on this eight-o'clock manifest train to New Orleans. It left forty minutes after the train they arrived on hit the yard. They woulda just had time to catch itThe third choice is this 'varnish' leaving for Portsmouth, at six P. M., in which case maybe they're still here."
"This what?" Stacy asked.
"Varnish. It's an old-time rail term for a passenger train. But for Kincaid, riding varnish is both good and bad. It's good because it's fast and won't get sided, but it's hard to catch out on a passenger train. They don't pull many cars, so they don't slow much on a grade. They're also damned uncomfortable. You have to ride the 'blind'--that's a flexible piece of metal between the coaches, on either side of the coupling unit. Since there are almost forty men and women with Kincaid, I doubt they'll be 'blinding.' " He hesitated for a minute as a wave of nausea hit him, followed by such trembling weakness in his arms and legs that he had to sit down. "I need something to eat," he finally said. "I feel shitty."
"I saw a McDonald's on the way into town," Stacy said.
"Jesus, a McDonald's?" Buddy grumbled, "Let's just skip eating and go right to the Maalox."
"Gee, Buddy, I'm so sorry. Why don't ya gimme your cellphone and I'll make us reservations at Spago," Stacy cracked.
The air conditioner was broken, so they sat outside McDonald's on the deck under the colorful umbrellas. While sweat collected under their arms and ran in rivulets from their hairlines, they started breakfast.
Cris took two bites of his Chicken McNugget, excused himself, then went into the men's room and threw up. "Shit," he said to himself as he splashed water on his face and looked up at his scary reflection in the mirror. His eyes seemed to have receded deeper into his face. His cheekbones jutted. Then his stomach rolled, churned, and erupted. He spewed a mouthful of bile into the sink that was the color and consistency of 3-In-One Oil. "Fuck," he whispered softly. He gulped two handfuls of tap water, then returned to the table.
Sugar Shack Jungle was all the way down by the tributary that fed Eagle Lake on the northwest side of Fort Worth. The jungle was nestled into the elbow of the river and took up over three acres. It was out of sight of but near the SP track heading out of Fort Worth. Nearby was a two-mile stretch of track that had a two-percent grade and slowed most hundred-car freights to less than five miles an hour, making them easy to hop. Sugar Shack Jungle contained hundreds of hobos squatting in every imaginable kind of dwelling. It was the final parking place for half a dozen rusting cars that now served as upscale housing for the families that owned them. A graveyard of old tires and oil drums performed every imaginable task, from tire-swings for children to fire-pits and structural supports. The "houses," like the residents who lived there, were the unwanted refuse of a steel-and-glass world that had no further use for them. Old wood cartons and scrounged or stolen lumber made up house sidings; corrugated tin created patches of shade; old, sagging chairs and three-legged tables leaned precariously on makeshift supports like wounded veterans. What really defined the place was the eyes of the people. As Cris led Stacy and Buddy into the camp, the eyes of the inhabitants tracked them like enemy radar ... eyes vacant of emotion, like licked stones or holes bored in an empty box.
"I feel like the last piece of cake at a Weight Watchers party," Stacy said softly, as they stood on the edge of the camp and felt the silent, angry appraisals.
"Grab a seat over there," Cris said. "Don't look at anyone directly, or lock eyes. Just watch the river." He left them and moved across the jungle, walking slowly, looking at the makeshift houses. He didn't belong here anymore, and the unfriendly stares were like silent curses, unmistakable in their hostility. Had Cris entered this camp a few weeks ago as Lucky, a long-haired, dirty man with garbage-bagged feet, he would not have merited a second glance. In his expensive loafers, new clothes, and recent dental work, he was now a class enemy, a representative of a world that first mandated their failure and then engineered their exile.
He had just about decided his quest was hopeless when he saw the old hobo poet Steam Train Jack. He was flat on his back near the river, looking like a pile of discarded clothes from the Goodwill. His snow-white beard and huge girth made him hard to mistake. He had an old, river-soaked neckerchief across his forehead cooling his eyes. Cris moved over and sat near him. He could tell the old man knew he was there, but Jack didn't move or take the kerchief off his face.
44 41 was walkin' down the street with my bundle on my back/ When I saw a 'bo I used ta know/His name was Steam Train Jack,' " Cris recited. The poem had been written by the old man beside him.
Steam Train didn't move, didn't twitch. He just lay there. 4'Since I wrote that damn poem/I sure as hell should know him," Jack finally said. He took the damp cloth off his eyes and looked over at Cris. Then he propped up his enormous girth on one elbow and looked a second time.
Recollection dawned. 44Lucky?" Steam Train asked, as he sat straight up, but in so doing, he gained only a couple more feet of altitude. Steam Train was oddly proportioned, with short legs and torso but unusually long arms. He had simian dimensions. 44Lucky! Shit, that is you, ain't it? What happened, man? This can't be true/ I can't believe it's really you/Yer lookin' thin as jungle pot stew," he rhymed.
"It's a long story," Lucky said.
Then Steam Train reached out and pounded Cris on the shoulder. "From the look of them tails/You ain't on the rails?"
"I'm retired from high-iron drifting. Stopped drinkin' too," he added, and watched Steam Train smile his approval.
Steam Train Jack was what they called a boxcar barnacle. He was a legend on the rails. He'd been riding boxcars since the early forties, and he almost never uttered a sentence that wasn't in rhyme.
&n
bsp; Steam Train strained to pull his prodigious girth up to his feet. "Shit," he said, groaning. "Harder and harder ta git up an' go/ Got more pains than a stained-glass window." Standing, he was only slightly taller than sitting. He weighed over 250 pounds, and seemed a gravelly-voiced cross between Jabba the Hut and Santa Claus. He mopped his red face with the damp cloth. "So, if y'stopped ridin' trains and y'don't drink no more/What brings ya here ta my jungle door?"
"I'm looking for Fannon Kincaid. I was wondering if anybody's seen him and his F. T. R. A. bunch around. I know he was headed this way. I need to find out which train he caught out on."
Steam Train shook his head. "He's a Texas tomcat with an ass fulla buckshot. Kincaid's the devil, let him be, son/He'll kill in a heartbeat, without no reason."
"I don't care about his reason. 'Cause vengeance is my reason. It's my reason and my higher power," he said, more to himself than to the old man standing before him. Steam Train looked off toward the river where Buddy and Stacy were sitting, trying hard not to engage the cold-eyed stares around them.
"You wait over there, I'll go ask about/I heard he was around/ But he mighta catched out." Steam Train moved off, waddling on sore feet, then began to talk to people who were seated in leaning chairs in front of makeshift houses.
When Cris got over to Buddy, the producer was fidgeting. "Who the hell is that?" Buddy said. "Looks like a character from a Spielberg movie."
"It's a break he was here. If anybody in this jungle knows anything, Steam Train Jack will find out for us."
They sat by the river and watched undernourished children playing in the water.
Stacy looked at the camp in wonder. "This is amazing. I never knew something like this existed. It's like pictures I saw of Hoovervilles in the thirties. Why are they here?"
"These people are rejects."
"You weren't a reject," she said, looking at him carefully.
"No," Cris said softly. "I was running from myself."
After twenty minutes, Steam Train moved back to them. He must have returned to his shanty, because now he had a walking stick, a long piece of polished oak with a knotted handle. He hobbled down to the river and motioned to Cris, who left Stacy and Buddy and joined him.
"On the two-mile grade/Three hours ago/They left on the NETT/On a Burlington, MO."
"The Northeastern Tennessee Track, Burlington MoPac Unit?" Cris said. "That's New Orleans."
Steam Train nodded. "Three 'bos I know were ridin' that hop/ When they saw Kincaid/They decided to drop." He raised an eyebrow in concern, and it arched there like a huge furry caterpillar.
"Thanks, Steam Train," Cris said. "I'll be careful."
The old man's face scrunched in thought for a moment, then he spun an old rhyme: "Mosta my pals caught the westbound freight, to the land beyond the sun/God had a time on His consist sheet for each and ever one/Heaven's great and fulla 'bos, for that ya can be sure/But it don't make sense ta push up front fer an' early departure."
Steam Train hugged Cris, stepped back, turned, and poking the ground with his gnarled stick, limped slowly away.
Part Four
THE REVOLUTION
Chapter 33
ILL-GOTTEN GAINS AND THE TEXAS MADMAN
They had been sided at Shreveport, Louisiana, to let a "hotshot" intermodal train go by. The muggy air clung to them like foul cologne. Luther "Ill Gotten" Gains and the Texas Madman sat with Randall Rader and Dexter DeMille, watching Reverend Kincaid. The empty wood-slat boxcar was buried in the middle of the parked unit train, which contained a hundred grainers filled with Kansas wheat. They had been sided for almost an hour. "Milk is transported all across this nation on the rails," Fannon reasoned as he paced. "Moves in big refrigerated tankers ever day. So we're gonna send retribution to the Niggers and Jews in the milk they buy at the store."
"It's not gonna be that easy," Dexter answered, his voice strained and weak in the still air of the boxcar. "I'm trying to tell you that the Prion in this form is basically harmless--it hasn't been genetically tuned. This is simply a baseline protein. In order to turn what we have into a genetic binary weapon you'd need to change all the pH factors. The process is called acidosis. It's... it's very complicated and specific work."
Now Fannon kneeled beside Dexter and studied him like a crushed bug on the sidewalk. Dexter knew in that instant that he was nothing to Fannon Kincaid; that exactly like Admiral Zoll, Kincaid would kill him as soon as he got what he wanted. He needed to call on all of his survival instincts to buy time.
"Mr. DeMille, we are going to deliver this victory for Yahweh," Fannon said. "We are going to purge two cities of the counterfeit races. This will start the Revolution. People who know the truth, but have been afraid to act, will see this victory and take heart. Many will join the cause. You think this great victory can be delayed by some pissant piece of shit like you?" When Dexter didn't respond, Fannon screamed, "Answer me, you godless motherfucker!"
"No, sir. No..." Dexter flinched. He was now pressed hard against the side of the boxcar, straining to get away from Kincaid.
Luther Gains watched his discomfort with sadistic interest. Gains was rail-thin, snake-mean, and had a personality as twisted and coarse as hemp rope. After breaking out of a federal prison in Fayetteville, where he had been incarcerated for murder, Luther had started hiding out with the Choir.
The Texas Madman was an absolute contrast to Luther. Heavy-set and soft, the Texas Madman spoke in a high-pitched whisper, never raising his voice above a breathy squeak. He was out of shape and overweight, a grotesque collection of bulges and curves. He had earned his moniker by brutally killing six sleeping hobos in one blood-soaked year, and he gloried in these fatal assaults. His eyes lost reason and focus as he hacked his victims to death with the short-handled ax he kept in his backpack. After "converting" to the Choir, he had become Fannon's chief executioner.
" 'Complicated and specific work.' You must really think I'm one gullible, outta-touch motherfucker," Fannon hissed, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
"It... I..." Then Dexter fell silent.
Fannon turned to the Texas Madman. "Kill this godless motherfucker." Then Fannon got up, went to the ladder, and started to climb to the roof, where he would "car surf" to the grainer behind and join the others.
The Texas Madman picked up his backpack and retrieved the ax, then he moved over to Dexter. Fannon opened the hatch and started to climb out to the top of the boxcar.
"No ... no ... please," Dexter said, looking into the soft face and soulless eyes of the Texas Madman.
"Talk t'me, brother," Fannon said from the top step of the ladder.
"I need a lab. I need pH meters, and the right acids and bases. I need pure blood samples from the target groups, African-Americans and Jews, so I can do the DNA stranding."
"If I get what you need, how long will it take to make this shit right?"
"Coupla hours, maybe less."
Fannon slid down the metal ladder, his combat boots hitting the wood floor, cracking the silence like a leather bullwhip. He moved back to Dexter and looked down at him. "We can find a blood bank, steal whatever we need."
"Blood banks don't keep those kinds of records. Government regulations prevent separating blood along ethnic or racial lines."
"This fuckin' society. Whatta buncha bullshit. So, how do we do it?"
"There's only one lab that has everything I need, but it won't be easy."
"It wasn't easy for Moses to get the stone tablets down from Mount Sinai, or to part the Red Sea. God's work ain't supposed t'be easy. God's will is dangerous to pursue. Where the hell's this lab?"
"At the Devil's Workshop in Fort Detrick, Maryland."
Chapter 34
IMPORTANT TRAIN
We need a priority train," Cris said to Buddy. He was seated on the bed in the suite Buddy had rented at the Fort Worth Four Seasons Hotel, and was looking at the train line-up. The shower was on in the bathroom, and they could hear Stacy's splashing through the close
d door.
"You got anything cooking with her?" Buddy asked unexpectedly.
"Give it a rest. Her husband just died."
"Sometimes you can catch a good bounce after a personal tragedy." Cris looked up at him in dismay, but the look seemed to please Buddy. The old outlaw was back, the "do anything/fuck everybody" Buddy.
"Leave her alone. She needs time."
Buddy started to answer, but the sound of the water cutting off stopped the conversation.
The bathroom door opened and Stacy walked into the suite. Her hair was wet, and she had on a big terry-cloth bathrobe belted at the waist, a hotel towel around her neck.
"God, that feels better," she said. "Who's next?"
There was a long silence, and then Buddy got up and headed into the bathroom. "Boy, it smells like girl in here, sweet and sexy," he grinned, then closed the door.
Stacy moved into the room and looked down on the bed at a map of Texas and Louisiana, and the carbons that Cris had fished out of the trash at the SP switching yard.
"You find what you were looking for?"
"Yeah, there's a unit train leaving at ten tonight. It's a priority train, full of expensive products, mostly Japanese cars. It should travel twice as fast as the grain train Kincaid's on."
"Why is that?"
"Important trains carry what they call 'Time Sensitive Freight.' All the cars on this train are worth millions. The interest on all that money means they have to get to market fast. That grain train Kincaid is on will have to 'go into the hole' to let a hotshot train like this pass. It'll slow him way down, and with some luck, we'll overtake him."
She sat down on the bed and started to dry her hair with the towel she had around her neck. "Why don't we just take the car?"
"Lotta reasons. First, we're not sure he's going all the way to New Orleans." He pointed to the map. "It's possible that Kincaid will switch trains in Dallas or Shreveport or Jackson. At any of those hubs he could change destinations--we'd be going to New Orleans, while he'd be heading off someplace else, I'm gonna have to get off and ask around at each of those hubs. Also, the rails are at least as fast, especially if we can catch this hot train at ten tonight."
the Devil's Workshop (1999) Page 24
