THE RAILWAY MEN

[Guardsman_Sparky]

​

I gulped as I looked up at the intimidating bulk of the diesel engine, its dull yellow hull trimmed with black hazard lines towering over me. What on Earth am I, Alexander Diamond of all people, doing here? Why am I here in Norton Station and not at home?

…Oh, right, Sheriff Sanders had me run out of town for getting his daughter in a way. Only, I hadn't been the one that had done the dirty deed, so to speak. I've never even kissed a girl before, much less done…that with anybody. Not that Sheriff Sanders cared: he just wanted an excuse to…

I shook my head, scratching at my short brown hair. No use dwelling on the past. Not when my future on the railroads was before me.

A large shadow cast me into darkness. "You the new help?"

I turned around to behold an absolute grizzly of a man looming over me, hard features glaring down at me under a wild mop of burning red hair. I swallowed uneasily. "Er, yes. I'm Alex-"

"Don't care," the man said sharply, eyes almost hidden by his bushy red eyebrows. "Right now, you're fresh meat. If you can prove you belong on the rails, then I might be bothered to learn your name." I'm sure I visibly quailed from the man, intimidated by his harsh, angry demeanor.

"Oh, lighten up, Mitch, you're scaring the kid."

I turned to see a thin woman in grease-stained coveralls walking up the platform towards them, her short, blonde hair swishing around as she shook her head in amusement.

Struck dumb, I stared, beholding quite possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even the black streaks of grease smeared on her face didn't detract from that; if anything, they just accented it. And those bright, glimmering green eyes of hers…what…what was I talking about again?

"You're too soft on the new bloods, Dinah ," the big man, Mitch, growled. He threw his hands up in the air. "Fine! You know what, he's your responsibility." And with that, the big redhead turned on his heel and walked away, muttering darkly to himself.

"Don't mind Mitch," the woman said, drawing my attention. "He's never happy unless he's…well, he's never happy." She held out her hand. "I'm Dinah, Dinah Springer. I take care of the Missus."

"The…Missus," I asked slowly, confusion etched on my face even as I slowly accept Dinah's handshake. Was…was she a…one of those? Not that I had anything against that kind, but voicing such opinions had…consequences back home. Home…

Dinah chuckled, not noticing the flash of melancholy that must have been on my face. "Yup. The Missus. An ALCO MRS-1 military road switcher, number 2044. She's fifty-five foot eleven long, and weighs one hundred twenty tons, with a multigauge C-C drive train and a four-stroke diesel V12 engine. She displaces eight thousand sixteen cubic inches…" Dinah trailed off, noting the blank look on my face. "And I've lost you, haven't I?"

"Right around number 2044, yes," I said apologetically. If I was being completely honest, I had barely understood that much.

"Sorry about that, I forget people aren't always as into the particulars as I am," Dinah apologetically stated with a flippant wave of the hand. "Anyways, yeah, she's a tough old bird that can take anything the wastes throw at us." She pointed ahead. "That's her over there. The one behind numbered 2056 is her sister, the Mistress."

I followed the direction the finger was pointing, taking in the two long hood diesel engines painted in construction yellow and trimmed with black hazard stripes, the narrow catwalks wrapping around the engine blocks above the wheels. Something about it was bugging me, though. "Why are they in the middle? Shouldn't they be at the front?"

"Well, normally, yeah," Dinah allowed. "But we're a construction unit, so the crane needs to be up front to access the rails." She peered at my nonplussed expression. "Did no one explain this to you when you were hired on?"

"No?" I shook my head, unsure of myself, unsure if I was giving the right answer. When I'd showed up at Norton Station, I'd been asked if I'd like a chance to work on a train, and I'd said yes. I'd been promptly shuffled off to this platform, and that was it.

"Right." Dinah sighed, rubbing her temples in exasperation. "Right, quick rundown then. We," she said, a finger pointing straight up. "Are the Railmen. We are the ones who keep the trains running, because without tracks, nobody is going anywhere. We fix the rails, clear obstructing debris, and salvage wrecks. We keep the lines clear, and we're the best at what we do."

I blinked, taking that statement in. That was...quite the mission statement there.

Checking her wristwatch, Dinah nodded to herself. "Well, now that that's out of the way, we got some time before we have to shove off, why don't I give you a quick tour?"

"Uh," I looked about uncertainly. "Sure?" You know, come to think of it, this was the longest I'd been alone with a girl my age in...well, ever. That's...kind of sad.

"Right-o!" Dinah turned and pointed at the very front of the train. "So, up front we've got Big Yellow and Little Yellow. Big Yellow's technically a breakdown crane, but she handles rails just fine, and Little Yellow's her idler car. Then we've got a couple of flatbeds, to carry stuff, you know?"

I quailed, staring at the third flatbed in the row, coupled up to the front of the first engine. It looked like someone had gone and built a woodframe shed in the center of the flatcar, taking up about a third of the available bed space. Strangely, there was a series of pipes sticking out from the gently curved roof, the tallest of which was bent at a ninety degree elbow. However, while the shed was interesting, I was more concerned with the ominous structures bolted to the flatcar on either side of the house. "That…those are guns."

Dinah paused, taking in the pair of quadbarrel turrets mounted on either end of the flatbed, the small house sitting innocently between. "Yeah, those are just Maxson mounts with .50 cals. We can't run like other trains, so we've got to able to kill anything that comes after us." She pointed down the train. "Anyways, we've got another one down by the sleeper cars."

Two short, piercing whistles cut through the open-air platform. Dinah blinked, checking her wristwatch. "Huh, guess we didn't have as much time as I thought." The grease-stained woman pursed her lips. "Right, so, uh, this way."

As Dinah strode quickly down the platform, her long legs eating up the distance, I started and hurried after her, only pausing to grab my overstuffed duffel from the platform floor. I was led down the platform, past the twin diesel engines and their exterior catwalks to the steps of the first in a series of passenger cars.

"And welcome to your new home," Dinah declared, jumping up onto the bottom step and hanging off the railing. "Sleeper cars are up front, freight is in the back." Swinging around to squeeze into the space between engine and car, she proceeded to then clamber up the ladder at the back of the "Mistress" engine. "So, go ahead, pick out an empty bunk and then sit tight. Someone will be with you shortly." And with that, Dinah disappeared into the engine's cabin. A moment later, she poked her head back out. "Um, so the first car is actually a converted HEP…and the next two are the dry storage and kitchen…so, you'll want to start at the fourth car."

Swallowing dryly as Dinah vanished once more, I hefted my duffel on my shoulder and walked down the left side of the train, making my way over to the car in question, hauling myself up the stairs in the center of the car. I stopped at the door and had to steel myself before entering the sleeper car.

With no vestibule in the train car, I was immediately able to see the interior of the sleeper. Fifteen bunks sat in the car, set cross-wise against the far wall, forming an aisle against the close wall. The bunks were arranged in triple stacks, spaced out evenly from other bunk stacks through the car, though it looked as if there were space for five more bunk stacks. Simple wooden walls separated each stack, obvious aftermarket additions that provided a semblance of privacy to the bunk occupants.

Occupants that had all turned to stare at Me as the door closed. One of them got up and approached me, the previously present drone of conversation dying away.

The man was big, muscular, but most strikingly, his skin was dark in a manner I had never seen before, a dark chocolate brown. He offered a strong, callused hand, and spoke, a deep, resonating baritone. "I'm Robert, call me Bob. I'm the foreman around here."

I froze, a deer in the headlights. Horrible stories about the 'undesirables' flitted through my mind, paralyzing me with an overwhelming fear. Sheriff Sanders was right, you couldn't trust anyone on the outside! However, after a moment, the fear paralyzing me gave way to confusion. Why wasn't I experiencing an agonizing death?

The black man before me chuckled, still holding out his offered hand. "What's the matter, you never seen a black man before?"

"No."

One of the men sitting in the bunks, a rough looking man with an impressive beard, guffawed. "Bob, I bet the kid's never seen teeth spiders either," he chortled, his voice the strained burble of a longtime drinker.

Bob's expression immediately went flinty. "Don't joke like that, Archie." Face softening, Bob dropped his hand and crossed his arms. "Where you from, kid?"

I swallowed. My throat felt like I'd been eating sandpaper, but I somehow managed to rasp out an answer. "C-Cotton Holler."

"Ooh…" A collective wince went through the sleeper car.

"Yeah," Bob drawled, scratching at his cheek. "There's a reason trains don't go there. Not after what happened to Zephyr, anyways."

One of the men sharing a vestibule with Archie, of endomorphic build and completely bald save for his eyebrows, leaned out to look at Alex. Despite his size, he had a remarkably soft voice. "Sheriff Joe still running that place?"

I nodded, still completely baffled and unsure of why I wasn't dead yet. "Yeah."

The bald man smiled smugly. "Well, as I hear it told, he didn't have that limp before Zephyr came to town." Hoots of derisive, but not cruel, laughter filled the train car.

"Alright, settle down," Bob commanded gently. "You too, Bubba," he addressed the bald man. "Look kid," the foreman started slowly. "Ol' Joe was born a looooong time ago kid. And he's had nasty thoughts about folks like me and Miss Janice for just as long. I wouldn't put it past him to try and make others have those same nasty thoughts as well."

Nodding slowly, I had to admit that it sounded like Sheriff Joe Sanders. He was the kind of man to do almost anything to get his way. "Who's Miss Janice?"

"Well, she runs the docks and the bar at Cumberland Forge, but she used to run with the Zephyr," Bob explained, his eyes growing distant at fond memories. Oh, so the Zephyr was another train. Okay, that was good to know, but what was...

"What's Cumberland Forge?" Every pair of eyes in the car locked onto me in sheer disbelief, and I found myself shrinking in on myself in self-consciousness.

Archie scoffed good naturedly. "Hell son, you think rails grow on trees? They gotta come from somewhere!"

"Jeez, do they just tell you the world outside is just full of evil and hate and you should just leave it alone?" Bubba guffawed in question.

I almost shrunk into myself. "Yeah."

And just like that, the jovial atmosphere died in a sudden cloud of silent awkwardness. Finally, somebody broke the silence. "Shit."

Turning to the side, Bob clapped his hands together, dispersing the suddenly dower atmosphere. "Well, nothing stopping him from seeing it now." Rubbing his jaw, Bob turned his attention back to me, speaking slowly, with thought. "Look, kid, I won't tell you how to think. You probably got enough of that growing up. But, I will ask that you keep an open mind. Out here, preconceptions can kill you. I'd hate to…" He trailed off. "Hate begets hate, and I've seen too many people consumed by their hate. Please don't let it happen to you.

"So, on to happier topics," Bob said, changing the subject with another clap of the hands. "Did you get the tour yet?"

I sighed. "Well, Dinah was showing me around, but…" I waved my hand helplessly.

Bob chuckled. "But she disappeared when the whistle blew," he said knowingly. "Yeah, sorry about that. She keeps everything running around here, so she's the one who does final checks before we head out." He paused, pointing out the window at the mass of yellow passing towards the back. "She's also overseeing relocating Big Yellow to the back of the train."

I looked out the window in confusion. "Um…why are you guys moving the crane? Dinah told me you guys need it up front to fix the tracks."

"Well, we do," Bob explained. "But we keep Big Yellow at the back of the consist for long distance stuff. Safer and easier on everyone involved." The dark-skinned man clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You're actually rather lucky. We wouldn't have been here for you to join up if we hadn't been fixing a washout."

Well, that was rather fortunate for me. But what was a washout?

Before I got a chance to ask, Bob cracked his knuckles idly and turned away, gesturing over his shoulder. "Well, enough about that, let's get you set up with a bunk, and then we can finish the tour."

Hesitantly, I made my way towards the rear of the train, until I came to the last bunk cubicle, next to the pair of wash basins and one of the two enclosed toilets. The cubicle itself was just two walls on either side of the bunk rack. The walls were simple, plywood panels held up by a basic wooden framework. The bunks were flush up against the rearmost wall. Stepping into the cubicle, I took note of the thin layers of dust on the three mattresses.

It was as I dragged my fingers through the dust on the middle bunk that two long blasts on the train whistle echoed through the car. A moment later, I was thrown from my feet as the car jerked forward, the sudden movement completely unexpected. Dropping my duffel, I lurched face first towards the wooden bunk frames.

A hand grabbing the back of my shirt arrested my fall. "Easy there."

Bob hauled me back to my feet, adjusting to the jerking of the train car with the ease of long experience. I immediately grabbed the wall of the cubicle, holding onto it for dear life as the floor slowly shifted beneath me. Bob let out a chuckle at the wild look I am sure I had on my face.

"Don't worry, you'll get your sea legs soon."

"Sea legs," I asked, utterly confused. "But…this is a train."

Bob let out a hearty belly laugh. Wiping a tear from his eye, he playfully clapped a hand on my shoulder. "It's just an expression, kid." He stepped out into the aisle. "Come on, let's go meet the boss. I think you'll like him."

 

[Pineapple]

Nice.

 

[Finagle007]

Not seeing the reason for the "apocalypse" tag yet... seems interesting.

 

[Pineapple]

Not seeing the reason for the "apocalypse" tag yet... seems interesting.

Click to shrink...

Because Winchester is post nuclear.

 

[ReadsByLamplight]

This seems pretty cool. Kinda reminds me of Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress. I'm eager to see where this goes.

 

[Strypgia]

Don't worry, kid. You get your sea legs once the tooth spiders bite you the first night.

 

[Pineapple]

Don't worry, kid. You get your sea legs once the tooth spiders bite you the first night.

Click to shrink...

Fuckin' teeth spiders. Just the thought of it gives me the piss shivers.

 

[Guardsman_Sparky]

​

As soon as Bob led me out the door towards the front of the train, I froze. Even as Bob deftly maneuvered over to and opened the door to the kitchen car, I was busy staring down, taking in the ground rushing by, merely a blur beneath my feet. It was...quite frankly terrifying, that feeling only amplified by the eerie quiet in the gap between cars.

"Come on, kid, eyes on me," Bob cajoled gently. "Just don't look down, you're not gonna fall."

Swallowing tightly, I looked up at Bob and slowly inched out my foot. Gripping the simple chain railing so tightly my fingers hurt, I placed my foot on the opposite side of the gap and pushed off. For a brief moment, I knew that I had messed up, that I was going to fall between the cars and be crushed into a bloody pulp by the unforgiving weight of the steel wheels. Then, mercies of mercies, I was pressed up against a firm chest, muscled arms wrapped tightly around me.

"Easy there. I gotcha," Bob's deep voice spoke smoothly. A moment later, the door closed and those strong arms let go. "Uh...kid, we're inside, you can let go now."

I looked up at Bob in confusion. Let go? But I wasn't… As it turns out, I was in fact holding on to Bob, my arms wrapped around his torso in a death grip. I breathed in slowly for a moment before I pried my arms apart.

Huh, Bob smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Weird.

Stepping back from Bob, I coughed awkwardly, my face burning. "Sorry."

"It's alright," Bob assured. "It's happened to most of us."

A jovial voice sounded out from behind me. "Hey Bob."

Turning around, I saw an older man stepping away from an electric stove. He was tall and thin, though age looked to have robbed him of some of his height. I couldn't tell if age had done the same to his hair, though, because for all that it seemed to be a short, pure white, it was mostly hidden beneath a faded blue CSX baseball cap. His eyes were warm and kind, and his wide smile was inviting.

Bob smiled, throwing out his arms in greeting. "Don! What you doing here in the kitchen?"

"Oh, well, I thought I'd just whip up some lunch for the boys," the old man, Don replied. He focused his gaze on me. "Oh, hello. Who's this?"

Bob laughed, clapping a hand on my shoulder (gee-whiz, he's been doing that a lot). "This is the new kid, he just came on at Norton Station." Stepping between me and Don, Bob gestured first to Don. "Kid, this is Don Flannigan. He founded this outfit way back when. Don," the foreman began, shifting to gesture at me. "This is…" He paused, then rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Well, this is embarrassing kid. We never got your name."

I laughed nervously, holding out my hand for a handshake. "Alexander Diamond."

Don slowly accepted my handshake, carefully looking me over. "Nice to meet you, Alex. Your mother, she, her name wouldn't happen to be Ella, would it? Short, petite, long brown hair?"

I started, staring agape at Don's inquisitive face. "You knew my mom?"

A broad smile crossed Don's face. "I was right, you are Ella's boy!" He dropped my hand, one arm snaking across my shoulders to take me in a side-on hug. "Tell me, what happened to her?"

I blinked in surprise, feeling a bit smooshed in Don's tight hug. "Uh, she died a few years ago," I told him hesitantly.

Don stood there for a moment, the hug he was giving me going slack as the older man deflated. "Oh...well, regardless, it does my heart good to hear she survived the troubles." Letting go and stepping back, Don ran a hand over his head, grabbing his hat and revealing his bald scalp. "If you ever want to hear some stories about your mother, let me know."

Resettling his hat on his head, Don turned back to Bob. "Hey, Dieter is up in the Missus, why don't you take Alex up to meet him?"

Dieter? That was a German name, wasn't it? Um...huh. I honestly had no idea what to think. On the one hand, Sheriff Sanders had railed against the Kraut, painting all sorts of horrible things about them and the things they had done. But, on the other hand, the sheriff had been wrong about people like Bob, so chances were he was wrong about other things. So, I was kind of leaning towards giving this Dieter the benefit of the doubt. Although...didn't we have a war with the Germans?

"Yeah, that's sounds like a good idea," Bob replied to Don, breaking me from my musings. "C'mon kid, let's go meet Dieter. Later Don."

"Oh, uh, okay. Bye Don."

Waving goodbye to Don, I jogged after Bob, who had already made it to the door at the far end of the kitchen car. By the time I arrived at the door, Bob had already passed through and the door was closed behind him. Pausing at the door, I grit my teeth and turned the handle.

It...actually wasn't as bad as I thought it was. Looking down, I could see the ground rushing by in a blur, true, but the gap in the floor between the cars was so small, it was barely more than a crack. Likewise, the gap between the walls of the cars was negligible, like a small walk-in closet, at best. Honestly, I don't know why I was so freaked out about this earlier.

Stepping across the gap, I entered the next car, the dry storage car, if I remembered correctly. Judging by the steel-framed shelves full of canned and boxed goods, towels, blankets, and pillows, I was indeed correct. The shelves were all set up crossways, with an aisle set up between them all. It kind of reminded me of the school library back in Cotton Holler, though, those shelves hadn't been nearly as full as these, likely on account of Sheriff Sanders' book burnings, I reckon.

Walking down the aisle between the various shelves, I took note of the contents of each shelf. Food, blankets, pretty much just more of the same by the door. Though, about two thirds of the way down the car, I started seeing a lot of green, metal boxes stacked on the shelves. For the life of me, I couldn't remember what they were for, but then I recalled seeing several such containers overflowing with ammunition the last time I was a...guest at Sheriff Sanders' fine establishment.

"So," Bob said, stopping and turning around at the door at the end of the car. "This is dry storage. We keep everything that can't be left out in the elements here. Just so you know, there's no smoking in here, don't want to risk anything going boom."

I blinked at that terse statement. It was understandable, though, looking back at a row of mason jars filled with flour. I didn't smoke, but I knew the dangers of grain explosions (poor Mrs. Johnson's cat, it never was quite the same). Plus, given the jars of black powder in wooden crates below some of the shelves...well, let's just say I didn't want to find out what a grain explosion on a train looked like.

"We also have a reloading bench, right there," Bob continued, pointing out a compact bench with several clamps and other accouterments sitting in a small alcove between a few shelves. Turning back to me, Bob hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "The next car is our Head End Power car. The generators've been running loud as of late, and the sisters are pretty loud as well, so, if you have any questions, now's the time. We won't be able to talk until we reach the Missus' cab."

When I answered in the negative, Bob nodded and turned around, leading me from the dry storage car and across the gap into the HEP car.

Holy cow, he hadn't been kidding about the noise. Three large machines down the center of the car, all banging away in a cacophony of explosions. Even with both hands over my ears, it was deafening.

Dinah was there, doing something with one of the generators. Bent over at the waist, she had her back to us as she tightened something with a large wrench, her grease-stained coveralls doing nothing to hide the curve of her tight, shapely…

...what was I talking about again?

Bob, unperturbed by the sight before us, walked up to Dinah and tapped her on the shoulder. She stood up, and yelled something to Bob. Bob yelled something back, whereupon she yelled back in return. I heard none of it, unable to so much as think over the loud 'bangity-bangity-bangity-bangity' of the three generators.

Concluding his yelled conversation, Bob turned and continued on his way down the insanely loud train car, gesturing for me to follow. As I did so, Dinah gave me a small smile as she went back to whatever it was she had been doing. I felt a goofy smile cross my face, giving a shy wave back as I followed Bob outside.

If it was possible, it was even louder outside. I mean, the wind was loud, but holy heck, you couldn't even tell over the roar of the two diesel engines hurtling the train along. It was so loud, I could almost swear that I was feeling it through my bones rather than hearing it anymore. There was only a moment's respite as we passed through the Mistress's unoccupied cab, and then it only got worse the closer we got to the front of the Missus. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of noise, we were at Missus's cab and Bob was ushering me inside.

Inside, it was blissfully quiet, the thunderous noise outside barely a thumping hum within the cab. The cabin was small, only about the size of a queen mattress, floorwise. A large console dominated the center of the cab, a black, shortwave radio sitting on a stand next to it. The driver sat facing us, or rather, facing the console before him and splitting his attention between that and the world outside.

Glancing up at us as we came in, the driver held up a finger, telling us to wait a moment as he checked the instrumentation and wrote whatever it was on a clipboard in pen. As he did so, I took the opportunity to look him over.

Bushy black hair covered the driver's head, though it was beginning to thin and grey on top, while an equally bushy black beard covered his face. Blue eyes peered intently at the instruments, somehow unscathed despite the jagged scar bisecting his right eye socket. However, the thing that stood out the most about him was that he was...chunky. Pudgy. Roly-poly. Rotund. Portly. Take your pick. His gut was round and protruding, there was no way around it, and he kind of looked like he'd just...let go, if that makes any sense.

After a moment, the driver put aside his clipboard and checked the road before turning his attention to us. "Hey Bob, what's up?"

"Not much, Dieter, just showing the new kid around," Bob replied, twisting to the side to give the driver, Dieter a clearer look at me. "Dieter, this is Alex Diamond. Kid, this is Dieter Schmidt, he's been with the outfit since almost the beginning," the foreman explained in introduction.

Dieter stood up, leaning over the instrument console to offer a handshake. "Hey, nice to meet you, Alex, I'm Dieter."

Accepting the firm, surprisingly strong handshake, I was taken aback by Dieter's accent, or rather his lack of one. He sounded nothing like the Germans from the old movie propaganda reels Mr. Jackson would show on Friday nights (when the windmill generator was working, anyways). In fact, he sounded more like the heroes from those movie reels than anything.

Sitting back down, Dieter checked out the windscreen ahead and paused. He held out a finger. "Hold on a moment."

Grabbing an old, beat-up pair of binoculars from where they hung from a hook on the wall, the engineer brought them up to his face and peered intently out the window to the west. Following Dieter's gaze, I saw a small freight train being pulled by a yellow diesel engine off by the foot of some mountains, heading the same direction we were.

Hanging up the binoculars, Dieter swiveled in his chair and reached out for the radio, grabbing the transmitter handset on its coiled cord and pulling it up by his mouth.

"Winchester, this is Schmidt on Big Yellow, where you headin'?" Letting go of the send button, Dieter sat back and waited for a reply. He didn't have to wait long.

The radio hissed, coming to life burst of static. "Heard a rumor about some abandoned muzzle loaders on a siding in Monticello," a woman's static laced voice crackled, the radio giving it a metallic, flanged vibe.

Dieter grimaced, bringing the transmitter back to his mouth. "Ooh, bad luck that," he said apologetically. "You'll be wanting to avoid the Cumberland Gap, some jackasses went and got it into their heads to rip up the rails for scrap. We're heading there now to fix it all up."

The radio crackled, almost sounding like a sigh of disappointment. "So much for making good time," came the slightly dejected reply from Winchester. "Thanks for the head's up."

Smiling slightly, Dieter thumbed the transmit button. "Any time Winchester. Any time. Best of luck to you."

Hanging up the radio's transmitter, Dieter turned his attention back to us. "Bob, Alex, while I'd normally love to chat and get to know you," he said, pointing to me. "I've got quite a bit on my plate right now."

"Oh," Bob asked, some concern in his voice. "What's up?"

"Well, there's the usual problems," Dieter started, picking up his clipboard and tapping the contents with a knuckle. "Cylinder three keeps hiccuping, the horn's whistling instead of honking, and the radio antenna is being wonky again. Besides that, I think there's a flutter in the fuel lines, but I'm hoping I'm wrong."

I had no idea what any of that meant, but hopefully it wasn't as bad as it sounded.

Bob grimaced. "Huh. Well, I'll leave you to it. C'mon, kid, let's go."

And with that, Bob took me by the shoulders and ushered me outside. The last thing I saw before I was immersed back in the hellish sound outside was Dieter putting pen to his clipboard once more.

Passing back through the HEP car into dry storage (Dinah was absent to my eternal disappointment) meant that I could finally hear myself think again. It also meant that I could hear Bob talking again.

"So," Bob said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "That's it for the tour, for now." He pointed towards the back of the train. "We have two more passenger cars. The first one is another sleeper, we use half as a common room, but the other half is Dinah's room. Don't," he warned. "Go in there uninvited if you don't want a kick to the cans."

I pursed my lips. That sounded painful. "Noted. What's the second car?"

"Second car is where the shower is. It's an old hospital car, so it's also the medbay and where Doc Brown lives."

I blinked. "Who's Doc Brown?"

Bob laughed. "Oh, he's a character. He's not technically a doctor, he was just a paramedic before the war, but he keeps us all in one piece, so we call him Doc." He looked around, almost as if looking for someone, before leaning in close. "We can never seem to find him, but he's always there when we need him, so you'll be meeting him eventually." The foremen sighed. "Sooner or later."

Okay. Not all that bad, as far as medical professionals count. At least he doesn't drink to excess like Doctor Martin back...back in Cotton Holler. I swear, the man sweat whiskey and moonshine.

"Now, we have a few hours until we arrive at our destination," Bob continued. "Once we get there, you're going to be a runner while you learn the ropes. So," he said, pointing at the shelves around me. "I want you to get acquainted with the location of everything in this car. Once you're done, you're free to do what you want until we get there. Got it?"

I nodded, mentally sizing up the task before me.

Bob smiled. "Excellent. I'll be back to check up on you in a bit."

And with that, Bob walked out the door to the kitchen car, leaving me alone with the shelves and the dry storage.

I breathed out, taking in the shelves before me. Better get started, I suppose. Now, how did that old song go again? I started to hum.

"I've been working on the railroad, all the live long day.~"

 

[Strypgia]

...what was I talking about again?

Click to shrink...

Head End Power, apparently.

"I've been working on the railroad, all the live long day.~"

Click to shrink...

Thinking about Dinah strummin' on her ol' banjo, hmm? ;P

 

[Guardsman_Sparky]

​

"Hey, new guy."

Jumpin' Jehosaphat! Jerking in surprise at the sudden, unexpected voice coming from behind me, I ended up doing an impromptu juggling act as I scrambled to catch the jar of gunpowder I had just accidentally tossed into the air. Finally, I managed to clutch it securely in hand, and after a moment's pause to make sure it wouldn't explode, I slowly placed it back on its shelf.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I turned around to see the big, bald guy from before. "Oh, uh, Bubba, was it?"

"Tha's raight. Beauregard B. Buford, at yoah service," he said with a faux southern accent. "But everyone calls me Bubba," he continued, his southern accent still there, but only just noticeable compared to his previous over-the-top acting.

"Alex." It was all I could say without laughing at Bubba's silliness. A moment later, I managed to collect myself. "So, what's up?"

"Bossman sent me," Bubba answered, leaning against a shelf. "We're almost there."

What? Already? Had I really been in here that long? Though, looking down at the floor, the squares of sunlight streaming in from the windows were closer to the middle of the car than they were when I started.

"Alright," I said, finally responding to Bubba. "Where're we going?"

"Well, first we got to stop by your bunk and get your gun," Bubba started, pushing off the shelf to walk down the aisle.

"I'm sorry, my what," I interjected, unsure I had heard that correctly.

"Your gun," Bubba repeated slowly. His expectant expression dropped as he looked at my non-plussed face. He sighed with exasperation. "You don't have a gun, do you?"

I slowly shook my head. "No." To be honest, I had a gun, back home in Cotton Holler. Or rather, Ma'd had a gun, but it had been locked away when she died, for when I needed it. However, I didn't have time to find the key when Sheriff Sanders ran me out of town, so...yeah, no gun.

"Urgh." Groaning, Bubba dragged a hand down his face, his expression bleak. "Great. Just great." Sighing explosively, the big man shook his head, hands placed on his hips. "Come on," he said, ambling down the aisle. "Let's go to the armory."

Armory? "We have an armory," I asked, following after.

"Oh course we have an armory," Bubba retorted. "What, you think we keep all our guns in a pile in the corner?"

I held up a finger, took a breath, then slowly lowered my finger. He had a point. "Point."

"Damn right I have a point," Bubba said irritably as he led me through the kitchen car. I paused, taken aback. Well, that seemed unnecessary.

Before I could call Bubba out or ask what bees got in his bucket, the car jerked, and I fell on my ass with a startled squeak. Slowly toppling over onto my back, I realized that we'd stopped. Geez, I hadn't even noticed the train slowing down.

A shadow crossed over me, and I realized Bubba was standing there, offering a helping hand. Accepting it, I was hauled to my feet like I weighed nothing. Holy crap, Bubba's strong.

Bubba took a deep breath. "Sorry, I shouldn't be short with you," he apologized. "I just...dislike going to the armory," he said, making his way over to the door in the center of the car. "Come on, let's go around the side. It'll be faster with the switching going on."

"The...switching," I asked in confusion, following Bubba to the door, watching him drop to the gravel beneath the rails.

"Yeah. We're at a siding about oh, a mile or so from the repair site," Bubba explained, moving aside to make room for me. "We're moving big Yellow up front, so's we can bring her right up to the break."

I dropped down, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. "You know, I think Bob said something about that."

"Probably," Bubba allowed. "I think I stopped listening in at that point," he admitted, leading me past the sleeper cars.

As we passed the end of the hospital car with its big painted-on red cross, I took note of the flatbed with the pair of Maxson turrets bolted to the deck. It was right where Dinah said it would be, come to think of it.

"Hey, Bubba," shouted an olive-skinned man sitting in one of the turrets. "How long you think this job will take, eh?"

"Why," the bald man shouted back. "You got a date?"

"Not yet, Jefe," the turret man preened. "But no lady alive can resist my charms."

The man on the other turret guffawed, his plaid trapper hat flapping from his convulsing hilarity. "Yeah bro, but only after you pay 'em, eh?"

Face turning bright red, the olive-skinned man twisted to face the other man and let loose with a torrent of rapid fire foreign speech. Still laughing, the man in the plaid hat started babbling with hilarity in a different foreign language, leaving me bouncing my head back and forth between the two like I was watching a particularly confusing tennis match.

Leaving the two to their...conversation, Bubba led me away from the pair. "Miguel and Duncan," he explained, hiking a thumb over his shoulder back at the still arguing pair. "Don't let the arguing fool you, those two are thick as thieves. The way those two met, too." He laughed. "Well, you got to sit down and listen to the story if you get a chance, it's a riot. 'A Mexican and a Canadian walk into a bar.' Sounds like a joke, doesn't it?"

I had to admit, it kind of did. But in the time it took Bubba to explain that, we had left the flatcar behind and were now in front of the next car in line, the door's perimeter painted with black hazard stripes. In the center of said door was painted a pair of black, crossed swords above a shield with a single black bar and a small silhouette of a horse's head in the upper right half.

Bubba grumbled as he stopped by the sliding door in the middle of the boxcar, his previous humor gone. "And, we're here." Visibly collecting himself, Bubba reached up and pounded his fist on the door.

The door slid open, and a stern-faced man with short-cropped, steel grey hair poked his head out. He looked down, a scowl on his age grizzled face. "Oh, it's you. Whaddya want, tubby?"

Scowling himself, Bubba hooked a thumb over his shoulder at me. "New guy needs a gun." His scowl deepened. "And I'm not fat, I'm big boned, dammit!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say tubby," the grizzled man said dismissively. He turned his attention to me, a calculating look in his eye. "You ever use a gun before?"

I leaned back slightly, looking at the man with uncertainty. I spoke slowly and carefully, the same way I felt you would if someone told you they'd been probed by little green men. "I'm familiar with shotguns and - " I didn't get to finish, the man vanishing back into the boxcar mid-sentence.

"Junior," I heard barked from inside. "Shelf twelve! Ammo and a kit, too!"

A moment later, the man returned to the doorway. "Here's your gun," he said, tossing me a short pump-action shotgun. "Here's your ammo." A box of shells and a small canvas bundle followed. "Here's your kit." He stared sternly down at me. "Don't break it." And with that, he slammed the door shut.

I staggered back, somehow catching everything in my arms. Fumbling a bit until I was less likely to drop something, I turned to stare at Bubba, confusion written on my face.

"And now you know why I don't like coming here," Bubba said tiredly.

"Who...was that," I asked hesitantly, unsure I wanted an answer.

"That," Bubba replied reluctantly. "Was Gunny Sergeant Samuel Slaughter."

I gaped. I could not have heard that name right. "Samuel...Slaughter."

Bubba breathed in, nodding matter-of-factly. "He had his name legally changed during his time in the Army. Personally," the bald man said, leaning in close. "I think the war knocked a few screws loose. Anyways," Bubba continued, straightening back up. "He runs the armory with his son, Richard...though Slaughter calls him 'Junior,' for some reason."

I nodded. I really didn't know what else to say. My gaze drifted to the next car in line, another yellow boxcar with hazard stripes, this one with a black wrench on the door. Beyond the boxcar were three flatcars, the closest of which was occupied by some sort of liquids tank and a mass of machinery. The other two flatcars were carrying two objects, one apiece. I had no idea what those objects were, as they were covered with voluminous canvas tarps, but I could tell they were about...eh...twenty feet long, each? Thereabouts.

And that was the end of the train. Huh. They must have moved the crane already. I didn't see it anywhere.

I pointed at the boxcar with the wrench on the door. "Hey Bubba. What's that one for?"

"Huh?" Bubba turned around and followed my finger. "Oh, that? That's the machine shop. That's Mitch's domain."

Oh. Mitch. The big, angry redhead. Him, I knew. I'll be honest, I only met him for a few moments, but he made me uncomfortable, in a 'this guy doesn't like me' way.

"Okay, what about the other ones," I asked, changing the subject, not wishing to think about angry people at the moment.

"Oh, those?" Bubba waved at the flatcars. "The spine car is, well, we call it the gas station. Just a diesel tank and some pumps we salvaged from an actual gas station. Then we got Baby Yellow, that's our bulldozer. And finally, we have…"

Two long, whistling honks sounded out from the front of the train. Bubba turned to look. "Whoops, looks like they finished moving Big Yellow. Come on," he said, breaking into a run as the train cars began to jerkily move. "We'll ride the flatcar to the job site."

Juggling the items in my arms, I ran after Bubba as the train began to pick up speed. Running up alongside the flatcar, I dumped my stuff on the flatbed deck and grabbed the edge. Performing a sort of hop-skip (I don't know what it was, but it was ugly), I managed to haul myself up and roll onto the flatbed. Incidentally, I ended up rolling onto my new shotgun, plus the box of shells and the wrapped canvas pouch.

Ow.

A chuckle made me look up to see Miguel and Duncan leaning out of their turret seats to look down at me.

"Hey man, nice entrance," Miguel crowed not unkindly.

"Heh, yeah," Duncan agreed. "I give it abowt a seven owt of ten, ey?"

Miguel turned woodenly towards Duncan, a flat look on his face. "You're doing it again."

Duncan turned towards Miguel, an overly innocent look on his own face. "Dooin' what, ey?"

"That! That stupid accent!"

"I don't know what you're talking abowt, ey?"

As the two gunners devolved into another multilingual argument, a shadow crossed over me as Bubba sat down by my head. "Those two will be at it until the cows come home," he sighed. "It's funny at first, but spend enough time around them and it gets old."

Rolling off my stuff (oh, sweet relief!), I sat cross-legged and picked up my shotgun to get a good look at it. Pump action, pistol grip in a light-colored wood, barrel that ended just above the end of the tube magazine, and a canvas sling. Almost unremarkable, really. Judging by the marks and striations on the end of the barrel though, I'd say it used to be longer before someone had sawed it off and filed it smooth. Huh, you know, I'm pretty sure these used to be illegal.

Setting the gun aside, I opened the canvas bundle that Sergeant Slaughter had called a kit. Which it turned out exactly to be, a small kit of what you'd need to maintain a gun.

I looked up, Duncan and Miguel still arguing. You know, Bubba was right. The fact they were arguing in two different languages was hilarious, but being completely unable to understand them was getting a bit annoying. I stood up, stuffing kit and ammo into the pockets of my canvas cargo pants and slinging my shotgun across my back. How can I interrupt the argument?

Glancing at the turrets, I noticed the spade symbol from a deck of cards painted on Duncan's turret in black, right on the glacis protecting the chair. A quick check revealed the the glacis of Miguel's turret had a black diamond in the center. "Hey guys? What's with the decals?"

Miguel and Duncan paused mid-sentence to look at me, then at each other.

Duncan spoke first. "You know how there's four of us turret guys, right?"

I nodded as Miguel picked up where Duncan left off. "Some of the guys like to call us a bunch of jokers, and since there's four of us…"

"We call ourselves the Joker's Wild. Because there's four suites in a deck of cards, eh."

"Dammit, you're doing it on purpose!"

Duncan looked at Miguel in confusion, genuine bafflement written on his face. "Doing what?"

I jumped in before another incomprehensible argument could break out. "So, uh, guys, how exactly do you use your turrets?"

"Oh, it's quite simple really," Duncan replied, waving me over. He was closest to me, so I walked over to stare over his shoulder. "There's just these grips here," he said, wiggling a set of upright handlebars that looked akin to those found on a fancy racing bike. "If you turn them to the side, you turn," the Canadian explained, demonstrating by making the turret twist back and forth. "And if you twist the handles like so," he continued, showing how the guns traversed up and down. "You make the guns go up and down. And these buttons here make the guns go boom."

"Really," Miguel asked from his turret. "'Guns go boom?'"

"You're right," Duncan considered. "I should have said 'guns go bang bang.'"

I turned around to see Miguel throw his hands up in the air. "You're impossible."

"You know you love me."

Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you see it - any further conversation was cut off by a trio of short, whistling honks from the front of the train. A moment later, I felt myself being gently pushed forward as the train started to slow to a halt. Recalling what happened the last time the train stopped, I reached over and grabbed the back of Duncan's chair. Just in time too, as the flatcar jerking to a stop as it came to rest against the buffers of the hospital car. We hadn't been going very fast in the first place, but (what I assumed to be) several tons coming to a stop was nothing to laugh at.

Pushing himself off the edge of the flatcar where he'd been sitting, Bubba turned to look up at me. "Come on Alex. Let's go get our marching orders."

"One moment," I called. I turned back to Duncan and Miguel. "I guess I'll see you guys later then."

"See ya."

"Adios."

Walking over to the edge of the flatcar, I first dropped down to sit on the edge before pushing off in a manner similar to Bubba. Crunching down on the gravel, I took a few steps to catch my balance before straightening up.

I paused, looking up at the mountains looming over me. Strange...I could have sworn I'd seen something out of the corner of my eye. Like a flash or a glint of something. But looking up at the mountain, I couldn't see anything. Must have been my imagination, I guess.

Shaking my head, I turned away and began to follow Bubba up the tracks. I soon forgot I'd seen anything at all.

 

[DocMatoi]

I paused, looking up at the mountains looming over me. Strange...I could have sworn I'd seen something out of the corner of my eye. Like a flash or a glint of something. But looking up at the mountain, I couldn't see anything. Must have been my imagination, I guess.

Click to shrink...

oh dear... someones about to lose... something.

 

[Doctor Squared]

"Who...was that," I asked hesitantly, unsure I wanted an answer.

"That," Bubba replied reluctantly. "Was Gunny Sergeant Samuel Slaughter."

I gaped. I could not have heard that name right. "Samuel...Slaughter."

Click to shrink...

No relation to Rifleman Maxwell "Max" Slaughter.

 

[Strypgia]

No joke, my last platoon sergeant in the Army was Sergeant First Class (Gunnery Sergeant is the Marine equivalent) Michael Slaughter.

I paused, looking up at the mountains looming over me. Strange...I could have sworn I'd seen something out of the corner of my eye. Like a flash or a glint of something. But looking up at the mountain, I couldn't see anything. Must have been my imagination, I guess.

Click to shrink...

Should have said something, kid.

 

[Guardsman_Sparky]

​

I arrived at the front of the train in time to see someone jump a motorcycle off one of the flatcars in front of the engines. Watching the man speed off down the tracks, I tapped Bubba on the shoulder. "Hey Bubba, what's he doing," I asked, pointing at the dust cloud left behind by the motorcycle.

"Who, Tim," Bubba asked. "He's checking the rails, seeing how bad the damage is and how far it goes."

"Oh." I nodded. That made sense. I looked around. I guess we were all just going to wait for Tim to get back, given the way everyone had gathered around Bob and were making small talk. Being the socially uncomfortable person that I was, I simply kept to myself at the edge of the group.

Shortly thereafter, Tim returned, pulling up next to Bob and turning off the motorcycle. "It's not good," I heard him say. "All four main lines are out, most of the sidings too. Damage leads all the way up to the tunnel."

"Damn," Bob cursed. "That's several hundred yards at least. We don't have near enough rail for that. Dinah," he called. "Tell Dieter to get on the horn, see if there's any trains making a rail shipment in the area."

I looked over in the direction Bob was facing to see Dinah standing on the Missus' catwalk, leaning against the railing. "You got it," she called back, pushing off the rail and sauntering into the engine's cabin.

"Strange thing though," Tim said, dragging Bob's attention back to him. "Only the first few dozen yards were torn up. The rest looked like someone packed the inside of the webs with explosives before setting them off. Twisted rails and ballast everywhere."

"Explosives," Bob questioned, utter bafflement coloring his speech. "What kind of maniac blows up the rails?"

"Hey Bob,' Dinah yelled, leaning out of the Missus' open cab door. "We got a bite! A train pulling steel headed for Texas agreed to divert, let us take what we need so long as we pay for the drinks next time we're both in Cumberland Forge."

"Oh," Bob responded inquisitively. "Who is it?"

"You'll love it," Dinah shouted. "It's Clinchfield 800!"

A smile crossed Bob's face. "Really? Well that's great!"

I tapped the shoulder of the worker in front of me. "Hey, uh, what's a Clinchfield 800?"

The worker turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Clinchfield 800? Well, it was before my time, but I think they used to run with us or something? They gots history with the bosses."

"Oh." Interesting little tidbit, that. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

As the worker turned back towards the guy he had been talking to, Bob caught my eye and called out, barking an order.

"Alex! Head over to storage and grab a radio," he commanded. "Climb up top, let us know if you see anything."

I jumped to attention, sketching a sloppy salute. "Yessir!" Time to be the lookout, I guess.

As I turned around and started jogging towards the dry storage car, I heard Bob shout out behind me. "Meanwhile, the rest of you get started. We may not be able to replace it all yet, but we can still get started and tear it up."

I didn't hear the rest of Bob's instructions, because I'd already arrived at the door in the middle of the dry storage car.

Climbing inside, I looked around at the shelves. Let's see...where were the radios again? Over here, I think.

Walking down the aisle and turning the corner, I was rewarded with the boxy forms of the radios. Setting aside my shotgun, I picked one up. Being of prewar vintage, they were square, backpack sized items that looked little more than olive green metal boxes with a set of straps, some dials, a long antenna, and a phone receiver. Which is basically what they were, really. They were also somewhat...heavy. Oof.

Settling the radio unit on my back, I picked up my shotgun and tromped back down the aisle, bent over slightly as I got used to the weight.

Once outside, I took a deep breath. Now all I had to do was get up top. There was a set of rungs leading up the side of the car, bolted to the end of the long side. I looked at them and let out a breath before setting a foot on the lowest rung. Hopefully they'd hold...they looked kind of flimsy for being made of metal. Slowly, carefully, I made my way up the ladder.

Ugh, this radio is heavy.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I hauled myself over the lip of the roof and flopped down. The radio prevented me from falling back so I just sat there for a bit with my legs splayed out.

After a moment to collect myself, I stood up and looked around. So, this was the top of the train. You know, I kind of expected more.

Tucking my shotgun under my arm, I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the radio's receiver. Looking at the receiver, which looked for all the world like the one you'd find on an old telephone, I fiddled around with it until I was rewarded with a burst of static and placed it to my ear.

"Uh, hello. Alex here. Just checking to see the radio works." I paused. "Am I on the right … thingy?" Crap, what were those called again?

The radio crackled. "Hey Alex, you've got the right channel, I can hear you just fine." Oh, channel, that was it. Thank you Dieter.

"Thanks. So...Bob said to let him know if I saw anything." I paused, collecting my thoughts. "What exactly am I looking for?"

The earpiece crackled as Dieter thumbed his transmitter. "Stuff. The relief train, raiders, anything out of the ordinary."

I pursed my lips. Okay, see, I don't know what's out of the ordinary out here. Ugh...screw it, I'll wing it. The relief train or raiders? I can watch for those. I think.

I brought the receiver back to my ear. "Thanks Dieter. I'll, uh, call if I see anything." And with that, I reached over my shoulder and put the receiver away.

Taking my shotgun from under my arm, I held it loosely as I looked around. Nothing over there. Nothing over there. Nothing over there. Oh look! Nothing. Trees. Trees. Mountain. Trees. Tracks. More trees. Bulldozer.

Wait. Bulldozer?

Walking over to the right side of the roof, I looked down to see a yellow, wheeled vehicle with a scoop on the front and a large arm with a bucket on the back pulling up to the machine shop boxcar. As I watched, it drove straight up to the open door and lifted its scoop up to fit through the open side door.

That's...not a bulldozer, that's a tractor. Why'd Bubba call it a bulldozer earlier? After a moment, I shrugged. Maybe he got the terminology mixed up. It's happened to me from time to time. To time. To time to time…

Shaking my head free of that particular train of thought, I watched as the tractor pulled away from the machine shop, a set of claws added to the top of the scoop. Twisting in the center, the tractor turned parallel to the tracks and drove along them. I watched as it passed below me, heading for the front of the train.

So, that must have been Baby Yellow. Cool. You know, there was another vehicle under those tarps. Wonder what it was. Maybe it's a tank...no, that's stupid. How would they even keep one of those things working? It's probably an actual bulldozer, one of those really big ones that's basically just a giant engine with a cab, treads, and a shovel slapped on it.

Though, looking down the tracks towards the vehicle flatbeds, I have to wonder why they haven't pulled it out yet. Maybe it's broken? Farmer Fredericks had one back home, used it to plow his field for years. It broke down when I was young. I remember Farmer Fred was heartbroken about being unable to fix it, all for want of a single replacement part. It's still there in that field to this day, just rusting away.

Now, where was I? Oh, right. Lookout. Nothing that way. Nothing that way. Nothing over there. And...oh look, more nothing. Just trees, trees, and more trees (...haven't I done this already?).

Sighing, I turned back towards the front of the train. The rails curved gently to the left, so I could clearly see what was happening. Bob was overseeing a bunch of the guys in tearing up the damaged rails, digging out the gravel between the ties with hand shovels while the tractor pulled out the loosened ties with the shovel arm on the back.

Looking ahead, I grimaced. Wow, Tim hadn't been kidding when he described the tracks as 'not good.' The rails closest to the train were just knocked out of place and slightly, albeit visibly bent. But past that, there were entire lengths just missing. The gravel mounds beneath the rails (ballast, I think Tim called it) were scattered every which way, scorched craters blown in the line. The rails were, well, they looked more like barbed wire fresh off the spool than anything, all twisted and bowed out, where they weren't broken. As for the ties, some of them were split and splintered, the rest just...weren't, completely gone all together.

Grimacing, I turned back to lookout duty. That looked like a lot of work, very expensive. Huh...expensive...who's footing the bill for this? For that matter, how are we getting paid? Are we getting paid? I mean, we used buttons as a monetary collateral back home, but...

Oh, I'm getting distracted. Back to work. Looking, looking, still a whole lot of nothing.

Urg. This would be so much easier with a pair of binoculars. I should have grabbed one. I mean, there was an entire shelf of them right next to the radios. Right there, I should have...ugh, forget it.

Oh, hey, I could see something. I squinted, shading my eyes from the sun. A hat. Add a hat to the list of things I should have grabbed.

With my eyes shaded, I was able to make out a few details. A train was slowly coming around the curve. Though it was still too far away to catch many details, I was able to make out the general shape and colors of the engines, three diesels that vaguely looked like the Missus and Mistress, painted in worn blue and yellow.

I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the receiver. "Uh, hey Dieter, Bob, you guys there?"

"Bob here. What's up?"

"I got a train coming in, engine colors are in blue and yellow."

"Huh. They made good time. Thanks for the heads up, Alex. We'll be waiting for them."

Setting the receiver back in place, I kept an eye on the oncoming train. Strange. I had a bad feeling all of a sudden.

As the approaching train pulled further around the bend, I noticed two things. First, they were on the same tracks we were. Second...they had no freight cars.

My eyes widened. Oh, that wasn't good. I grabbed the receiver again. "Uh, guys, I think we have a problem," I said as soon as it connected.

At that moment, a hammerblow slammed into my back, knocking me forward. Stumbling, I tried to regain my balance, only for my foot to catch the edge of the roof and slip off.

As a peal of thunder echoed through the pass, I fell.

 

[JennyDracos]

Monetary collateral, eh Alex? Them's some pretty fancy words for a boy down in Cotton Holler. If them's the kinda words your momma been teachin' you, no wonder the Sheriff run you off.

On an unrelated note, it took me two read-throughs to get what Bubba was talking about in that second paragraph. If it's a question, even a rhetorical one like "Who, Tim?" it still gets a question mark. You'd replace a period with a comma at the end of the spoken part, but exclamation marks and question marks stay.

 

[Strypgia]

Somebody just sniped him. Good thing it seems the radio pack took the hit. And the new train coming w/o cars? Something is very wrong.

 

[Guardsman_Sparky]

​

"Sniper! Get down!"

As the ground rushed up to meet me, everything seemed to slow down, to almost stop in place. My heartbeat pounding in my head, my breath leaving my lungs with a gasp. To my left, the oncoming train disgorged a swarm of viciously rough men and women. I saw ragged clothes, makeshift armor, guns. To my right, a behemoth of a bulldozer emerged from the shadows of the tunnel, more rough men and women boiling out of the tunnel around its painted black bulk. Already they were firing, flashes of light flickering among them. My cohorts, scattered, like a flock of pigeons before a striking falcon, scrambling to find cover from the bullets that already flew overhead.

Then I hit the ground, and everything seemed to happen at once.

Gasping in pain, I clutched at my right leg just above the ankle. I'd landed on it funny, and had felt rather than heard the pop. From the pain, I thought it was at least sprained, if not broken.

Puffs of gravel next to me were a grim reminder of the peril I was in. I tried to stand, but my radio pack was weighing me down. Slipping out of the harness, I let the radio drop, the cumbersome contraption falling to the ground as I pulled myself up the side of the converted sleeper car. Though setting my foot down and trying to walk as normal sent jolts of pain up my leg, I found I was able to lurch along if I stood on my toes on that foot.

Gunfire sounded behind me, the 'pop-pop-pop's lending urgency to my limping hobble, even as a deep, chattering chugging booming responded in kind. Gripping my shotgun in one hand and my other supporting me against the side of the train, I cursed Slaughter for giving me a sawed-off. If he'd given me a full sized shotgun, I could have used it as a crutch.

Bullets pocking the side of the car by my hand drew me up short, as did the scream of rage screeching behind me. Spinning around, I beheld a raider charging at me, a short gun with a large drum magazine held in his hands, a wisp of smoke fluttering out the barrel. Pain shot up my leg as I stepped wrong on my bad ankle, only the bulk of the sleeper car against my back keeping me upright as I tried to bring my gun to bear.

With a roar, the shotgun bucked in my hand, and the raider's face disappeared in a splash of red. As the body flopped to the ground and slid to a stop, I pumped the slide, pushing a new shell into the firing chamber even as the old one was ejected. Strange, how that tumbling shell trailing smoke seemed to momentarily hang in the air. Also, when did I load this thing?

More bullets slammed into the side of the train car, too close for comfort as a group of raiders came at me, close enough to see clearly but still far enough that they couldn't just run at me without being exposed to gunfire.

Forcing myself into a stagger, I pumped a few shells out at the raiders to keep them at bay. Unfortunately, doing so unbalanced me, and in trying to catch myself I put my full weight down on my bad ankle. By God, it hurt. Still, it was enough to buy me some breathing room, the raiders diving for cover behind the rise of gravel beneath one of the parallel tracks.

Stumbling along, a single thought repeated in my mind, swirling around like water down a drain. Find Bob. I had to find Bob. Find someone. Anyone who knew what to do. What to do beyond just 'survive.'

Speaking of...

Having fallen off the left side of the train, I had landed within the concave half of the train's gentle curve, granting me a partial side view of the cars past the engines. I also had an almost unbroken view of the car coupled to the front of said engines. The two turrets, bolted to either side of the shed on their flatcar ('caboose', some distant part of my mind corrected idly) were voicing their displeasure, guns blasting away at their respective targets.

The frontmost turret, crewed by a man I had yet to meet and painted with a black heart decal, fired at the group of raiders streaming from the tunnel, bursts of smoke puffing out from each of the four gun barrels like the fiery breath of some metallic, four-headed hydra. The glowing streaks that spewed forth every few shots only added to that mental image, like embers from angry maws.

Several raiders had already fallen to the turret's gunfire, their bodies strewn around the tunnel's mouth. Unfortunately, the surviving raiders had got smart and were huddled behind the blackened hull of the monstrous bulldozer. The turret's bullets were bouncing impotently off the bulldozer's raised scoop, the streaks of light particularly conspicuous as they ricocheted crazily off the oversized curve of solid metal every which way.

The other turret, marked by a black 'shamrock' club and manned by a rather beefy looking woman, was blazing away at the hillside above the tunnel mouth. I had no idea what she was shooting at, but the hill was on fire, so…

Whatever, friendly people with big guns. That spelled safety in my book, or as close as you could get with bullets flying every which way.

Breathing heavily, I hobbled as fast as I could (admittedly, not very fast at all) along the track, bracing myself with my right hand against the side of the train cars. Even with the half-tiptoe gait accommodating my throbbing ankle, I was making decent time. At least, I was until a bullet cracked into the ground by my foot, viciously scattering gravel every which way, some smacking painfully into my good ankle. Instinctively, I lifted up my foot, only to switch feet and clutch at my hurt ankle with a curse. Cursing up a storm (okay, it was more of a wordless yelling, I didn't know that many curses, all right?), I hopped around to see who had shot at me, and beheld a familiar looking group of raiders running at me, guns waving in the air.

Oh, those assholes again. How did I forget about them? Urgh, limping faster.

Also, ow. Stupid ankle.

With renewed determination, I limped along the tracks, hop-skipping as fast as I could to keep ahead of the small mob that I had somehow acquired. I didn't bother taking any more potshots at them, focusing more on staying on my feet and moving forward. A good thing too; had I stopped to shoot at them, I'm sure they would have caught up to me in short order.

Finally, huffing and puffing like an anorexic steam engine (or at least, what I imagine an anorexic steam engine would sound like), I scrabbled to a halt at the caboose, right next to the turret marked with a club. Wheezing uncomfortably, I turned to see my fan club had gotten uncomfortably close.

Turning back around, I began slamming my open palm against the wooden decking of the caboose's extended observation platform. "Hey! Hey," I hollered, trying to catch the turret operator's attention.

It worked, perhaps too well, as the turret rotated to point its guns right at me. For a moment, I just blanked, staring down the black, sooty maws of the heavy guns. Then, the moment passed, and I took a breath and waved behind me, jabbing the barrel of my shotgun at the oncoming raiders. Crap, how did that direction thing work again? Oh yeah. "Seven O'Clock!"

For a brief eternity, I thought I was going to die in a torrent of fire and lead. Then, with a mechanical whir, the turret shifted, aiming above and past me. It opened fire.

The deep, chugging chatter of the guns shook me to the core, resonating in my bones. My teeth were rattling in my jaw, I am sure of it. I clapped my hands over my ears, dropping my shotgun in the process as I vainly tried to block out the deafening roar. The effects of the gunfire on the raiders was much more visceral, the motley crew of men and women just falling to pieces before my very eyes, almost disintegrating in puffs of red, gory mist.

Sighing in giddy relief as the guns ceased firing, I awkwardly knelt down to pick up my shotgun. I had to stretch out my bad leg straight and basically get down on all fours to do it, but I did do it. Shotgun in hand, I started to pull myself up the side of the caboose, only to freeze as I looked under the undercarriage and saw ragged boots thundering along the side of the train.

Popping up as fast as I could, I slammed my palm against the caboose's decking once more. "Other side! Other side!"

Swiveling around with a low whir, the turret opened fire again. Wincing at the sensation of a dozen goblins using my ribcage as a marimba, I squeezed my eyes shut and slid down to sit with my back against the wheels of the caboose. A moment later, I opened my eyes. Huh, the turret was quieter down here, more someone slapping the back of my head than punching me in the temple.

Why am I breathing so fast?

Oh, I think I'm panicking. How odd. Oh gosh, oh gosh. Okay, deep breaths, deep breaths. I have my shotgun, I will be alright. Deep breaths.

A sound caught my attention, distracting me from my panic. A dull, strangely hollow roar, slowly getting louder, and clearly audible over the yelling and gunfire. Clutching my shotgun close to my chest, I looked around, trying to find the sound's source. I quickly found myself staring at the raiders sheltered from the rain of lead, their bulldozer, and the tunnel behind.

From deep in the tunnel behind the raiders' bulldozer, came a light. Starting small, it gradually grew, a tiny pinprick becoming a small star, then a larger one. Slowly, one light became two, and two became four, the sound growing louder as it did so.

Two jeeps burst from the tunnel mouth, the hollow roar of the tunnel morphing into the throaty howl of overstressed engines. Slewing past on either side of the bulldozer, the two jeeps bounced along. Each had a driver, a raider riding shotgun, and a gunner on a machine gun in the back, all hanging on for dear life as the jeeps caromed back and forth across the cratered tracks.

Squeaking in surprise, I pulled my legs in close as bullets stitched across the ground in front of me, the two jeep gunners opening fire with their heavy machine guns. Flopping to the side and half-rolling, half-crawling into the space under the couplings, I watched the jeeps hurtle past, guns blazing as they strafed the train.

Sticking my head out from between the cars, I watched the jeeps weave their way down the length of the train, spraying bullets liberally at the sides of the cars. I could see the progression of the bullets traversing the train, dust and wooden splinters puffing out from the cars with every shot. Then the jeeps were past the last car, an empty flatbed, and swiftly speeding away, the gunners still blazing away.

And then one of them exploded.

Um...what?

As I watched the shattered remains of the jeep fall back to earth like a fiery comet, I woodenly turned my head, tracing the faint trail of smoke that had heralded the vehicle's sudden demise. Though the twisting fumes were already blowing away, they lead right to the other vehicle at the end of the train, the one that remained shrouded by its veils of canvas tarps.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a monstrous bellow, the vehicle heaved free from its constricting prison, the tarps tearing away as does the spider's web before the hulking might of a charging tiger.

An absolute Goliath of a machine with livery in olive green and a single white star on the side trundled forth, continuous tracks with three pairs of suspended idler wheels pulling its vaguely teardrop shape down the length of the flatcars. A round turret sporting a thin, stubby cannon sat ominously on top of the hull, rotating inexorably towards the remaining, fleeing jeep. A large bulldozer blade jutted from the front, hydraulics keeping the slab of metal off the flatcar's deck.

I gaped dumbly at the M4 Sherman, recognizing it from the 'SGT Fury' comics, specifically issue seventeen, wherein Sergeant Fury...erm, sorry, not important.

With a pow that I could feel from where I huddled, the Sherman fired its main gun again, the round visibly streaking downrange as a glowing blur. The round hurtled towards the fleeing jeep, only to dip at seemingly the last second to skip off the ground, ricocheting into the distance as the jeep sped around the bend and disappeared from view.

If the crew of the Sherman were perturbed by the jeep's escape, I couldn't tell. The tank simply trundled down the ramp at the end of the flatcars and began advancing on the raider's train, the coaxial machine gun blazing away at the scattering raiders.

For a moment, I thought that it was over. I mean, we had a tank, an honest to God tank, against a bunch of crazy people in leathers and rusty metal armor. The raiders were shooting back at the Sherman, the bullets sparking uselessly off the armor even as the tank's cannon fired a shot that turned several raiders into so much minced meat. This was the time in the comics where the tables turned, where the good guys rallied and beat the bad guys. Unfortunately, life isn't as simple as a comic book.

Fire blossomed from the side of the tank, and the Sherman ground to halt with a painful shriek of tortured metal, slewing about before coming to rest.

My heart leapt up into my throat as the tank settled into place with a disturbingly organic groan. At this, the raiders rallied, charging forth from whatever holes they had found when the tank presented itself, as hunters will charge a wolf caught in a snare. But like the wolf, though immobilized, the Sherman still had teeth.

Angry hornets spat forth from the becalmed tank's machine guns, their deadly stings wreaking a terrible vengeance on the raiders pouring forth anew. For a time, it seemed that the raiders' assault would be broken, their newfound courage faltering in the face of the Sherman's defiant defence.

Then, like the proverbial lightning, disaster struck again. As the main gun came to bear on the raiders, it was suddenly engulfed in flame as another explosion rocked the tank. As the smoke cleared, the Sherman's cannon was revealed, its barrel peeled open like a banana.

I could only watch in horror as the tank was swarmed.

"Don't move!"

Stiffening up in surprise, I slowly looked up to see a raider in rusted armor standing over me, a short gun with a large drum magazine pointed right at me. He jabbed the gun at me. "Hands in the air!"

Well...shit.

The piercing honk of a train's blaring horn echoed through the pass.

 

[Strypgia]

Stiffening up in surprise, I slowly looked up to see a raider in rusted armor standing over me, a short gun with a large drum magazine pointed right at me. He jabbed the gun at me. "Hands in the air!"

Well...shit.

Click to shrink...

Should have been reloading and paying attention to your immediate area, kid. OTOH, they've already killed a lot of raiders. They can't have been counting on casualties like this. If they had any brains, they'd be running already.

They took out that tank awful fast, though.