Apocalypticon (13 page)

“This is everything?”

“It’s all that’s left of the museum’s collection. I trust they’re up to your high standards,” Simms said.

“If they’re good enough for Indians, they’re good enough for us,” Calico said, picking up a tomahawk. He chopped it through the air. “It’ll do,” he grinned.

Bloom nodded at his Red Caps. “Load them.”

They loosed the knots and unpacked the stacks of books from the cart, tossing them carelessly in a heap despite Simms’ loud and angry protestations. Then they gathered up the weapons, tossed them onto the platform, and tied them down.

“Let me ask you a question,” Calico said. He lifted the brim of his cap, and even in the darkness, Bloom could see the grave distinction between his crystal blue left eye and his dark brown right. So could Simms; he blanched when he saw the unnerving discoloration. Calico showed his teeth and flipped the tomahawk in his hand. “Why you givin’ up these weapons? These days, most people would kill for a blade like this,” he said.

Simms lifted his chin in a show of calm superiority, despite his sudden pallor. “The sharpest weapon in the world is no match for a sharp mind,” he answered, hugging a book to his chest with one hand and tapping his forehead with the other.

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true,” said Bloom. In one fluid motion, he slid the sabre from the scabbard and slashed it through the air. A thin red line appeared across Simms’ neck. His eyes widened in shock. The cut split open, and a thick spray of blood burst from his throat, black and steaming in the cold night. His lips worked soundlessly. Blood gushed as he crumpled to his knees. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he collapsed face-first into a pile of ashes.

“Jesus, Bloom,” Louis cried, “what did you
do
?”

Bloom stepped forward and wiped the blade clean on Simms’ sweater. “I didn’t have a choice. He attacked me.” He slid the blade back into the scabbard and turned to face Horace’s Red Caps. “Then his men attacked you.”

Calico moved like lightning. He leapt into the air, ramped off a fallen bookshelf, and brought the tomahawk down on the crown of Louis’ head. It split the cap and buried deep into his skull with a soft
thunk
. In the same motion, he whirled around to the cart and slipped a heavy club from beneath the ropes. He spun back, club held high, and brought it down hard into Stevens’ cheekbone. The Red Cap screamed in pain and crumpled to the ground, legs thrashing, hands covering the gushing would on his face. Calico stood over him, grinning, and took the club in both hands. He raised it high over his head, then smashed it down on Stevens’ face, again and again. After the third swing, Stevens stopped screaming. Calico pounded the man’s broken hands into his own sinus cavity, gore and chunks of bone shooting through the air and sticking to the wooden club. With a final blow, he caved in Steven’s forehead, sending brain matter squelching out of the eye sockets. Calico stood up tall, covered in blood, breathing heavily and smiling. “Weapons win,” he said with a wink.

Bloom signaled to Hammock. “You. You’re off the train. This stop is yours. Stay here, secure the campus. Start with the recreation building. Put down anyone who gets in the way.”

Hammock beamed at the honor. “Yes, sir! And what do we do with these books?”

Bloom lowered his calm gaze to the little pile. “Burn them.”

•

Ben felt pretty damn good. He had a full can of chili and almost a third of a bottle of vodka in his belly, and between the hot food, the booze, and the fire, he was warm, inside and out, for the first time in years. The company wasn’t so bad, either. Lindsay was right, the hippies weren’t really
that
hippyish, mostly just even-tempered college kids. No one seemed interested in discussing their favorite obscure Swedish indie band, and not a single one of them owned a Hacky Sack. They’d dodged a bullet there. A few of the kids at their fire were actually pretty funny, and it was nice to be outside, looking up at where the stars would be if they could see through the fog. Even a dark haze was better than the stucco condo ceiling. The air outside was fresh, by post-apocalyptic standards, and the way people laughed and told stories around the fire, hell, it was almost like old times. Just a few square miles from normal. His face still hurt like a mother, despite the alcohol, and he was still going to kick Patrick squarely in the balls as soon as he got a clear shot, but, all in all, things were good.

The kids around their fire called it a night. They wished the travelers well, then scooted out into the darkness, toward the campus. Ben passed the vodka to Patrick, who took a long swig. He was turning red in the cheeks, a good sign that he’d had almost enough to start making a fool out of himself. That made Ben happy too. No one made a drunken fool out of himself like Patrick made a drunken fool out of himself. Patrick turned to hand the bottle to Lindsay, but she was suddenly gone. “Hey. Where’d she go?” he asked.

“She’s over there, talking to the Ruby Slipper Gang,” he said, pointing to a group of girls around the fire, each one of whom wore her hair in braided pigtails.

“Man,” Patrick said, blinking hard. “She talks a
lot
.”

Ben nodded vigorously. “Yeah, she does. I thought journalists were supposed to be good at listening.”

“I know, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s totally nice.” Patrick tipped back the bottle, then handed it to Ben.

“Oh, yeah, sure, no, she’s nice,” Ben agreed wholeheartedly. “I just don’t really want her to talk anymore. Is that a mean thing to say?”

“No-no-no-no-no,” Patrick said. “It’s the right thing to say, you know why? You know why? ‘Cause it’s the
truth
. And the truth is always right.”

“Yeah,” Ben slurred. “We’re right.” He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, blowing across the mouth of the bottle. The low
woooooooooo
carried across the platform. Someone with another bottle at another fire answered with a higher-pitched
wooooooooo
. Ben raised the bottle to toast his new friend. “The Red Caps seem to like her,” he observed.

“Who?”

“The Red Caps.”

“No, they seem to like who?”

“Whom.”

Patrick sighed. “They seem to like
whom
?”

“Lindsay.”

“Ah!” Patrick slapped his knees with his hands. “Yes. They do. You know why? Because she is a female who does not ignore them. That’s a Red Cap’s kryptonite.”

Ben pondered this for a moment. “That sounds like
my
kryptonite,” he said.

“It’s
all
men’s kryptonite,” Pat admitted. “If it looks like a woman, and smells like a woman, and talks like a woman, and is a woman, we like getting attention from it.”

“Until we get too much attention from it,” Ben added.

“Yes. There’s a fine line there. Not many women can walk it.”

“I should date a tightrope walker,” Ben mused. “That would be stupid hot.”

“Are you sure you’re not thinking about a contortionist?” Patrick asked, squinting into the fire. “That’s the hot kind of circus performer. Tightrope walkers are just regular people who can walk a straight line. They’re like sober versions of me. But contortionists!
Ooo-wee!
”

“What do you think it would be like to date a fire eater?” Ben asked. “Do you think she would taste like gasoline?”

Patrick squinted at his friend. “Why would she taste like gasoline?”

“Because that’s what they put in their mouths. To spit fire.”

“Wow, no, that is extremely wrong.
Extremely
wrong. Gasoline is definitely not what they use.”

“Yes, it is,” Ben insisted. “It’s flammable.”

“Yes, it is flammable. Highly flammable. If they put gasoline in their mouths and spit it onto fire, their heads would literally explode. They use paraffin.”

“How do you know that?”

“How
do
I know that?” he frowned. “Oh! I learned it! In Coney Island, at the freak show.”

“I want to go to Coney Island,” Ben complained.

“No, you don’t. No one wants to go to Coney Island.”

“Well, whatever. Do you think she’d taste like paraffin?”

“You mean...in the mouth? Or...?”

“Yes, you moron, obviously, in the mouth,” Ben said. “Unless...hmm...” He sat back and sipped thoughtfully.

Patrick shrugged. “She probably would. Unless you kissed her while she was spitting fire. Then it would still taste like paraffin, but really
spicy
paraffin.”

Ben snickered. He didn’t know why that was so funny. It was probably one of Patrick’s least funny jokes. And the man told a
lot
of unfunny jokes. Still, Ben laughed. It just felt so good to be sitting outside, drinking by a fire. It reminded him of grade school.

“Why do they let her move through the train?” he asked.

“Who? The contortionist?” Patrick made grabby hands for the bottle. “
Bemme
.” Ben obliged him.

“No, Lindsay. How come she gets to move around, and we don’t?”

“I don’t know, Benny Boy, but I tell you what. That train car is
boring
.” Ben nodded. That train car
was
boring. He was glad they were only taking it as far as St. Louis. He wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to transport themselves the rest of the way to Orlando, but he was glad it wouldn’t be in the train.

“Last time I rode Amtrak, they let you move around all you want,” Patrick said. “This new Amtrak is bullshit. No food service? Really? I demand my microwavable cheeseburger in a bag!” he cried, stomping his foot. A few kids from the other fires glanced their way, concerned. Patrick smiled and waved to them. He pointed to the bottle, then made the universal hand sign for
Oh, it’s fine
.

Ben picked up a twig from the nearby woodpile and held it into the fire. When the tip caught, he pulled it out, blew out the flame, and waved the ember-tipped stick through the air, making streaking light patterns in the darkness. “It’s weird that we can’t move around. Do you think they’re hiding something from us?”

Patrick crossed his legs and leaned forward. “I’m glad you asked. The thought had crossed my mind. Exhibit A. Did you see the load of books those Caps carted off when we stopped? Where did those books come from?” Ben shrugged. “I’ll tell you where. They came from that train.” He pointed dramatically to the engine behind them. “Do you know what that means?”

Ben thought hard. The edges of his brain were starting to go soft, and reasoning was becoming a chore. “Amtrak employees are really well read?”

“No. Well, maybe. Yes. Possibly. Also, one of these cars is being used to store things. Wonderful things, like books. And who knows what else.”

Ben beckoned for the bottle. “What’s your point?”

Patrick threw up his hands in exasperation. “My point is, our fearless leader has a car full of treasure, and he’s actively trying to keep us away from it. And if spending several years as a child who anticipated Christmas taught me anything, it’s that if someone’s trying to keep you out of a storage closet, it’s because there’s a very wonderful present inside.”

Ben sat up straight. “You think they have something wonderful inside?”

“I do,” Patrick said smugly, crossing his arms.

“Like a helicopter or something?”

“Well, not that wonderful. Something a little more modestly sized.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I have no idea. But I think we’ve earned the right to find out.”

Ben took a sip and realized that he thought they should find out, too. It wasn’t fair, their being quarantined to the one railcar, when literally everyone else on the train got to roam around as they liked. Even Lindsay! Why did
she
get to visit the storage car? She was a journalist, someone whose career was built upon being nosy and pushy and expository. But she could be trusted with the storage car, and they couldn’t? Absurd! It had to be an oversight. He said as much to Patrick. “Maybe we should just ask Horace if we can look around.”

“No way!” Patrick shook his head so hard it practically fell off. “That’s a sure way to make him think that we want to take a look around.”

Ben was confused. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. If he knows we want to look around, maybe he’ll let us look around.”

“No, you clod! If he knows we want to look around, then he’ll try even harder to make sure we
don’t
look around. We’ll have a full-on Red Cap army guarding our seats. Is that what you want? To bring the entire Red army into our car? To ride to St. Louis in the Communist country of train cars?”

Ben had to admit that nothing about that sounded particularly fun. He was having trouble remembering specifics about Communists at the moment, but he had a vague recollection that they wore military lapels and beat people about the face with large automatic weapons. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

Patrick closed his eyes and tipped his round head back. With his legs crossed and his thin hands on his bony knees, he looked like a disproportionate yogi searching for enlightenment. He inhaled deeply. In doing so, he sucked down a lungful of wood smoke and convulsed into a fit of coughing and choking. Ben jumped up and started
whapping
him on the back. Patrick’s face turned bright red. His eyes streamed water. He pointed to the bottle of vodka. Ben handed it to him. He took a huge gulp and stopped coughing immediately. Lindsay craned her neck from across the platform and looked over with a combination of concern and pity. Patrick gave her the thumb’s up.