Apocalypticon (15 page)

“Put ‘em there for now,” the first Cap said. “We’ll inventory later. Between that fire and the clock, Horace is likely to shit.” The second Cap dropped the clubs and axes to the ground. There was a shuffling sound, then the first Cap said, “Leave it. We’re pulling out.” They walked back to the door, passing Patrick once again without so much as a hesitation, and closed the door behind them. Patrick exhaled.
Thank God. Now I can get back to breaking and entering.

He took stock of the shelves around him. They seemed to contain quite the
mélange
of cargo. Some of the items were impossible to make out in the dark, but he definitely recognized a bag of clothespins, half a dozen jars of either jelly or candle wax, a box of University of Miami - Ohio apparel, a first aid kit, an antique mantle clock, a fax machine, three blenders, a black bearskin rug, and...holy shit, was that a
flamethrower
? “This place is the world’s best, crappiest flea market on wheels,” he muttered.

He got to his feet and explored the rest of the car. Most of the shelves contained items that made sense--stores of food, bottled water, handheld weapons, maps--but he couldn’t figure out why on Earth they were traveling with a
Smurfs
movie poster, or why a St. Alphonsus 1987 yearbook inhabited a place of apparent honor just one shelf above the red wine. Then, of course, there were the barrels of oil, 25 sealed drums that the Caps had somehow crammed into the back corner of the car. There were no shelves for the last twenty feet or so, just two restrooms and a stack of milk crates bolted to the floor in front of the only pair of seats left in the whole car. The cooking oil barrels filled both bathrooms and almost all of the open space in the back of the car.

Having conquered the cargo hold, Patrick decided he might as well jump to the second-to-last car to see if any secrets lay hidden there. He started back down the aisle, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a dark silhouette approach the car door. The Red Caps were back! He panicked and ducked up and to the left just as the door slid open. By some divine providence, the scrape of the opening door covered the sounds of his scuffling into the corner.

He closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

•

As always, Bloom appeared calm, even bored. It only made Horace’s anger boil all the more.

Horace pulled Roland, the senior Red Cap, aside and told him to secure the train and pull out. The Red Cap looked justifiably confused. “Sir?” he said, not quite understanding.

“Secure the train, get us moving,” Horace said again, through gritted teeth. He knew the Cap was capable of moving the train, at least for a little while. Besides, he only needed ten minutes, he told himself. It would take Roland longer than that to get the train secured. Ten minutes, and he’d be rid of Bloom, and they’d be on their way. He’d resume his conductor duties before they moved an inch. And if not, well, Bloom could sit down and shut the hell up until they got to Springfield. As far as Horace was concerned, Bloom was done.

Roland gave a quick salute and ran off to round up the other Caps. Horace didn’t even look at Bloom; he couldn’t. He beckoned with one finger and stalked over to the cargo hold. He wanted privacy for this.

He stepped up and into the dark car and stormed straight past the shelves to his desk. Bloom followed him in at an easy pace. Horace thought he saw a smile on the man’s face as he emerged from the shelves and took up a post against one of the oil barrels. God, he’d never wanted to brain anyone so badly in his entire life. He crossed his arms and tried to focus on the best way to approach the subject. Finally, he said, “Well. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Now Bloom did smile. “Are you my father now?”

“I am your conductor!” Horace shrieked. Christ, didn’t that
mean
anything anymore? “You tell me what the fuck happened out there! Start with what happened to Louis and Stevens and end with why the hell Calico is covered in blood!”

The smile disappeared from Bloom’s face. His lips became razor thin. “I should be asking
you
what happened,” he said, his voice taking a cold, ringing edge.

“How the hell should I know?” Horace cried.

“Because you’re the one who sent us out there, undermanned against an entire goddamn army!”

Horace was exasperated. “What the hell are you talking about? Simms was one man,
one man
, and a philosophy professor, for Chrissake! What in God’s name happened out there? I won’t ask it again!” He smashed his fist on the milk crate, probably breaking his little finger in the process.

Bloom placed his palms calmly on the lid of the barrel he was leaning against. His knuckles turned ghostly white where he gripped the edge. “He had us outnumbered five to one. We made the trade, and his men jumped us. They took off Hammock’s head and stuck it on a pike. A
pike
, Horace. Like Neanderthals. I saw them slit Louis nearly in half. They cut out Stevens’ heart and set it on fire. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? They savaged us. It was sheer luck the rest of us made it out alive. Your crew will mutiny when they hear. Fortunately, I’m prepared to take control of the train.”

Horace literally shook with his rage. “Five to one?” he spat, his voice trembling. “They savaged you?
They
savaged
you
? Why don’t you tell me how it’s your men who came back covered in other peoples’ blood, and how you managed to get away with the full load of weapons, and why not a single one of you has a goddamn scratch!” He leapt up from the bench and flew at Bloom. The Assistant Conductor was easily ten inches taller than Horace, and in much better shape, but Horace’s fury surged through him. He grabbed Bloom by the lapels and shoved him backward over the barrel. “What did you do to them?” he screamed. “What did you do to my men?”

Bloom grabbed Horace by the wrists and twisted. The two men went tumbling over the barrels, knocking them over as they kicked and thrashed. One barrel tipped off its perch atop another and slammed to the ground, missing Horace’s skull by three inches. Bloom punched the conductor in the mouth and used his loss of balance to throw him to the floor. Horace pushed himself to his feet just as the train lurched forward. Roland had gotten it moving faster than he’d expected.

They faced each other across the car, both breathing heavily. Horace’s hands were balled into tight little fists at his side. He was ready to fly at Bloom again, but his assistant merely rolled his head on his shoulders and straightened his lapels. “Here’s the real truth, Horace, whether you’ll hear it or no. It was your contact, your deal, your ignorant shortsightedness that got our boys killed,” he said calmly. “I’ve got a team of Red Caps who’ll swear to it. I pray to whatever gods are left that the fact that your avarice sent those men to that meeting unprepared rips you apart. You’ll live with that knowledge, Horace, and someday you’ll die with that knowledge. Who knows when that day will be,” he added. “Personally, I hope you live forever, you self-righteous, pathetic, insignificant little dwarf, and I hope you see Louis’ weeping, bleeding face in your nightmares. It goes without saying that you’re no longer fit to conduct this train. I want you off before we hit Springfield.”

Horace snorted. “Mutiny, is it? You think you can take the train by force? I’d like to see you try. The men know who keeps them fed. You can stage all the massacres you want, cry foul as hard as you can, you’re still nothing more than a shiftless, murdering coward! The men know it, and they’ll never follow you. You’re no more than a common cutthroat!”

“You’d do well to remember that,” Bloom hissed through clenched teeth. Then he changed tactics, his voice once again becoming flat. “Let me tell you the reality, Horace. You’ve already lost the train. Two out of every three Red Caps are mine. I’ve got men controlling every station stop from here to Dallas. The stations are mine. The route is mine. This train is mine.”

Horace guffawed. “The Red Caps don’t follow you,” he sneered. But even as he said it, memories of the past year flashed in his mind in machine gun-style rapid fire. They’d started the year with more than forty Red Caps, but along the way, they’d lost men, a lot of men, to attacks, to sickness, to accidents, to runners...he remembered those men clearly.

Goddammit, how hadn’t he seen it? Right under his nose, for God knows how long, Bloom had been carrying out his coup. He relaxed his fists. He suddenly felt old and tired. If the men sensed a shift in power, their allegiance would flip quicker than the wind. Power was everything in this world, and Horace’s had just evaporated.

Bloom smelled his victory. He smiled again, though his eyes remained flat and dead. “Time to disembark, Captain,” he said. He gripped the hilt of his sabre and took a step toward Horace, and Horace had no strength to object. Just as Bloom reached for him, they heard an “Ahem” from the stacks. They both whirled around to see that passenger, Patrick, standing in the aisle.

“Er...sorry, am I interrupting something?”

•

Bloom hadn’t planned on the coup happening quite so quickly, but what the hell? Horace gave him an opening, so he charged through it. He had enough men in place both here on the train and along the route to make it happen. And, hell, if he had to put up with the conductor’s goddamned condescension one more day, he’d just kill the bastard and be done with it. He couldn’t wait to throw him off the train. He hoped Roland was bringing her up to full speed.

But suddenly, out of nowhere, was the stowaway. What was he doing back here? Who was guarding the door? Fredrickson? Whoever it was would be off the train with Horace. Bloom could not abide incompetency. On second thought, he should make an example of the guard, really cement his place as Lead Conductor of Horace’s men. He made a mental note to do so, but first he had to deal with the stowaway.

“What do you want?” Bloom asked coldly. Was that a
blender jar
in the stowaway’s hand? If he was here to cause trouble, he was the least threatening figure Bloom could imagine, all bony arms and legs, and a head that looked like it would pop if you pricked it with a pin. And armed with a blender jar.

“I need to talk to you about the battering ram,” he said to Horace.

“Oh,” Horace said dumbly. “Uhm. Okay. What about it?”

“I’ve worked out a few different possibilities for the trajectory infusion system, and I need to know which you want installed. They each have their own benefits, but it really depends on if you want focus on power, or quickness, or durability, or efficiency. Can I show you what I have in mind?”

Horace looked at Bloom. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do we have a second for that, Bloom?” Even now, on the brink of his demise, he was concerned about appearances in front of the passengers. 

Bloom considered the stowaway’s request. He’d been briefed on Patrick’s project, a hydraulic puncture shield to replace the current static plow. Supposedly he could design one that kept the blood off the windshield. If he could really manage that, it’d be a boon for Bloom and his men. He realized that as much as he just wanted to toss the passengers off and get on his way (except that journalist...she had a potential use, on a train full of pent-up males), he stood to benefit from the stowaway’s plans. Plus, he was offering Bloom a chance to make a decision on how the plow worked. Horace would probably opt for efficiency if he had his druthers, but Bloom wanted it to focus on raw force. “All right. Show us,” he said.

Patrick looked around doubtfully. Half of the barrels were knocked to their sides, rolling gently with the swaying train. “We’ll need a little more space. Can we go out to the next car?”

Bloom hesitated. His Red Caps outnumbered Horace’s, but still, if Horace made it past Fredrickson and into the Cap car, things could get messy, and Fredrickson had already proved useless at guarding the way. Then again, the train was fairly confining. If Horace tried to run, he’d have to thread the bottleneck between cars, and Bloom was quicker than the little conductor. “Fine,” he said, to Horace’s apparent surprise. “Make it quick.”

What a thrilling night this is turning out to be
, Patrick thought. Campfires, then a break-in, then narrowly avoiding detection, twice, then a fight between two ridiculous men, and now this.
The apocalypse can be so exciting!
He never saw this much action back in Chicago. This trip was officially a good idea.

He hoped he wasn’t swaying too much. Launching yourself into a fight between two ridiculous men isn’t something you do sober. Luckily, the cache of Kahlua on the bottom shelf, along with the vodka he’d already downed, had helped kick his confidence into gear. It had also sparked his brain receptors, because now he had what was colloquially known as “a plan.”

He led them out the door into the coupler area. Fredrickson, who was pretty decent at counting, looked confused when Patrick burst through the exit. Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work here. Can we get you to move across the way, there?” The Red Cap looked over Patrick’s shoulder to Bloom, who nodded curtly. He went through the narrow connection and stood at the far door. “Perfect!” Patrick cried. “Now. Let’s see.” He paced the width of the opening. The connector was open on both ends, and a cold wind whipped through the space. He held his hands about three feet from each other and did some quick estimating and measurements. “Hm. Yes, okay. Good. This will work. Horace, can you come stand here, please?” He took the conductor by the arm and led him to the edge of the metal platform, just above the steps. Roland was really building up some speed in the engine; stubbly cornstalks and sharp gravel patches flashed past just beyond Horace’s feet. “And now, you hold this,” he said, handing him the blender jar. “And then...let’s see...” He got on his hands and knees and traced imaginary lines on the floor with his finger. “Calculating the trajectory,” he mumbled, “depending on the kinetic force of the pinion...hmmm...” He rocked back and forth on his knees and studied the invisible markings. Finally satisfied, he nodded and climbed back up to his feet. “Okay. So the first option will give us more efficiency. Bloom, if you could stand over here, please.” He ushered Bloom to the opposite edge of the metal platform. “All four options involve the same basic set-up. We install a reservoir at one end, fixed to the engine,” he said, indicating Horace and the blender jar, “with a cylinder of some sort leading to the plow. That’s you, Bloom. You’re the plow.” The man’s face remained expressionless. “Okay, perfect. Excellent plow face. Now, for efficiency’s sake, we’ll use a shorter cylinder. Bloom, if you take a few steps in. Perfect. The water boils in the reservoir, steam builds up in the cylinder, and we release the valve at the end here...” He mimicked opening a valve. “...and by opening it halfway, the plow moves out at a slightly reduced rate of speed, but we conserve water and steam energy. But see, what we can do, if you want more power--let me see that blender, Horace. What we do for more power, okay, is a different kind of valve, and we cap it, like this.” He turned the blender jar on its side so it represented a hollow cap. “Bloom, will you hold this, please?” Bloom reached out and took hold of the jar. “Perfect,” Patrick said. “Thank you. Now, when the force builds up in the cylinder, we throw the quick valve, and the cap explodes forward.” Then he planted his feet, lowered his shoulder, and heaved forward, connecting hard with Bloom and sending him flying from the train. Bloom smacked into an old crossing post as it whizzed past, splintering his ribs and snapping his right arm in half. He fell, unconscious and head-first, onto the gravel siding and slid down into a shallow pool of trackside muck. The train’s Assistant Conductor drowned in four inches of muddy standing water.