Apocalypticon (14 page)

“Jesus, are you okay?” Ben asked.

Patrick wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m more than okay, Ben. I just had a spirit vision.”

Ben looked around. He didn’t see any spirits. “What, just now?”

Patrick nodded. “It came to me in the smoke. It was the spirit of the Illinois.”

“The state?”

“The culture.”

“Did he smell like corn?”

“She, Ben. It was a she.”

“Did she smell like corn?”

“No, she did not. She smelled like glory.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me that the last train car is the storage car, and that within that storage car, there are great wonders to behold. She told me I would see inside that storage car because it is my destiny. And she told me how I would do it.”

Ben had to admit, he was impressed. “She said all that?”

“Yes.”

“So how do you do it?”

“First, we get our hands on that cooking oil in the engine. You’ll need it to create a diversion.”

•

Horace flipped the page on his clipboard and continued down the list. Seven four-ounce containers of salt.
Check
. Two cases of 20 ounce red Solo brand plastic cups.
Check
. Five walkie talkies, sans batteries.
Check
. 57 packets of DeKalb corn seed. He counted 54. He counted a second time and got 55. He counted a third time. 55. He counted a fourth time. Satisfied, he made two red marks next to the line item on his sheet. Hopefully, the two missing packets had slipped off the shelves at a lurch. He’d check when he was done with the inventory. If he couldn’t find them, they’d have a round-up in Springfield, and that would put the train behind schedule.

He moved to the next shelf. 15 used pocketknives, varying sizes and conditions.
Check
. One coil of wire, 7 feet long. The coil was present, but there was no way to measure its length without unspooling it. He picked it up and examined the tip. It showed a clean cut and was still black from where he’d burned it when he first entered it into the list. If someone had snipped off a length, he had done so with a sharp pair of wire cutters, the likes of which didn’t exist on the train, as far as Horace knew, and had duplicated the burn mark, something almost no one would even think to check for in the first place. The odds of it happening were slim. Satisfied, he scribbled a checkmark on the list.

Horace enjoyed doing inventory. It calmed him. He didn’t need to think in order to check their stores, and that lack of mental machination was exactly what he needed right now. Because if he started thinking, he would think about his frustration with Bloom, and the more he thought about his frustration with Bloom, the more likely he would be to blow up at him in front of the men when he returned, and one thing a conductor does not do is belittle his Assistant Conductor in front of the Red Caps. He and Bloom would have a calm, civilized, and, most importantly, private chat when he returned.

Horace checked his watch. Bloom and his men should have been back twenty minutes ago. It was a simple exchange, and the campus practically bordered the train station. His temper flared. He took five deep breaths, his heavy exhales fluttering the handles of his mustache. He still had a little over ten minutes before Bloom’s inattention to time would put them behind schedule. With time to load the new weapons, gather the passengers, secure the train, and fire the engine, they would be cutting it close. They could probably make up some time on the way, but you never knew what was waiting for you on the tracks these days. Not having a safety cushion annoyed him to no end.

He moved on to the next shelving unit, standing on the tips of his toes in order to peer over the top shelf. He continued marking his marks but found himself idly wondering about the new passenger’s progress on the hydraulic battering ram. He’d hoped to sit down with the young man and have a chat during this stop, but he was so irritated by the argument he’d had with Bloom before he and his men headed to the campus that he decided to do an inventory instead. It was in need of doing anyway, especially if there were two seed packs missing. He’d grab a few minutes with Patrick--was that his name? Patrick?--during the Springfield station stop. If they could still
afford
a Springfield station stop.

He finished the inventory quickly and methodically. He hung the clipboard on the hook by the front car entrance, then he returned to the middle row of shelves and lowered himself to all fours. He peered under the shelf but could see nothing in the darkness. He stuck his hand underneath it and wiped it along the floor, brushing away grit and dust bunnies and--ah! There! He slid the two rogue seed packs out and replaced them on their rightful shelf. He walked back to the list by the door and scratched out the two marks next to the seed entry. Satisfied, he crossed to the back of the car, where his cap rested on the stack of milk crates that served as his desk. He pulled out his watch once again and checked the time. His insides boiled, but he fought to retain his calm. One of the men might be watching him from the platform. But Bloom was far past the point of unacceptable tardiness. Horace had half a mind to leave him behind, him and his entire entourage, the handful of Red Caps that followed him like puppies wherever he went. He didn’t trust them, not a whip, and especially not that Calico. The Devil’s Eye, his grandmother would have called his ocular condition. When he was a boy, Horace’s nana kept goats on her farm, and one of them had the same mismatched irises. “The Devil’s Eye,” she’d said, “a demon incarnate.” The goat had seemed calm enough, but Horace could see more than a bit of the devil’s work in Calico. Oh, he had half a mind to leave them behind, all right. He might do it, too, leave them all here to rot, if it weren’t for Louis and Stevens. They were good men, loyal to the train, and he wouldn’t leave them to the same fate.

Besides, for all his thoughtlessness, Bloom was a capable Assistant Conductor. The train was safe in his hands, as long as Horace was around to keep an eye on him. He’d have a hell of a time replacing him from the current stock of Red Caps. Not that they weren’t able workers, but there was no conductor spirit about any of them.
Wouldn’t hurt to start looking for a man to groom, though
, he thought, staring at the watch.
Just in case...

He picked up his cap and fitted it snugly on his head. He checked his reflection in the mirror and straightened the brim. He was just about to button up and head back outside to prepare the platform crew for departure when a sudden spark of light flickered in the dead cornfield outside the window. The spark instantly roared into a full-fledged fire that spread across the stubbled ground with lightning speed. The flames flared into a billowing wall of orange and yellow heat that engulfed the entire window. The flames were close enough to the train car that he could already feel the window warming under his fingertips. He stared dumbfounded at the roaring fire for almost ten full seconds before one tiny sentence clicked in his head.

The cooking oil.

Uncontrolled fire was always a serious threat to the train; there was enough diesel fuel in the engine to blow the thing to pieces. That was why the supply car was the last car, out of range of any serious explosions that might flare up front. But now there were 25 sealed barrels of combustible cooking oil in the supply car. If the fire got close enough to heat the fuel to its flash point, all their cargo, the entire train, Christ, the entire
station
, would go up in flames! He didn’t know the combustible temperature of cooking oil, but he sure as goddamn wasn’t going to sit here and find out.

He hustled to the door, glancing off the corner of a shelving unit in his rush. He paused between the cars and assessed the fire. It wasn’t as close to the train as it had seemed from inside the car. That was good. But a stiff wind could change that in a second. If he could pull the train up a few hundred yards, they’d clear the danger zone enough to buy them the time they’d need to get everyone on board and lock up the train.
Dammit, Bloom, where are you?

He was just about to hop down from the cars and run to the engine when something snagged in his brain, something about the way the fire had grown. He looked out again, more closely. The flames had spread in a straight wall parallel to the train tracks. But now, looking carefully, he could clearly see breaks in the wall. Every fifty feet or so, the flames disappeared for a few feet, then started back up again, stretching another fifty feet. He could also see several lines of flames shooting back west, almost perfectly perpendicular to the main wall before him, but the field wasn’t completely engulfed in flame. The fire was burning in high, wild, but
controlled
lines.

Horace’s eyes narrowed behind his lenses. He turned and climbed up the metal footholds stamped into the outside of the car. He pulled his way up to the roof of the train, cursing his poor physical condition. He scrambled to his feet when he reached the top and turned to look out over the field.

He was right. The fire was controlled. Extremely controlled. Below him, spelled out in walls of fire eight feet high and stretching the length of an entire football field, was the word
HELL
.

•

Patrick watched the conductor’s feet disappear over the top of the train car. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. There were people everywhere, but they were all in such a panic over the fire, no one was paying him any attention. Red Caps and college students alike ran around calling for water and shouting orders and expletives at each other.
Well done, Benny Boy. Well done.

He leapt up onto the coupler and slipped into the last car. He quietly slid the door shut behind him, testing it to make sure he wasn’t locking himself in. Satisfied, he brushed his hands together and smiled confidently.
James. Effing. Bond.

“Ooo-wee,” he said, giving a low whistle as he walked through the car. It was built like the other passenger cars, but the inside carried some serious modifications. The seats had all been removed and replaced with stacks and stacks of metal shelving units, which lined both sides of the aisle. They were bolted firmly into place at the floor, the ceiling, and the outer walls. Patrick grabbed the edge of one and shook it with all his might. The metal didn’t budge.

The shelves were all labeled on the aisle side like library stacks, A to K on the left, L to V on the right. Each unit held six shelves, and each shelf was divided into two compartments. Each compartment was numbered, 1 through 12. He inspected the shelves immediately to his right, M1 through M12, and instantly realized why Horace didn’t want them traipsing around the train. The M shelves were loaded with cases of alcohol. On further inspection, he found that the same was true for shelves N, O, and P. They were crammed full of booze. The cases were separated neatly according to type and, in some instances, subdivided by brand. He let his eyes wander over the shelves, involuntarily emitting soft, dreamy sighs as he reached out and touched sealed cases of Johnny Walker Black, Johnny Walker Red, Buffalo Trace, Bulleit, Early Times, Knob Creek, Gosling’s, Captain Morgan, Belvedere, Three Olives, Beefeater, Smirnov, Bombay Sapphire, Sauza, 1800, Casa Noble--he stopped when he felt his eyes getting wet. He scrubbed at them with the hem of his shirt, embarrassed to be getting so emotional over liquor. It’s not even that he wanted it that badly (though he did want it all, pretty badly), but he was just so glad a stash like this existed. Regardless of who would enjoy them, there were completely full, unbroken, unsmashed, unopened bottles of quality alcohol in this post-apocalyptic shithole of a country, and, dammit, that was worth a tear or two.

Just then, a loud, panicked voice floated past the car, and Patrick realized that he was standing right in front of a window. “Cripes!” he said, diving to the floor. So much for James Effing Bond. More like Mr. Effing Magoo. He lay still on the floor, his ear pressed against a heap of hard dirt crystals. He screwed up his mouth in disgust. It was official; vodka still didn’t make him any smarter. But, hey, it had gotten him into worse scrapes, hadn’t it?

He pushed himself slowly off the floor and crouched under the window. He peeked out through the bottom corner. He was facing the platform opposite the fire, and he guessed most of the people who had been sitting there around their friendly little fires had scampered around the train to watch the huge, terrifying, dangerously exciting fire on the other side. The platform was almost empty, save for a small group of Red Caps approaching from the north. He shied away from the window and whispered, “Shhhhh!” to no one in particular. He deduced that these Red Caps were Bloom’s men, mostly because he saw Bloom bringing up the rear. One of them was pulling the cart, now full of sticks and axes instead of books. Patrick began to turn back to the shelves when one of the Red Caps stepped into the light of a campfire. His white shirt was covered in blood. From the way he carried himself, it wasn’t his own. And was Patrick misremembering, or was the party smaller now than it was when they left? The vodka made his memory cottony, but he was pretty sure there should be more men out there. Something had happened on the campus. It probably had something to do with hippies.

By the time he realized they were about to enter his car, they were already climbing the stairs. He cursed under his breath and dove across the aisle. The rows were darker on that side of the train, if only slightly. He kept himself low to the ground and disappeared as far into the shadows as the space would allow. One of the Red Caps entered just as Patrick pulled his legs up under his chin. “Let’s get them things stowed ‘fore that fire takes flight,” the man said. Patrick heard a scraping sound and several grunts. A second man was bringing up an armful of weapons. Patrick squeezed a hand over his mouth to keep his breathing quiet. The two men walked past his row without looking in. They walked down to row H. Patrick could just make our their movements through the spaces in the shelving units.