The Children of Old Leech: A Tribute to the Carnivorous Cosmos of Laird Barron (43 page)

Boxcars. The classic hobo ride still good after all these years. Dumont rested on his back several minutes as the train picked up speed. But he could not ignore the door for long. Another of Jonny Ben’s basics was when riding in a boxcar always wedge the door open with a spike in its track. If the door slid shut on a slope somewhere it might be months before anybody opened it again and found the withered mummy of your corpse.

Problem was the rusty spike he carried for just this purpose was in the pack he lost. He had nothing but the book and the guitar and neither seemed right for the job. The floor of the boxcar around him was all bare, but in the shadowed rear he saw a dark mound of lumps and sticks. Might be something there he could use. If not, he had major problems.

He rolled onto his right side, rose and shuffled toward the neglected heap. He had to hold his lighter down close but he saw quick it wasn’t sticks.

The mound of rags and bones rose two feet high, all dismal black and tarry. A scatter of broken skulls made it clear at least the majority were human. He saw a dogskull too and something else he couldn’t identify, a skull with five eyeholes, incomprehensible in shape and over three feet long.

Repressing his first impulse to retreat yet again, he scraped out a dehydrated thought and nodded, bent to tug loose a knob ended long bone from the general mass. A black tarry nastiness coated it all over and it stuck a couple seconds in the rags of the pile before it came free.

Prize in his hand he bopped for the side of the train, set the bone at an angle between wall and floor then stomped it hard with booted heel, once, twice. On the second shot it shattered along a long jagged angle though the two pieces hung together. Dumont took the broken bone in hand and slammed it against the boxcar’s wall till one half fell free. He soccer kicked the fragment out the door and jammed the piece he held point end first into the track, stamping his heel down on the joint end once, twice, three times so it was good and set.

That done he stepped to the side opposite the door, dipping to retrieve his guitar, and slid down against the wall where he could stare out the open door. He hadn’t even reached the floor before it hit him just how beat he was, how whipped and weak and worst of all dehydrated. Hungry too but he could handle that. At least for now. All the crazy shit he’d scene, monsters, slug punks, whole fake towns… was it all just poison or dehydration? Could any of this craziness be real?

Missy walked over and laid her head in his lap. Poor girl. She had to be as bad off as he. Her food had all been lost with his pack. He dug the remaining bottle of water from his pants and dribbled it into her mouth in fits till it was gone, saving only the final sip for himself.

Outside a wooded landscape rolled on by. Engines and even grainer foxholes might be more comfortable, but an open boxcar really was the way to ride. Dumont felt connected to the old time
’
bos of the depression in a boxcar, back when riding freights was almost respectable. He loved the scenery he could see like this. Trains were a different world. They moved through night and day, they were neither here nor there, they traveled forgotten parts of the country. Once crossing Georgia he swore he saw a Civil War battle out the door of a boxcar just like the one he rode now, the blue and the gray, bloodied bodies, cannons firing and the low fog of smoke from ordinance everywhere just overhead.

The wall of trees on this route stretched on for miles, something he never saw riding out from Albuquerque and El Paso, where empty spaces came in a thousand shapes, sometimes trucks or trailers or dim toiling figures in the distance but little else to mark. Here the trees approached dense and sudden just outside the right of way, interrupted only as the train passed nameless towns where the backs of buildings displayed elaborate graffiti as they faced the tracks. Slowly wisps of smoke threaded in, outliers of some forest fire or perhaps simply fog.

The scenery revived memories from when he counted his age in single digits, how he’d take his temporary escape from his foster brothers into the undeveloped country west of their rundown neighborhood on the seedy south Cerrillos side of Santa Fe. He would run out and into the pink-brown sand and scattered sage till the houses behind were the dimmest strip then crouch behind bushes or in a shallow arroyo, sometimes bruised and bleeding still, crying and poking in the sand with a branch. He never drew anything, but he watched the large dark beetles that came and went, occupied on cryptic errands known only to themselves. No matter how far he followed them he never saw them eat or sneak down any holes. They just walked and walked—unless he got too close and they hiked up their butts, extruded bits of foul orange tube. If you tried to pick them up and they rubbed that nasty odor onto you it took several days to wash it off.

He had his own idea about where to go next. He was still heading east, he was pretty sure of that much, and would have to hit the coast or Florida soon. If Missy and he could make their way to Tampa they could catch a juice train. Word was Tropicana ran
three
juice trains a day, one to Jersey, one to Ohio, and one all the way to L.A. Fastest things on rails, right of way all the way and forcing even the fastest freights to side out. He’d never ridden one and he heard from Jonny Ben they were hard as hell to hop, with Missy most of all, but if they could, any of the three would carry them far beyond the Riders’ reach. Despite whatever fam he might have in Jersey, Cali seemed the best bet, a straight shot back across the country in only two days and far far away from Marlo and his crew. Dumont was sure he could shake the Shadow Riders then.

A thick fog ruled beyond the doors. He stepped closer to the opening so he could inspect it. The mist looked close enough he could run his fingers through it if he only leaned out but he felt somehow that would be unhealthy. Instead he withdrew, positioned himself half behind the boxcar’s door as if it could shield him. Light flashed at intervals inside the smoky curtain, red and pink and without visible source. With each pulse something like veins lit within the vapor, red branching networks glimpsed for a moment and lingering briefly as afterimages, seeming to follow the direction of their travel. Down below the tie ends blurred by, the gravel bed beneath them an uncertain blur. The train swept on through this medium for hours, the better part of a day perhaps. Dumont strode across the car, far away from the tarry tangle of bones and clothes, curled up best he could and slept. Twice he awoke and each time still saw the same weird fog outside. He wondered if it was just him or the engineers saw it too. What they made of it if they did. He wondered if this train even had engineers anymore…

He unbuttoned his sleeve and slipped out the
Crew Change
figuring to see what it said about the juice trains and the Tampa yard, at least get some guidance from this thing that caused him so much grief and cost maybe three lives already. Only when he opened it the lines seesawed left and right and the size of the type itself shrank and swelled in his tired and crusty eyes. He tossed it down beside him in disgust and saw Missy shy away from it. Fuck it. He got on fine without a Crew Change all this time. He didn’t need one now.

He lifted the guitar instead, propped it on his thigh, drew the last pick from his pocket—at least he hadn’t lost that—began to strum out some chords. The thing was way out of tune—carrying it by the neck hadn’t helped no doubt. He powered through the song anyway. One of his own. No title
’
cause he hated titles. Titles were labels and he had enough of labels already. No chorus either. Fuckin’ knowitalls always asked him where was the chorus, where was the bridge, and he’d say why do I need a chorus if I’m all alone, why do I need a bridge if I ain’t goin’ nowhere?

Freight trains and whiskey is all that I need

Cause I’m far away from my home

Whiskey keep me warm train roll me along

I’m all alone right now

Spare some fuckin’ change right now

Cause I’m hoppin’ on and I ain’t comin’ back

I’m hellbound for the devil’s plains

I’m just a loner who’s gone insane

I just watch those wheels spin as I’m carried to my grave

I live for the moment I live for today

Salvation is a thousand miles away

Knowin’ me I’m not gonna stop

I just keep on rollin’ on

Freight trains and whiskey is all that I need

He wrote that a year or so back after finding this bullshit Christian tract called
The Hellbound Train
in another boxcar he rode. He did not miss out though on how the lyrics suddenly became more true. He understood irony and it seemed to be gunning for him most of the time.

Missy perked up as he played. He could never decide whether she liked his playing, but she always listened at least.

—You like that girl? He half expected her to nod but she didn’t. —Anyway, I’m not really alone so long as I got you. He shrugged. —It’s just a song.

Dumont set the guitar beside him. He knew before he looked up Marlo was in the doorway. He hung there, same way a spider hangs from a strand of web. Except Dumont couldn’t see any web, no rope, no wire, no line.

—Listen to the schwag bitch.

Dumont didn’t reply, didn’t move. He calculated distances, angles, steps and times. He peered beyond Marlo, alert for the appearance of other Shadow Riders.

—
You
were just s’posed to be meat, you and your little girlfriend, just another delivery. Now you’ve got
their
attention. They’ve gone back to watch you. Forward and back. You’re starting to grow on them. They want to meet you. I say fuck that, you’re not growing on
me
, and I still call my own shots on this side.

Marlo slid all the way to the floor, took two steps toward Dumont. The Rider had his K-Bar out again, obscure hieroglyphs etched into the blade of the old military knife.

Missy growled. Marlo advanced. Missy barked.

Marlo paused. —You should get your bitch on a leash,
bitch
. They want her too you know. But I say no. You know that’s not happening either. I’ll take care of her when I’m done with you.

Dumont hissed —No, Missy. He didn’t want her running at Marlo, getting cut. He was gonna handle this himself. Dumont did not rise however, hardly moved. Marlo took three more steps and scoped the
Crew Change
on the floor at last.

—Fuckin’ bitch I knew you had it all along. Well, time—

Though his angle sucked Dumont arched up and swung the guitar hard as he could, took Marlo just below the left knee. The soundbody crunched and crumpled as the Rider went to his knees. Dumont got full on his feet then, striking down at Marlo with the shattered body first then just the neck when the rest fell loose.
This machine kills fascists
. Right? Missy barked and lunged but held from attack. Marlo scrambled back on buttocks, hands and feet, crabwalking away from this onslaught of wrecked lacquered wood, the guitar itself dying by crunches and groans till even the flat-pegged head dropped from Dumont’s hand.

Almost to the door, Marlo rose and shook himself free of shattered fragments, smiled at Dumont, brought the K-Bar to the level of his hip, advanced.

Hands empty, Dumont still held his ground, Missy barking but keeping back of his knees. —All this for a
Crew Change
, Marlo? Can’t be that hard to get another…

Marlo paused a second and laughed —Bitch, you think that’s a
Crew Change
? Ha!

Dumont bent to lift the rough bound book in his left, fixed his gaze on Marlo’s face, targeting the raw red scar that crept up his chest and neck to twist along beside his nose.

—Giving it back is not enough now Du-mont. You and that mutt are gonna—

Dumont flung the book toward the door to Marlo’s left, flat like a frisbee, hard as he could. The Rider batted at it with one hand and managed to knock it back to the floor. Dumont rushed forward tugging the tail of the faded blue bandanna that hung from the chest pocket of his weathered jacket, dragging free his smiley, a plated steel padlock tied at the end of the cloth. As Marlo groped on the floor for the book Dumont swung the smiley at the back of his head.

The makeshift weapon’s impact felt oddly blunted, dragging across the Rider’s skull instead of rebounding with a crack. Marlo spun and shrieked at Dumont, his mouth grown impossibly wide though not round like the slug punks in the town behind them. Instead his whole face split along the scar that ran from his neck to create an irregular quavering gash.

Fixed on that mouth Dumont failed to block the K-Bar when Marlo brought it up and slid it into his guts. Despite the instant waves of pain he struck Marlo’s knife wrist with the smiley and heard bone crack like the Rider’s skull had not. Marlo lost his grip on the knife though his mouth had grown gigantic now, big as the bell of a tuba. He leaned toward Dumont as if to engulf him as Dumont himself collapsed to his knees.

Marlo’s mouth spread like smoke, filling over half of the doorway now and expanding. Dumont felt his hand on the book, dropped the Smiley and yelled —Marlo, here goes your fuckin’ book! and lobbed it low off the train. It struck the veiny mist beyond and hung there, shot away with their passage. Marlo spun the meaty bloom of his face to follow it and overbalanced as the book zipped from sight. Dumont flopped back, cocked both feet from the knees and slammed them straight against the pockets of Marlo’s Levis even as he gasped at the pain from the blade embedded below his ribs.