I. The Train Yard
The night sky was starless, an obsidian mirror reflecting the dull expanse engulfing the world beneath. Jack Fleming didn’t notice. He also didn’t hear the fixed rumbling of a train, pulsed by staccato bursts of fiery energy, passing through the yard two football fields’ lengths to the south. Nor did Jack notice the car speeding up behind his own. The sedan traveled without the help of its lights, the engine muted by the train. Then about a car’s length behind Jack, the headlights ignited, forcing his recognition. His mind had been sorting through the many mistakes he had made over the previous three hours. He added his unawareness to the list.
The car, now alongside Jack, swerved to the right. The scraping of the two cars produced a hideous yawn. Jack turned his steering wheel to roll with the impact and absorbed the collision, but the interloper swerved a second time. Jack’s car, his sister’s Packard, he thought grimly, took the blast and staggered on to the shoulder only to suddenly find itself racing down an incline, stopping with a thud in the soft underbrush about 40 yards from the road. Jostled, yet alert, he quickly reached for the glove box where his gun waited, and as he did, glass thundered on top of him from the passenger side window. Jack fumbled for the gun and lunged for the door. Kicking it open, he stepped out and spotted two figures looming halfway between his car and their own. He saw a third man rushing around from his passenger side wielding a bat. He quickly deduced the cause of the shattered window. Then the bat wielding interloper was upon him. Jack braced himself and tried to roll from the swing. A pain shot through the right side of his back, his upper shoulder absorbing the brunt of the blow. He fell to the ground and scrambled, losing his gun. Next a boot crashed into his temple. He turned onto his back. The bat struck again, this time onto his exposed midsection. Jack heard a crack from his ribcage. He gasped and felt blood climb his esophagus like ocean waves crashing against jetties. By this time, the other two men had joined the third. Jack recognized two of them from earlier in the night at the bar. He knew he played his hand too soon. They knew he knew about the Brody girl. They knew he knew about the Juniper girl. And, the most foolish mistake of all, they knew he knew about Proctor. The fact that he had been run off the road proved that he was on his way to getting what he was looking for. All this to repay a debt from five years earlier when he was a dock worker during the great stock market crash. Now, he just needed to get out of this.
A voice called from near the other car, “You will leave this town, stranger. Tonight.” Jack, breathing heavy, looked in the direction of the voice. Its owner, shadowy and rotund in the dark, shuffled from one leg to the other like a restless schoolboy.
Jack scrambled to his feet as the men approached and backed up to the far end of the car. Misjudging the slope, he lost his footing on the dewy ground and tumbled down the small rolling hill. Finally stopping, he saw three shadows in pursuit. He heard the voice call, “Don’t lose track of him now. Go get him. You’re doing well this night, boys. You’re doing...”
The sound of an engine cut the voice off. Looking to his east, he saw a locomotive in the distance heading towards his position about a quarter-mile away. He ran in the southerly direction of the tracks. About fifty yards into his run, he encountered a mesh wire fence. He shouldered the bottom of it until he was able to scrape underneath. The train was just entering the yard, its pace slowing as it rumbled toward the depot. Jack made a beeline for the train. He heard a commotion behind him as bodies clanged into the fence. He concentrated on the train, which was now lumbering into the depot area. Out of breath, he glanced behind him, and saw one of the men in close pursuit, gaining ground quickly. The train picked up speed. Just in time Jack reached out and grabbed the ladder of the second-to-last car and hoisted himself up. Looking behind him, he saw his pursuer grab the handrail of the last car and disappear behind the other side of the train. Jack reached and tried the sliding door. Locked. He saw a shape above him. Shimmying across the two inch ledge of the train car, Jack found the ladder on the far end at the car and climbed. Once on top of the car, he met his pursuer. Both men, trying to keep balance atop the speeding train, sized each other up. Jack pretended a lunge, then quickly turned and jumped over to the next car. He landed clumsily, his body a dead weight against the tin roof. Picking himself up and clutching his bruised side, he hobbled to the front and clambered down the ladder. He reached for the door. It slid open. He swung in. Once inside, he fell like a sack of flour, exhausted. Soon the other man appeared in the open doorway. He pulled a gun and pointed it at Jack.
A voice from the darkness boomed, “What’s the matter here? We aren’t looking for trouble.” A match was struck and the weathered faces of two hobos flickered in the dim light.
“No trouble that concerns you, old man. This is between me and him,” the gunman said, motioning at Jack.
“We’ll decide that” the hobo replied, his old face worn and burdened by a life on railway cars. Jack saw the gunman’s face go flush and his weapon fall slowly to his side before being unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Through the shadows, Jack saw the reason for his surrender. A glint of moonlight showed a knife blade held by a third stowaway against the gunman’s throat.
“What’s all this now?” the old-timer demanded.
“I have an IWW card here,” Jack said as he fumbled through papers from his pocket. He squinted at one, wiped blood from it and handed it to the man who had been speaking.
“Simon Rayburn. He’s a wobbly all right.” the man read satisfied,
“That man is a union buster” Jack lied, pointing at his now surprised and frightened pursuer. “I tried to organize the mill in this town and he chased me out.” Jack shrugged for effect.
“Get rid of him,” the old-timer said.
With that, the man holding the knife at the gunman’s throat thumped a hand into his chest and dumped him out of the car, closing the door behind him. Jack tried to say thanks, but nothing came out.
This story first appeared in Pocket Knowledge #2
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