Critical Mass

Spring time in Halifax was and, I’d imagine, will always be a glorious time and place to be. The thaw brought pale citizens from dark and stale homes into the fresh air and infused them with something powerful, something primal, a burst of life force unknown to places that don’t suffer the harsh and cold winters of that hard, coastal town. The streets began to flow again; first with mud and waste, then with shoppers and revelers. Those men who made their business writing contracts received that infusion and it changed them; their wallets loosened, their eyes began to shine and their minds turned, if even for a weekend, towards the lusty thoughts of youth lost and time remaining. Other men, men such as myself, men who understood human nature a little better, could take advantage of that fact, acquiring for them those things that matched their various and shifting vices, and we did so as often and as quickly as we could, before the blasting summer heat set in, dried them out, and put them back to their right and sober minds.

In 29 the lot of us were working the train yards, a strange and complicated place, but safer than the dockyards and the longshoremen gangs that ruled that place. The rails twisted and turned, seemingly into themselves at points, and we could make no sense as to how the whole machination didn’t just destroy itself in a collision of steel and steam. There were a dozen of us in our group and no one dared to challenge; that area was ours, and anyone who needed an unofficial delivery from the Yard to the city had to talk to us. Fast Frank, they called me: Fast because I could get anything anywhere before anyone knew it had left; Frank because I never told the crew my real name and liked to talk. Bit of a joke, you see. We had it made; a few of us would even hop the rails on occasion and take things to cities further on for truly large payoffs.

That was what drew the man in the black coat; word had inevitably reached him regarding how we could move things across the province, clear across the country if need be, and that we never asked any questions save for the price they could pay. He came down through one warm morning, steam rising off the harbor behind him, dressed in a long black coat with no buttons, only a belt, and wearing a large grey hat with a severe brim; it hid all of his features save for his mouth, which was full of rotten teeth and had almost no lips at all. It looked as if someone had cut them off, in fact, all scars and stitch-marks.

We eyed him as he came; he was such a small man that he looked ridiculous among the human behemoths that worked down there, but he never looked up, never wavered on his path. Big Cal didn’t like him right away, I could tell because he kept pouring on his intimidation act, throwing huge sacks of animal feed one handed from one car to another with an ever increasing ferocity. They slammed with a gunshot sound but the little man in the black coat never flinched, he simply and without any distress weaved his way right to where I was reinforcing some ties with crusher rock.

“You are Fast Frank, is that correct?” his breath was like engine grease, his voice the squeak of a mouse.

“Who the hell‘er you?” I demanded. This was not the proper etiquette in this court, not by a long shot.

“Ah, please forgive my impudence, I did not mean to cause you distress. I represent a small group of business men who wish to make use of your talents for…unregulated delivery?” he smiled and showed those teeth and I swear I could hear his skin stretching.

“Uh huh…”

“Yes, and rumors in the city say that you excel in this area; you know how to move from one side of this country to the other in a matter of a week.”

“For the proper price.”

“Ah, excellent, then you are the right man,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “My clients have an extremely generous offer,” He glanced to his sides from around the brim of the hat as the others leaned in to hear this part of the speech, “$10,000 on delivery, if you can get the package to Calgary within the next 7 days.” Normally I’m quite proud of my poker face, a stone cold slab and nothing. It helps to be unimpressed by everything in our line of work, but that was quite an offer to make and the man seemed to notice.

“I assure you the deal it quite legitimate,” his voice dropped to a point that I needed to lean close to the foul, over powering breath to hear, “I have brought $500 with me to get you there. And the item.” He reached into his coat and produced a brown leather satchel that looked brand new. Flipping up the short flap it had he showed the contents; a large book, expensively bound, and a roll of bills bound in twine.

“A book?” I’ve delivered some odd things over the years, especially during the war, but I’d never been offered so much for something that could so easily be simply bought or mailed.

“I was told you asked no questions.”

“That’s right. Well, fine, I’ll deliver your book. You have an address you want it delivered to?”

“No, sir, simply a phone number you must call. The receiver will meet you at the station in Calgary when you place it.” He handed me the satchel and a slip of paper with the phone number on it. “Remember; it must arrive in 7 days or you will not receive payment. The book will, in fact, be useless at that point and you may as well keep it.” And, without another word, he turned and left the yard.

When he’d gone the boys closed in to hear the deal. They were pretty excited at the thought of a cut of $5,000 (I had to take care of myself, it was understood in our profession) and a few even offered to come along as back up, but I was able to convince them they’d only slow me up, a line made more convincing by virtue of being true. Two weeks was the time to wait, I told them, if I didn’t return by then it was some kind of set up and they should go find black coat and teach him The Lesson. Gerald gave me a derringer to carry just incase and Oliver lent me use of his old bedroll. The next train that would lead to Calgary came in a few hours so I got ready to jump it while the boys went back to work.

By 12:30 I was flying. The Mail car I choose provided plenty of space to carve a small hiding space that would keep me hidden from the Bulls should they bother to check, and provided me with some interesting reading material when I got bored. Problem was that it would be making pick-up stops in Truro and Moncton so I’d have to get scarce quick for a few hours, but it worked out because I’d need to pick up supplies anyway.

These concerns left me, though, as soon as I cracked the car door and watched the world zip past me in a blur of shrubs and trees and lakes. Nothing compared to it; the sun was hot over head but that wind, that powerful, unnatural breeze kept you cool, and often you could see for miles down across the landscape. The city was gone, long gone by this time, and the only signs of civilization were the occasional lonely farmhouse and cow field. It really made you wonder about why anyone owned a horse anymore, or bothered with boats or autos. On the rails the world was there, spread out forever, constantly coming and leaving with such rapidity that the mind could barely contain it all. I watched geese touching down on a lake in one instant, then a family threshing wheat in another. I watched the sun gleaming in the sky dance behind clouds and back again, then behind once more. I felt the air change, the coolness of an approaching storm and I shut the door and went to my bivouac amongst the mailbags. I reached into the nearest one and drew out a letter without reading the envelope. I prefer to be surprised when it comes to that sort of thing.

Dear Kirk,

Life is finally starting to pick up again around here, we are getting together with the neighbors tonight to play charades and drink wine (you know how much your father likes that idea). Your brother just found out he’s been accepted at Dalhousie Law, so there’ll be yet another Foster for the courts to worry about. We’re worried about the dog though. She was bit by something, we think, and she’s got a swelling on her leg that won’t go down. We’ll keep you updated. Please respond when you’ve got the time, we miss hearing from you so very much.

With love,

Mom.

Sometimes I’d find love letters, confessions, well wishes, little pieces of peoples lives that meant nothing to anyone but the two involved, yet fascinated me so much. How many brothers and sisters did this lawyer have? Did his father practice? Were they for the Crown or the People? And what had gotten his dog? I folded it back up and tucked it into the bag again, when a steady tapping started on the roof of the car. Curious I went back to the door and looked out.

The wind had gone raw by then, cold and sharp, and a heavy hail was spilling from the sky. It was bouncing ferociously off the car and off the scattered and tattered buildings of the rapidly approaching town of Truro.

The hail turned out to be a boon as it caused the train to prematurely slow which allowed me to jump out a long way off of the rail yard. I had roughly an hour to gather up some provisions and a coat before it would leave again, and I took care of business promptly. The streets of town were empty because, weirdly, the hail would not let up and kept pounding down as I darted from store to store picking up supplies. I entered a grocers, little more than a stick shack with a tin roof, looking for some provisions. The shopkeeper was an old man, bald, dressed in an apron and sack-clothe pants, wild eyed and mumbling to himself. He smiled when I entered, but not at me, simply into the air, and his quiet ramblings rose an octave. I picked out three loaves of bread, a large wedge of cheese, and some dried beef and brought them too the counter.

“Hard old day out there,” I said this by way of being friendly. His mumbling stopped and his eyes focused on me.

“Hello young man. Did you need something?”

“Uh…yeah, these items here. I’m going camping.” I found it best to establish extra stories with locals; one never knew just how many people would eventually come looking for you when you worked as I did.

“Camping. Yes. Watch out; there’s a madman out there, they say, out in the forest. Say they got the Havens just the other week, killed ‘em all with a wood ax. Others say he got the McCaines too; course, I wouldn’t know nothing about that at all.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes sir, say he comes in on the rails and leaves the same way, right after he gets someone. Say he’s from the mental hospital,” he started to giggle briefly, then seemed to catch himself and went on, “Course, I wouldn’t know nothing about that either.”

“Well, I’ll be careful,” he was staring at me then with those empty blue eyes, and I started getting that sensation in my guts, like right before you had to bring a person down, “Besides, I have my protection here in my belt.” I lifted my jacket up to reveal Geralds’ derringer.

“Yes. I’d think that’d give a man some piece of mind.” He charged me for the food and I left in a hurry, back out into that pounding hail.

Once I was finished I moved a short way down the tracks and got ready to try and find my old car. I watched the engine approach and, playing rube, waved stupidly at the engineer who blew his whistle for the simpleton of town. When I’d spotted my old car I trotted along side the iron beast and jumped up and in.

Instantly I knew that I wasn’t alone. I could smell a dirty body, the unwashed and alcohol stink of a career hobo, someone who road the rails not as a means to an end, but as an end unto itself. This could either mean fine companionship for a while, or a fight for control of the car, and the train was gaining speed by the minute. I couldn’t just jump to another now; it’d be a dangerous proposition involving clinging to a hail-slick wooden box moving at 50mph down iron tracks.

“Whose there, whadda you want?”

It was a good sign as there was definite fear in the voice. That meant he wanted to make peace, that conflict could be avoided. Still, my hand went to my belt for the gun.

“I’m Fast Frank, who er’ you?”

He stood up from behind a stack of mailbags and was a sight unlike anyone I’d ever seen. Even in the 12’ ceiling of the railcar I’m sure he could have reached up and touched the roof flat-footed. His head was like that of an aging lion; long, shaggy, grey hair and beard surround a boney and wrinkled face, with large, liquid, cataract white eyes. Across his vast, wirey frame were a set of faded, worn and stained army fatigues, and in a hip holster was a savage looking revolver. I gripped the derringer tighter and started to draw, but noticed his manor; he blinked in the light, and never completely focused on me. The cataracts seemed to have taken some portion of his sight.

“I’m Conner Main. Seems we’ve both taken this car.” His voice was still wavering, but old men are crafty. It could have been a trick.

“Seems like.” I tried to keep friendliness in mind, but my eyes couldn’t look away from that .38 waiting at his hip.

“Well…seems like, since we’ve already introduced ourselves, the thing to do is figure out if you’re the sharing type or not.” I took this as an excellent sign.

“I did bring a loaf of bread with me. Did you want a slice?”

And, simple as that, we’d settled our situation. I broke him off a half of the loaf and we sat at the door of the car, chewing and watching the world whiz by, watching that relentless hail pound down everywhere, as far as the eye could see.

As we ate we swapped stories, and I found out that Conner had served in the Great War, running messages by means of motorcycle across battlefields, dodging bullets and bombs, mortars and mines. I learned that, when he’d returned to Canada, he couldn’t settle down, his mind was always running, and had taken to the rails because, he said, the constant need to be alert suited him. He said that when he’d left for the war he’d been only 27, but it had driven him to the physical state he was in now. And, in return, I told him all the same sorts of things about myself, how I’d been shot through the thigh by German bullet the very first day I’d landed and been sent home right after, how my wife had left me when I couldn’t walk or work for a year, how I work the rails in Halifax. Though I avoided telling him the reason I was on the train, I instantly liked Conner. He was the sort of man we could use at the yards, and I let him know that.

As we talked the day faded and, finally, so did the hail, shifting into a heavy rain, leaving the car cold and damp. We bundled ourselves in bedrolls and large sheaves of other peoples mail and drifted off to sleep, that steady ch-chack ch-chack ch-chack of the rails giving me dreams about tanks with human heads for turrets.

When we woke I realized that we had only moments before we hit Moncton. I went to wake Conner with a light kick but stopped short. Where his foot should be there was a strange mechanical contraption, not unlike a tiny, inverted umbrella with no material to block the rain. I hadn’t noticed it the night before, but then my mind was fairly focused on the holster and not on any strange military prosthetic he had. Still, he had gone into a fair amount of detail about his past, the loss of a foot wasn’t worth a mention? Maybe if I had paid more attention to my instincts I would have bailed out right then and there and avoided the lessons taught by that strange journey; maybe my life would have gone on completely normally and I would have stayed at the yard and found another job that offered a similar reward. Maybe. But would I change the knowledge I have gained for the peace I have lost? I can’t really say.

I gave his good foot a kick and he sat up with a snap, drawing the .38 and pointing the barrel directly at my head. I ducked for cover but the shot never came. As quickly as it had appeared the gun was gone,

“Sorry my boy, I'm terribly sorry. Those days in the war, they had an affect on me. Days on the rails didn’t improve my morning manors any either.”

I told him I understood and about the nature of our situation. We both got ready at the door as we approached the outside of the yard. I wondered how he’d manage the jump with that metal foot, but when I looked it was covered in a heavy leather riding boot, one which I am certain I never watched him put on. Just as I started to ask him about it he leapt from the car, rolled when he hit the ground and waved as he ran off. Shrugging, I followed suit and set about looking for somewhere to grab a drink and get out of the rain.

Moncton was a sprawling town, but not one of any great population. It was as if everyone there needed thousands of feet around them to live comfortably. The streets were wide and, mostly, hard-pressed dirt with deep ruts criss-crossing them; large, warehouse sized homes place sporadically on either side. After roughly an hour I found an aging looking flophouse called “The Mechanics Horse” and went in for a drink.

The enterance to the bar was down a long set of cement stairs leading into the basement, followed by a long, threadbare hallway that was lit by old oil lanterns leading towards another door. Past that I could hear and smell the sounds of a party rising up from a second, subbasement at the base of a ladder. I descended this and entered into a small room lit by candles and filled with all manor of chairs and stools, most taken by rough and ready looking vagabonds, the whole scene looking somewhat like a section of some forgotten mineshaft. The patrons quieted and the tensioned spiked slightly as I entered, but then I noticed my friend from the train-car having a drink in the corner with several men, hailed him, and was accepted.

“Conner,” I said as I approached, “fancy seeing you here.”

“Ah yes, this is one of my many haunts in these parts. Care for some wine?” he offered me a dark-glassed bottle of acrid liquid. The other men were joking among themselves, hard looking folk, 4 in all. One wore a patch over his left eye, another was missing all of his front teeth, while the other 2 had the scared and broken faces of fighters.

“Don’t mind at all, not at all.” I took the bottle and drew a deep drink, the burn of cheap-but-effective alcohol hitting my tongue and nostrils with a punch.

“This, my friends,” Conner continued, “Is Fast Frank, whom I met on the rails not two hours ago. Served in the war.”

“Really? Who with?” asked the man with the missing teeth.

“Well, I was stationed with the 85th, but they shot me before I could fire a damned shot, sent me home with a blasted open leg.”

“You lucky bastard.” One of the scar-faces said flatly. A moment passed and they all began to laugh, so I joined in and we started swapping stories. After a few more pulls of the wine I noticed that only one of Conners eyes was truly faded; the other had been completely replaced with a similarly colored glass ball. It was strange, but I swear I could notice it changing its’ focus, swiveling and moving just like any other normal eyeball. At any rate, despite his outward ocular weakness he had no probably following exactly what was going on around him even in this dim light. The moment on the train seemed to have been a bit of an act. To test this idea I bought a short bottle of rum and after opening and taking a swig, tossed it to him, which is deftly snatched from the air and drank. Crafty old men.

Finally I had to excuse myself from the group as the train was due to leave in a short while. As I got up so did Conner,

“Well, I think I might join you back on the rails,” the other men groaned and insisted he stay and drink, but he refused them, “No, I need to be moving right now, and our friend here makes a fine conversation in an otherwise lonely car. I promise to return and locate you all as soon as I can.” And, with that, we returned to the surface and back to the rails.

The next stretch would be the longest straight drive, it might be three days before we stopped again, and even then it would only be for a re-supply of the train, so things would be fairly easy going. We settled back into our mail car and passed the remainder of the rum back and forth as we chatted.

“I can’t believe this weather,” I said around a mouthful of drink and bread, “First the hail, now this relentless rain.”

“Ah, but that’s the north for you, the only thing you can count on is the weather always betraying you.”

“And, even then, expect that to be betrayed.” We watched Moncton fade back and down. The cold, wet countryside rolled away outside the door.

“So what are you riding for, anyways, Frank? What brings you to this life?”

“Ah, well, that’s a bit of a secret, I suppose,” I glanced over at him and he seemed to find this a bit suspect, so I went on, “Well, I guess you can say I deliver things, but just not in the traditional way.” I smiled, “Cuts down on operating costs, as the business types are so fond of saying.”

“Ah, I understand,” he touched the side of his nose, which I in that moment noticed had an inhuman sharp bridge, and clank of metal when he tapped it. I looked as if it could split right through the skin if he tapped to hard. In fact, it seemed it had, at one point, as there was a definite gleam of metal opposite were he had touched. How could I have not noticed that before? “Some things we cannot talk about.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, my friend, but some secrets aren’t ours alone to keep” I was confused about not noticing the eye before, but this metal nose, or what seemed to be metal, truly jarred me. I was accustomed to being highly aware of those I interacted with; the careful study of a business types face could tell you if they’d stiff you on a bill or report you or even draw a gun. This man had more secrets to share than I did, I was certain.

“Well, what sort of things do you usually deliver?” But senses where going hyper now, and I thought I noticed an effort towards distraction. What had that Truro shopkeeper said about the rail-riding murder? Had he mentioned anything about a man with a fake nose?

“Well, take this book for example,” I reached into my pack and draw out the leather satchel, “There some reason this book is worth delivery through ‘unofficial channels’.” I tried to tell myself I was drawing him out, measuring his reaction to things, but humility requires I admit it was I being measured.

“May I see it?”

“Actually, I’ve never even looked at it yet. I don’t know why.”

“Well, open it up, lets have a look.” But I had already started to. I couldn’t really tell you why I was so willing to show this stranger what was, in reality, a $10,000 bill. Looking back, though, I realize I never even questioned it. It just seemed so natural.

Just as removed the thing from the satchel, however, there was a thunderous explosion, the unmistakable sound of gunfire, and a huge, scatter shot hole in the wall right above Conners head. I dove back into the shadows of the car, clutching the book, but he just sat there, starring into the field where the blast had come from; he never flinched, never drew his gun, never changed at all.

“Come on, let’s take a look at that book of yours.”

“Thundering Shit, Conner, are you crazy, get out of the doorway man!”

“Oh, whoever did that is long gone, and they missed to boot. Let’s take a look”

I opened the book, still nervous about other lunatics firing shotguns at passing trains, but its’ baffling contents drew my mind away, if only momentarily. There where strings of completely non-sensible letters and numbers like “dYi(t)dt” and “mEi=1bijNNs=1Yr8ijs(t)” with a few bars of different angles thrown around to make the whole thing even stranger. Some of the letters where on top of others instead of one after another and the whole thing seemed to give me the sensation that it was saying something in the gibberish while saying nothing at all. A few sentences of regular English were also present:

The content of one complete subject should and will be more than sufficient to rend through the divisors and unify all vibratory states. This unification will then allow for total and complete access and communication between the Joigneor and the Kybernetes.

But these only added more confusion. The paper was thin and soft, like sheets of silk, and it had obvious been produced by hand rather than a press. It smelled like the man in the black coats' breath.

“I…I don’t understand. What is this?” I turn the book over and examined the cover; “To Maghana” was written in thick calligraphy.

“Seems like an instruction book, the way the words go. And those weird letters and lines have to be some kind of math.” Conner was starring at the page, his face tight and angry looking.

“Well, whatever it is, it makes no sense to be. Kind of gives a guy a feeling though…”

“It certainly does. There’s something more there than you or I can understand.”

I flipped through the pages as we sat in silence each contemplating just what it might be we were looking at. It didn’t make sense for it to be a book for the university set, they tended towards first editions to be sure, but those where inevitably printed by standardized machinery and made available through regular channels. I had originally assumed it to be something of the perverted sort, possibly nudes of people doing the sex, or blackmail material.

I wasn’t until evening when Conner broke the silence again,

“What if it’s Kaizer stuff? You know, war secrets and those sorts of things? What if you’re working for the wrong side here?”

“What would the Kaizer want to send a bunch of nonsense 3/4rds of the way across Canada in the wrong direction for?”

“Suppose he’s setting up shop out there, where no one’d suspect him?” He scratched his stomach, which I then noticed had grown to about twice the size it had been when I’d met him the previous day. The change was shocking.

“Hey, not to change the subject, but are you okey?”

“What do you mean?” he went on scratching.

“Well, your stomach. It looks all…swollen”

“Oh that, that’s just ulcers. You know, from the rum,” He said it so casually that I was inclined to believe him, “But I mean it, Frank, this could be the real thing there, real war secrets.”

“Well shit, Conner, I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that this is worth a fair amount of money for my friends and I when I deliver it.”

“So you’d just roll over to the enemy for a few bits of silver, eh?” I watched his hands. The holster.

“Now hold on a minute, lets not go saying things we can’t take back. Think about this: if it were war secrets would they leave ‘em in the hands of some stranger who might or might not actually even deliver it properly? Wouldn’t they just find one of their own men who could do pretty much the same thing?”

“Yeah, I suppose your right. Sort of thing gets me goin’, is all; back in the war we had a fella who took a whole suitcase full a papers cross the lines for a sack of gold bullion, cost the boys on the front terrible.”

“Those were different times, my friend. These days they’ll need something better than a backstabber to get their agenda met. Look, it’s getting pretty late, and that rum pretty much gone, what say we get a little sleep, hey?”

“Alright; you wake first get me up, I want a closer look at that book in the morning with a straight head.”

The holes in the door made it impossible to complete shut out the rain, though we did our best to plug them with some letters in the bags. It was a cold sleep, but a sound one, and this time I dreamed of people made from ants, and how they couldn’t understand what I was saying to them.

The next morning came and I was first to rise again. Before waking my partner I went to check the weather outside the door: fog, thick and heavy and total. I had a sense we where closing in on Montreal, but it was hard to say without any sort of visual clues. The rum had taken its’ toll; my brain was pounding, and I was thirsty and ill. I dug out a bottle of wine, downed a quick sip, then opened the book back up to see if there was any sense to be made from it. Conner stirred, and I glanced over at him, and noticed again that there was something odd about him I failed to notice; his beard and hair, the leonine aspect it gave to him, was too thick to be natural, it had an aspect of steel wool, and even seemed to be rusted slightly near the corners of his mouth. Was it the liquor? Could life be catching up with my mind? I took another drink and tried to put the thought out of my head, turning back to the book:

The Kybernetes will not negotiate. Its’ attention must be drawn and then subdued via the unification. There is no method which will protect against its’ wrath if the operation is not done in proper fashion, its’ nature is not that of the Spirits of old, but of the relentlessness of tomorrow. The attitude and aspect of the Commutacion is without importance, it simple needs to be present.

The sound of retching drew me from the text and I glanced over in time to see my companion drawing sick from his weird beard with his forearm.

“How’s the book, then?” he voice was hoarse.

“As mad a piece of work as I’ve ever witnessed, I can tell you that.”

“And how’s the weather?”

“Pea soup fog, my friend.”

“Do we have any rum left?”

“Only this bottle of wine; take it.” He stumbled over and grabbed it, downing nearly half with one heavy drink. I tucked the book back in its’ case and sat down in my makeshift bunk, reached into a mailbag and pulled out a letter.

Mr. Nichols,

We have tried multiple times to reach you in order to settle your account. This has forced our hand into contacting the collections division of our company. You can expect personal contact within the week. We hope that this will convince you to re-initiate communication.

Signed, Mark Fuller

Credits and Accounts.

Lancing Loans

“What have you got there, Frank?” Conners’ colour seemed to have returned to a little closer to normal, and he was stretching his body. The swelling of his stomach had not reduced at all, but I decided against pressing any questions in that direction.

“Seems Mr. Nichols owes Lancing Loans a substantial amount of money. Funny, just the other day I was reading a letter written by a lawyers’ mother. Maybe I should put the two into contact with each other.” I laughed to myself at this idea of mischief. Conner smiled slyly,

“Mail tampering a right big kind of crime, or so I’m told. Never mailed a letter myself; never really saw the need.” I he looked over my shoulder to read the letter. The wind whipped in through the doors slight opening and the ragged hole from the gunshot, the fog seeming to collect in the car.

“Well, reading it is usually how I pass my time on trips like these. People, you know, their lives, it makes mine seem easier, in comparison, most often.” As I said this there was a pounding on the car roof, not the pounding of hail like before, but that of a heavy fist or bat, something unnatural, harsh and intentional.

“What’s that?!” I looked to what I perceived as the more experienced railsman.

“What’s what?” he seemed genuinely confused, oblivious.

“That sound, that pounding, from the ceiling, what is that?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing; ignore it.” Even as he spoke the sound grew louder and more desperate.

“But it sounds like it’s gonna come right through!” the car was rattling with the sound now, each thump reverberating through the cabin and knocking mailbags from the tops of stacks.

“Well, take a peek if you feel you must, but mark my words: Some things in this world you’re better off not knowing.” But I wasn’t listening. I moved to the door, opened it just enough to fit through and peaked my head out, looking up to see it I could make out anything up there. The fog was absolute. At 3 feet all was shadows and silhouettes, and after 5 was Nothing. Out there, even over the racket of the rails and the rushing wind, the booms grew louder still, and curiosity or some other force inside drove me to carefully edge my way along the guide-way towards the ladder I knew had to be there.

“Frank, I’m telling you, let it be.” Came quietly from within my sanctuary, but I couldn’t, I had to figure this out. Below me the ground whirred by, ghostly in the dream-like fog, visions of broken bones and death placed over the parts completely obscured by the weather. I felt the cold iron of the ladder onto the roof and followed it, careful against the moisture on the rungs, and clamored up. As I ascended the pounding grew so intense in very nearly shook me from the side of the car and I had to try to time my ascent so that steps would occur between the beats.

When I finally reached my destination I couldn’t see anything but the mist, and sound had reached a steady and constant rate. The train rattled and bucked as it flew down the rails towards its destination, but it seemed a minor thing, somehow reduced in significance. I blindly groped my way ahead until I saw the outline of a person holding a long tool in their hand.

“Hey!” I shouted, but the wind took my words and threw them across the countryside. They barely even reached my own ears, but somehow the figure must have heard them, because it stopped in the middle of an arcing swing towards it’s target with it’s tool and turned that shadow shrouded head towards me. I thought I could hear it saying something, but it was all drowned out by the background noise.

“What?” Then it took the tool in both hands and stood straight up. If Conner had seemed a large man when I first me him, then this person was clearly a giant. Standing fully erect it towered over me, goliath, and seemed to consider me for a moment. I sensed it was saying something again, but it was impossible to hear.

“I can’t hear you,” this was getting frightening. Then it began to advance across the car towards me, “No, stay there. I’m warning you, I’m armed.” How it could hear me I’ll never know, but it stopped when I said this. We stood there, on top of that screaming loud train for what must have been 3 minutes, just starring, not moving an inch one way or the other. Then something happened.

It raised the tool up over its’ left shoulder and advanced at me, covering half the distance in two strides. I stumbled back, drew the derringer, and fired.

I felt my heart break.

I heard a scream of anguish.

I sensed laughter, relief.

I watched the thing stagger back, trip over the side, and vanish completely into the void all around us.

Then, everything went black.

I never understood how I didn’t just blow off the roof when I passed out. I assumed it had been Conner that had come to get me, but how he had gotten there on time was anyone’s guess.

When I first came to he was setting me back into my bunk with the gentleness of a nurse, smiling jovially. His teeth were a gleaming silver metal, something like the dental replacements some people had made, but these were clearly fused to his black and tarry gums.

“You rest now, Frank, you have done me a favour, and I aim to keep things balanced. Rest, and when things are finished, you’ll maybe understand the world a little better.” His voice had taken on a metallic quality, too, like a radio being played too close to the announcer. I passed out again and slipped into a dreamless state, a fog, in which time passed but nothing happened.

When I came to again it was only briefly. I saw quick scenes of the world around me. Conner standing at the open door, hand up high on the frame, some kind of webbing running from his wrist to his waist. The moon was out behind him, and the train seemed completely silent.

The next moment of awareness I had was of the train slowing, the hissing piston sound of brakes engaging, being lifted and carried along. The arms that held me were human in shape but not in composition; they were hard and uncomfortable, cold and lifeless, and maybe an inch wide. I felt fingers like daggers rifling my pockets. Then I was out again.

Next I came to I was on an iron bench in the train station in Calgary. It was noon, but the place was completely deserted. I picked myself up into a sitting position and looked around and was witness to such horror that I hope I never live to see the likes of it again.

Two figures lay immediately at the base of the bench, both wearing the same sorts of coats that the man from train yard had on; black with belts. Beneath the jackets, though, their bodies had suffered innumerable wounds, and both lay on top of large pools of now dried blood. Their bodies had already gone ridged. Across from the bench was the ticket booth whose large, heavily cracked window had also been stained with blood. The exit, next to the booth, was choked with the bodies of four uniformed policemen, each of whom died with their guns drawn and terror on their faces. My head was spinning, I couldn’t figure out if I was dreaming or insane or if this horror scene was, in fact, reality. I stood and could smell that unmistakable scent of death when my foot nudged one of the be-coated corpses and realized that this was, indeed, truth. I noticed something float towards the ground; a slip of paper, it must have been resting on my chest.

It read as follows,

Dear Frank,

Your companionship on this adventure was much appreciated and I hope we can meet again before too long. I also wanted to thank you for taking care of the thing on the roof of the car the other night. I was not allowed to interfere directly, so your taking the initiative really helped me out a lot. By way of repayment I went ahead and did away with your “clients” here in the city. Before you get too mad you should know that they planned to use your body in a service that would have ended with the taking of your life. Obviously I couldn’t allow this to happen to such a fine fellow, so there you go. I took the book when I left, but I replaced it with the $1000 you’ll find in the satchel. I hope this doesn’t put you into too much trouble with those friends of yours back in Halifax, but if you just explain what happened I’m sure they’ll understand.

Police sirens wailed in the distance and grew louder as I read. Something told me that getting caught there, the only survivor, would not be an easy thing to explain, and having arrived on the rails they’d be only too willing to clap the book shut on me and be done with the whole thing, so I bolted for the door, carefully picked my way across the four poor bastards laying there, and ran down the street. I didn’t know exactly where I was going to then, but I knew one thing beyond doubt, there was no way in hell I was going to let the rails take me there.

Critical Mass

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Starting back at it.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Alien Ghost Hunter Vs. Ghost Alien Hunter

Saturday, April 30, 2011

The Rails

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