Horror Express
Author: David O'Hanlon
Date: 2021-02-22 00:00:00+00:00
Description: From the twisted mind of David O'Hanlon (Babysitter Massacre: Daddy's Little Killer) comes the literary remake of the classic fright film HORROR EXPRESS!When Professor Alexander Saxton discovers a Neanderthal in Canada, he believes he's made the greatest find in archeological history. But something evil lurks within the frozen flesh of his iceman!An ancient entity has awakened onboard their train and now it's up to Professor Saxton and the other passengers to stop its inhuman plans for global conquest. Can they defeat the thing from beyond?Or will their plans be derailed?
Publisher: Independently published

Foreword

Let me tell ya, you cats n’ creeps got it easy!

When I was a wee monster-kid, growing up in the sinister seventies and eerie eighties, if you loved a fright flick and wanted to experience it over and over you were basically shit out of luck.

We had, and you better sit down for this one, kiddies, no internet. Hell, we had next to no home computers whatsoever. Guess what, we also didn’t have Blu-rays, DVDs… we didn’t even have VCRs for a chunk of those aforementioned 80s.

So what would we do if we caught a bit o’ horror biz and loved it?

Well, you had three basic options: scour TV Guide every week and hope the film would turn up on broadcast again, make an audio recording (we did have tape recorders believe that or not. And they didn’t involve a prehistoric bird repeating the film’s dialog from within a stone box) of the picture to listen to as your imagination filled in the blanks, or… and this was a big one… we may happen across a novelization of a particular film, usually at a garage or library sale (okay, some of us had severely truncated 8mm reels of some films as well… but I digress.)

A shocking number of fright flicks got the wicked word treatment over the years. Everything from second tier slashers such as April Fool’s Day and Final Exam, to straight up classics like The Fog and Videodrome, to Tobe Hooper’s 1986 re-make of Invaders From Mars and oh so many more were adapted from the poison pens of a horrific host of arcane authors… and we ate them up with a spectral spoon!

Now why am I ramblin’ on about all of this you may ask?

Well, film novelizations, while still present on the virtual shelves of bookstores these days and mostly for the most mainstream of Hollywood releases, are kinda/sorta a thing of the past. And that makes me a bit misty eyed as some of our most beloved horror films somehow escaped the treatment.

Thankfully that trend is changing as this tome in your monstrous mitts well and truly proves!

Concocted by sinister scribe David O’Hanlon, this adaptation of Eugenio Martín’s 1972 train to terror pic Horror Express (the screenplay for which was written by Arnaud d'Usseau and Julian Zimet, and loosely based on John W. Campbell Jr.’s 1938 science fiction novella Who Goes There? which in turn was adapted into film in 1951 and 1982—the latter of which had its own adaptation thanks to sci-fi mainstay Alan Dean Foster) not only brings the film to life, but makes the narrative even more engaging thanks to newly constructed backstories, side stories, and a bunch of other stories guaranteed to both thrill fans of the movie, and hopefully get some new eyes on a film that definitely deserves more attention.

I mean what other pic features Telly Savalas as a Cossack… or would even want to?

Dan Wilder

(Writer/Producer)

Special Thanks

I don’t know where to start with this one! I began this book almost three years ago. Car problems, job changes, medical issues, extra jobs, great opportunities, deadlines, family duties… the list of things that delayed it goes on and on. When I began the book, I submitted it one or two chapters at a time to the Fiction Forge critique group in Springdale, Arkansas. This was not the genre of choice for many of the writers that gathered at our meetings. In fact, a few of them probably felt like they were slumming it. Like it or not, they chewed through my manuscript and red-penned the hell out of my mistakes, offered me insights, told me when I was being an idiot, and made suggestions whenever I got stuck.

So, thank you very much. I couldn’t have gotten out the gate without you all.

From there, I began sending the manuscript to my beta readers. I’m not even sure who all it went to anymore. Mya Lairis, Kenya Moss-Dyme, Dahlia de Winters, Bill Mattison, Amy Bellino, and Vic Sage over at the Saturday Frights podcast got their hands on early copies. If I’ve forgotten anyone, my sincerest apologies. Dahlia, in particular, pulled no punches and made me get off my lazy ass and fix what was broken. The feedback I got from them left the story much shorter than I wanted it. However, it was a much better story because of it.

Thank you beta readers, for saving me a shitload of money before I sent it to my editor.

Which brings us to Brad Carter. This man not only taught me everything I know, but also took on the grueling task of editing my dumbass pipe dream of doing a literary remake. I’m not certain, but it might have also been Brad that came up with the term ‘literary remake’ to describe the book. I know it wasn’t me.

As always, thank you for everything you’ve done and endured to help me achieve this goal of mine.

Seven years ago, I decided I was going to be a writer. I wanted to have a shelf full of books with my name on them that were professionally published. I’ve done that through anthologies, magazines, and now with the Babysitter Massacre series—if you’re not familiar with it, just check out the sample at the end of this tome. I wanted that shelf so every time someone told my kids they couldn’t do something or be something, they could look at those books as proof that you can defy the odds and the expectations of others.

I’ve done it. Barely. Those seven years have been full of personal turmoil and ups and downs… mostly downs, to be honest. There are a handful of people that have stood by me and helped carry me when I was weakest. However, one stands out more than all the others.

Chris Bearden, you especially have been there to drag my ass back to my feet and make me persevere when I just wanted to lie down and die. I’ve never gave a damn about blood, and you’ve proven time and time again that you’re my brother without it.

I wouldn’t even be here without you.

David O’Hanlon

Chapter One

The damnable cold found any path to invade his clothing. Professor Alexander Saxton tried stooping against the wind, but at a lean six-foot-four inches, it was of little help. He felt the tendrils of sub-arctic winds crawling like worms down the collar of the camel-hair duffle coat and the gap between his balaclava and wooden snow-goggles. He was thankful for the Inuit boots whose three-layer design kept his toes from freezing off. He should have taken the pants to match as the bitter winds squeezed through the tight weave of his wool leggings and went quickly for his knee.

It hardly bothered him anymore, thirty-four years after the fact. The Zulu ball that had fragmented, leaving parts of itself behind his right patella always pained him whenever the weather was cold or wet. The glacial Selkirk Mountains were both. Not that his home in Boston was much better, nor his native Devonshire. The frozen hell of western Canada made those places seem as hot and arid as the plains of South Africa.

If, and he felt it a big damn if, the news of the find was correct, it would be worth the four days of frigid agony. Bright orange flags flapped violently along the way. The late December winds were tossing drifts at them from the higher peaks, like children ambushing pedestrians on the snowy sidewalks back home. Admittedly, he found the icy trek more pleasurable than dealing with the neighborhood brats. He never had a fondness for children. Not that the professor had any great fondness for adults, either. Not his contemporaries, anyhow. That was what drew him to anthropology in the first place.

He imagined our ancestors would look at modern men with the same dispassionate and predatory view as wolves would a Pekingese. Once he dreamt of being a mighty warrior, but there was no call for men like that anymore. The Army needed toy soldiers now—partaking in war the way a circus bear plays with a ball. The world had no more need for heroes, which he realized at Ulundi. He could still hear the withering roar of the Maxim machineguns and the pounding booms of the artillery guns. It wasn’t a battle, no matter what the history books said. It was a massacre. All the warriors were dead and resigned to books and myth. Shouts ahead brought him back to the present.

“Alex!” the Chinese man called from the front of the expedition.

He waved, but the motion was impeded by the thick layers of oversized cold weather clothing, so that he looked to be moving barely at all. The constantly blowing snow cast a gray haze and turned him into a blurry, twitching, snowman.

Saxton trudged forward, past the rest of the entourage. “Are we close now, Byron?”

Byron nodded and the fur-lined hood bobbled. “The snow has almost covered it. It is no wonder this thing has remained hidden for so long.”

“If you’re correct, then it is no thing.”

“How right you are, my friend.”

“Lead the way.” Saxton gestured for Byron to continue and waved the rest of the men to stay.

The crew were mostly hired hands. Excluding Byron’s assistant and two of his students from the University of King’s College, the men were lumberjacks and other hard-ups out of work for the season. He didn’t want them seeing what was in the cave until he was certain himself. Maybe not then either. Byron was a historian and had only a basic understanding of what he found two weeks prior. Basic or not, it was understanding enough to call upon Saxton.

The narrow fissure was protected by a natural eave from a higher peak and nearly impossible to see. Byron had been scaling that peak when he accidently came across the opening. He didn’t give any details on how he found it, but the knot on his head and the scuffs on his palms led Saxton to believe his former student had fallen into it.

After anchoring their ropes, Byron struck a railroad flare and dropped it down to light their descent. The pulsing red light revealed walls coated in prehistoric ice, twenty feet below. Rappelling to the bottom was short work, and the fissure, free of the biting wind, seemed pleasantly warmer. At the bottom, the men unhooked from their ropes.

Byron tugged the lashing around his legs, arms, and torso to loosen his clothing and allow better circulation and easier movement. Saxton grunted. The primitive hide and fur garments were technologically superior to Saxton’s modern apparel. Byron made a show of stretching with full mobility and laughed. Saxton slipped his snow-goggled down around his neck and waved for Byron to move along. They slithered through a crevice with a sharp downward slope and a tight turn at the end. Byron, at only five-foot-six, made it look considerably easier than it was for the gangly Saxton.

Byron held a flare in front him. The crimson flames reflected off the blue ice and bathed the tiny cave in a shimmering hellfire broken up only by the men’s flickering shadows. Saxton scoffed at superstition but still fought against a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. They both slid about as they stepped into the chamber. Saxton told himself the contortions in his stomach were a matter of equilibrium and poor lighting with a side of excitement. Though, none of that explained the subconscious urge to leave the cave as quickly as possible.

A slow, foggy, breath rolled off his lips as he spoke. “The cave flooded at some point then froze during the last ice age. This is rain water that we’re standing on. Water that hasn’t flowed in tens of thousands of years.”

“All hail the mighty whitey and his all-seeing round eyes.” Byron flipped his hood back and pulled his wool cap from his graying hair. He wrung it out in his fists. “Without you, a poor Chinese boy might never learn the great mysteries of the world.”

“There’s no reason to be sardonic.” Saxton flipped his hands in the air. “I forget, on occasion, that not everyone is unlearned.”

“On occasion, you forget that you too were once a fool.” Byron rubbed his nose with the cap before slipping it back on. “It is only an empty cup that can be filled.”

“How very true.”

“In some areas, you still are.” Byron scratched at his stubbly cheeks, then stared at the fat fingered glove disapprovingly.

“Oh this again.” Saxton placed his hands on his hips. “Okay then, let’s have it.”

“Marge wants to introduce you to her sisters. She has seven. At least one of them should be able to tolerate you.”

“Is that so?” He rolled the balaclava up to the top of his head like a cap. “I’m sorry to say, there are more than a few that would disagree.”

“I know. I am one of them. Still, Marge insists. I do not think she likes her sisters very much to make such suggestions. I do agree with her motives, however. It is not healthy to be so bitter, my old friend.”

“It works for me.” He looked around the cavernous structure and shrugged. “The cave is a great find, but more so for a geologist or even a meteorologist. Show me this prize you think you’ve uncovered.”

“This is no mere prize. An arrowhead is a prize.” Byron’s chapped lips curled into a smile. “I have brought you to the greatest find of the century, Alex.”

“Wouldn’t take much, Byron. The century has only just begun.”

“Now who is being sardonic.” The smaller man used the rocky wall for balance as he worked his way deeper into the cave. “Come.”

After several minutes of clumsily sliding about on the icy floor, they arrived at a larger chamber, slightly elevated from the last. They clamored over the little ridge that separated this area from the last and found the craggy floor much easier to walk on. Byron struck a new flare and wedged it in a crack, then produced another as he inched into the darkness beyond.

“It could be that I was wrong, Alex. It could be that this is not the find of the century. Perhaps it is the find of the last three centuries, perhaps the millennium. I almost turned back, you know? The antechamber was so slick that I did not think there would be anything worth the trouble.”

“I’m becoming inclined to agree with you.” Saxton squinted against the flare’s glow. The anticipation was more tiresome than the journey. He was ready to see this marvelous discovery. And yet in the back of his mind, instinct still said to flee. “Do tell, why did you continue your exploration?”

“I cannot explain it. It was a voice without words.” Byron stared ahead but his gaze fell backward into the memory. “Like a guide drawing me to his grandest exhibit.”

“You’ve lived in Canada most of your life and you still hold onto those silly Chinese superstitions of yours.”

“You should not be so hard on those old beliefs.” Byron’s attention snapped back to Saxton. “It was our superstitious fear of the dark that inspired us to conquer fire. We filled in maps looking for eternal youth and golden cities. Superstition has driven many of our greatest discoveries.”

“And some paranormal voice from beyond guided you on this discovery?”

“Perhaps. Either way, it does not matter. I felt this urge, this drive, to continue deeper into the cave. Then I found it.” Byron jammed the flare into an alcove. “I found this!”

He never took his eyes off Saxton, maybe to gauge his response or maybe because he was too afraid to look at the thing once again. Perhaps somewhere inside the learned history professor was the superstitious farm boy from Hong Kong, still afraid of what lived in the dark.

Saxton, for his part, sank. First, he stooped and gawked at the discovery with his jaw hanging stupidly below his bushy mustache and his hands resting on his thighs. Slowly, he found the need to take a knee. He gasped and started to speak, repeated the process, and succeeded to find words on his third try.

“It’s not possible.” Saxton’s mouth moved soundlessly a few more times. “Byron, that can’t be here. This cannot exist.”

“Did I not tell you it was the greatest discovery of the millennium?”

“There’s never been any evidence to suggest the possibility.” Saxton reached for it and then pulled his hand back in. “Not a hint, anywhere.”

“No one will top this, Alexander. You will be mentioned in every book I teach from, that my students will teach from, and their students as well.”

“Not I alone. We will be famous, chap. This is your discovery.”

“I have no delusions, Alexander. This is the history of an entire people. Those that make such decisions will not leave it to a Chinaman. You are a foremost expert in the field of anthropology, and I am to be a footnote. I became a teacher for my love of history. It is enough for me to be here at this occasion.”

Saxton smiled at his friend. “It is not enough for me. You will not be left out of this glory.”

“This forgotten, dark corner holds the father of the western world.” Byron’s words expressed a much grander affair than his tone let on. In fact, he sounded almost sullen.

In the sputtering red flames, the desiccated eyes sparkled at them beneath half-open eyelids. Tufts of black hair lined the head and face. The molted brown skin, stretched tight over the facial bones, was shriveled from the ages spent trapped inside the mountain. The heavy skull leaned back on the wall, with the square jaw open in a final scream.

Saxton stroked his mustache and removed a glove with his teeth, before reaching out to the creature. His fingers hesitated an inch away from the flesh. He took a deep breath and gently touched its cheek.

“It’s perfectly preserved—a natural mummy. My word, Byron. This is huge, world changing.” He stood up and grasped his friend by the arms. “We’re going to be bigger than Darwin. We’re going to be heroes.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Alexander.” Byron nodded softly. “Heroes easily become martyrs.”

Chapter Two

“Humbug!” Professor Saxton paced the hardwood floors of the Canadian Pacific Railway office. He huffed and kicked a small wastebasket against the wall with a clatter.

The crowd pretended to busy themselves while they watched the seen unfold. A few snickered, some gawked, and a several made their way outside. It wasn’t uncommon, especially in the bitter winter months, for words to turn deadly.

“I made the damned reservations three weeks ago! How can you tell me that you’re overbooked now? You weren’t overbooked when I gave you my money—correction, my university’s money,” he growled. “That is not an institution you want to get on the bad side of, let me tell you. Now listen, chap, I’m boarding the train with my cargo at once or I’m telegraphing the dean and telling him about this audacious treatment.”

The short, round ticket agent tapped his toe behind the counter. He defiantly pressed his glasses up his nose with a sausage-like finger. “You may telegraph whomever you like, Mr. Saxton. There is simply no more room. We will gladly put you on the next train on Friday.”

Saxton’s face reddened. “That is three days from now and will not work. I want on the train today, as I made my arrangements for. My cargo must be delivered in a timely fashion. Furthermore, I already have passage booked on the ferry back to Boston. That reservation is dependent on me arriving on time via this train.”

“That does seem to leave you in a bit of a pickle.” The man wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

“I wish to speak to the stationmaster.” Saxton crossed his arms over his chest. “At once, if you’d please.”

The man’s jowls quivered as he threw his head from side to side. “I’m afraid that just isn’t possible either. He’s out for the holiday. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, you know? He won’t be back until Saturday. Afraid I’m in charge until then.”

“If you’re in charge, then you can make the managerial decision to get me on the train.”

“As I said already, she’s full up. Be a right shame if the Friday train were as well. With it being the day after Christmas and all, that could happen.” The man waved his hand dismissively at Saxton. “There’s wonderful boarding in town, but it might fill up quickly as well. I do suggest you hurry if you wish to sleep under a roof.”

“This isn’t over.” Saxton stepped away from the counter.

The next customer walked up and was promptly turned away. The ticket agent explained again that they were all booked up. The customer whined a little before going to sit on a polished bench by a row of big windows. The man, maybe eighteen or twenty, stared out at the massive train. Saxton looked out at it too.

A great black serpent, backlit by the dying sun.

Travelers milled about, bundled up against the cold. A pair of children shrieked and pointed excitedly at the brass accents and bright red paint around the engine. Families hugged and kissed and said long goodbyes. An old man paced awkwardly on his cane, a glowing cigar swinging in his other fist. Mounties in their vermillion uniforms, marched up and down the platform. One of them knelt in conversation with overly excited child that apparently felt the need to animate every word. Railroad men inspected the vehicle, one shining his light around and the other busily ticking off items on his clipboard. Saxton banged a fist against the wall and started to join the rest of them outside when a brass bell over the office door heralded a new arrival.

Saxton grimaced and stopped in his tracks.

***

At the far end of the platform, a hired guard sat on a crate and puffed away at his cigarette with his legs swinging. His heels struck the box slats like hammer blows. He was a large man, hired for his imposing size alone rather than any skill in the field of security. It showed in his inattentive approach to the job. A man of his stature could always find extra work in these rough, frontier towns. It was cold and windy, but he got paid very well to endure the conditions—especially considering his only responsibility was standing next to the cargo and glaring at people menacingly. Being so close to Christmas, and in such bitter weather, there weren’t all that many people to intimidate.

In the shadow of the station, a much smaller man stared at the cargo with a more mindful eye. His intentions being the exact opposite of the guard’s, however. He fished a coin from his pocket and eyed it for a moment, then dropped it back into his pants and retrieved two of a smaller denomination.

The first one, he tossed nearest the guard. It hit a crate with a hard crack. The big man turned his head to listen for any other sounds. The second coin stuck a baggage cart a few feet further away, ricocheting noisily off the wooden frame and bouncing away.

The guard slid from his perch and lumbered into the darkness to investigate. The stationmaster would be just as likely to fire him over a stray cat getting into the luggage as he would a thief. British Columbia was full of overgrown men eager to replace him. He raised a small, battered lantern and panned it around. Nothing seemed bothered by his presence or the light. As he got nearer to the back of the station something stirred. It moved quite fast, in fact. The smaller man lashed out with the prybar and the guard’s nose exploded. The spattered blood steamed in the evening air in its lazy arc to the ground. The little man hooked the prybar under the guard’s belt and used it to drag him behind a trash receptacle. Shadows and an old blanket would make sure no one found him until long after the discovery would matter. The thief made his way to a large box with four padlocks lining its sturdy side. Experience taught him the best prizes were under the most locks.

***

The dapper gentleman in the long raincoat removed a gray homburg from his silver streaked blond hair and extended a hand to Saxton.

“Alex, how has life treated you? It’s been entirely too long.”

Saxton chewed his bottom lip and took the man’s hand. “Wells, what brings you to Canada?”

“Why a train, of course.” Wells chortled and punched Saxton in the arm.

Saxton forced a smile and a false laugh.

They couldn’t have been more different. At fifty-five, Saxton was tall, lean, and rugged. He kept his black hair slicked back and never wore a hat, despite his father’s adage that a gentleman always should. He found them cumbersome and distracting. His suits were all brown tweed with white shirts. The morning was for coffee and a cigarette, and not to be wasted picking out one’s clothing for the day. His footwear was classy but sturdy and polished nightly, even when he was working in the field. Most notably, he always stood like a steel post—the rigidity, color, and coldness of which could also describe his eyes.

Wells, Doctor James Henry Wells, to be formal, had a colt’s tooth and acted like a teenager. Though he was pushing seventy, the man was light and spry with a blithe humor and unwavering energy. He slouched and leaned and spoke with his hands, despite nearly two decades of service as a medical officer in His Majesty’s Royal Army. He was gentlemanly enough to wear the finest suits and carefree enough to join the neighborhood boys in a rugby match while wearing them. Where Saxton lived a life of purpose, Wells made his purpose living life.

And Saxton hated him for it.

“You look flustered, old bean.” Wells nodded at the ticket agent. “Were there difficulties with your reservations? These out of the way stations can be oh so problematic with such things. Especially around the holidays.”

“Yes, so it seems. The ticket man says they’re all booked up.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean we’ll be stuck here as well,” the woman to Wells’ right said.

She was a short, robust, lady about Saxton’s age, if he had to guess. Her hair had already fully grayed—no doubt the cost of knowing James Wells—and was pinned in a bun. Her dowdy dress reminded him of terracotta shingles, both in color and utilitarian purpose. She wasn’t dressed for any other reason than to be clothed against the cold and, perhaps, the least picky of eyes. Despite her drab appearance and pale skin, her cheeks were rosy, which seemed to reassure the authenticity of the smile she offered Saxton.

She extended her hand. “I’m Trudy Jones.”

“Ah yes,” Wells said lightly. “I should’ve made introductions. Miss Jones allow me to present Professor Alexander Saxton. He studies rocks and knick-knacks of purported historical worth.”

“One would think you’d have more respect for your fellow fossils, James.” Saxton took Miss Jones’ hand and kissed the back lightly. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear lady.”

“Don’t be preposterous,” Wells scoffed. “Miss Jones is no lady. She’s an American. She is a wonderful doctor, however, and a remarkable help in my practice.”

“For a woman, he means,” Jones chided.

Wells shrugged. “Male assistants cost entirely too much and they don’t know their way around a kitchen nearly as well, my dear.”

“Your tongue’s as silver as your hair, James.” Miss Jones fanned herself mockingly. “It’s a miracle we get any work done at all with your charms.”

Saxton’s laugh was authentic this time.

“You’ll have to excuse us, Alex.” Wells patted Saxton’s elbow. “I do wish you could find a way on the train, so that we could continue to catch up. I must purchase our tickets and avoid being stuck in this dreary little burg longer than we have too. You must come visit, maybe for New Year’s. If you’re out of here by then.”

“You old fool, I just told you they don’t have any more tickets.” Saxton watched the doctor make his way to the counter, undeterred. He looked at Miss Jones questioningly, but only got another smile.

Wells approached the counter and leaned against it, angling himself for Saxton to see. “I need two private compartments. What’s the going rate for those, my good man?”

“I’m sorry, but we are booked to capacity. We couldn’t possibly make room last minute.”

Wells grinned at the agent and then turned to give Saxton a wink. The grin turned mischievous as he reached into his pocket.

“I have always loved trains, such marvelous inventions. As a lover of trains, I read about them constantly. Have ever since I was a boy, as it were. I can tell you everything about them.” He pulled out a thick stack of bills, folded in a pewter clip. He peeled away three bills and laid them on the counter. “For example, I can tell you the passenger capacity of each of those cars outside.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that has to do with anything.” The ticket agent stared at the money. “We are all booked up.”

Wells let another bill fall to the counter. “Simply put, you’re nowhere near full.”

Another bill fell beside the other four. It was easily three times the worth of the two compartments and far more than ticket man’s salary.

“Or maybe, I’m mistaken and you really don’t have room.” Wells swiped the money off the counter.

The ticket agent caught his sleeve. The agent eased the money from Wells’ fingers and slipped it into his pocket before handing him two bronze-colored tickets. “Apologies, I forgot about the two compartments that opened up just before you arrived. Last minute cancellations can be so hard to keep up with.”

“Yes, of course. An easy mistake to make with the holiday hubbub.”

“Thank you for your understanding and patronage, good sir.” He pushed his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “Someone will be most happy to help stow your luggage shortly.”

Wells flashed Saxton his biggest smile. His false teeth were straight and perfect. He lost a few in a Manchester pub and just redid the full set for simplicity. It had been a marvelous brawl, Saxton reminisced while he rubbed the scar on his middle knuckle. It was a scar that came from one of those teeth being embedded in it.

Yes, they were the worst of friends.

“In New York, we call that knowhow,” the doctor gloated.

Saxton sneered. “In the rest of the world, it’s called bribery and corruption.”

“If it works, you can call it whatever you like. See you on New Year’s, old bean.” Wells tapped the tickets against Saxton’s lapel with a hearty guffaw.

Saxton stomped to the counter and held out his hand. “My ticket, now if you’d please.”

The agent whistled and shook his head with a self-assured smirk. “Afraid I just sold my last two.”

The professor nodded sagely. “Are you sure about that? Last minute cancellations can be hard to keep up with.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He dragged the little man over the counter by his tie. The agent nodded vigorously, his jowls jiggling wetly with the motion.

“I remember your reservation. Yes, yes, that’s it. That’s why it says we’re all booked up. I put it somewheres safe, so it wouldn’t get sold by mistake.” He fumbled for the little box he retrieved Wells’ ticket from and presented it with a constipated smile. “Here’s your ticket, right in here.”

Saxton let the man slide back to his post. The agent’s shaky hands popped open the tiny hasp and he produced a ticket, which the professor gingerly plucked from the man’s fat fingers.

“Thank you, I’ll be outside with my cargo awaiting one of those employees that will so happily stow it for me.” He walked over to Wells and Jones and waved his ticket with a roll of his wrist. “In Boston, we call that mediation.”

Wells shook his head with a grin. “I believe in the rest of the world it’s called coercion.”

“If it works, you can call it what you like,” Miss Jones said.

Saxton was almost out the door when the scarlet-clad police officer stepped in.

The officer looked about as he spoke, not sure of who he was actually searching for. “Professor Saxton, Professor Alexander Saxton.”

“I’m Professor Saxton, what seems to be the trouble?” He rubbed the ticket between his thumb and index finger, nervous someone might have reported his mediation with the agent.

The officer stood stoically with the bearing of a military man. Polished lieutenant bars caught light from an oil lamp and twinkled beneath his granite chin. His voice was solemn, but commanding.

“I’m Lieutenant O’Hagan of the Mounted Police. I’m going to need you to come with me. There’s been a murder.”

Chapter Three

The awaiting baggage sat in tidy rows with little paper name tags flapping in the breeze. Crates, a few casks, and one lonely coffin lined the middle, between the proper luggage and an odd assortment of footlockers, duffle bags, and tied-off pillow cases. Two members of the Northwest Royal Mounted Police stood in front of the area with rifles clutched across their chests, while two more constables attempted to shoo away the curious bystanders, snoops, and scandalmongers. Their high, polished boots, with matching holsters and belts stood in stark contrast to their bright red uniforms.

The lieutenant waved for one of the guards to move. That’s when Saxton noticed the sheet on the ground, pinned in place with a couple of loose bricks on opposing corners. A pair of brown shoes stuck out from underneath it, unmoving. A second man, much more alive than the other, stood against Saxton’s crate with a tightly rolled cigarette between his pencil-thin lips.

The second man didn’t shiver against the cold. He didn’t even put gloves over his chapped hands, and his frock coat was much too light. He was indiscernible from the bitter December evening itself. His gray suit may as well have blown in on the snow drifts along with the platinum locks that kicked about in the frigid breeze and the matching imperial mustache that curved up and away from his narrow mouth. His features were as sharp, angular, and icy as any glacial shelf Saxton had seen and his eyes were of the same pale luminescence.

The iceman flicked an ash and let the wind swirl it about in a chaotic dance. He didn’t offer a hand when Saxton approached, nor did he accept when Saxton made the gesture. Instead, he took another short pull off his cigarette and jerked his head toward the crate.

“That yours?”

Saxton stuffed his ignored hand back into his jacket pocket. “Who’s asking?”

“Is there any answer I could give that would change your own?” The man blew smoke in Saxton’s face. “I think not. For what little it matters, my name is Inspector Mirov of the Dominion Police Force. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ll ask you again. Is this yours?”

“Yes.” He pointed at the corpse. “And is that yours?”

Mirov looked at the body and snorted. “I suppose it is, for the time being.”

Lieutenant O’Hagan cleared his throat. “You don’t actually have jurisdiction here. With all due respect, that is.”

Mirov flicked his cigarette against the Mountie’s shiny right boot and left a smudge of ash. He smirked at his handiwork. “By all means, lieutenant, since you’re taking jurisdiction, tell me what caused this.”

“Can’t say as I know.” O’Hagan shifted nervously. “Simply saying that the body is in the custody of the Northwest Mounted Police. We appreciate any insight you might offer, Inspector, but we don’t expect you to trouble yourself any more than you already have. Your train does depart soon, as it were.”

“Oh, I’ll make my train on time. Don’t worry yourself with that. What of the guard?”

“The thief knocked him unconscious. One of my men is trying to straighten his nose back out, but I feel it’s a lost cause.”

“Do I look like I care for the man’s wellbeing? Am I his mother, do you suppose?” Mirov pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did he see? He’s a guard, no? Paying attention is the bare minimum for which he was hired.”

“He didn’t see anything, sir. He woke up, discovered the body, and came to fetch me.”

Saxton stepped between the police officers and checked the locks on his crate. The chains that held the tarpaulin in place lay loose on the ground, but the others were undisturbed. He knelt and picked up the fallen lock. It was unbroken and deftly opened without the use of the key. A few lock picks were scattered on the cobblestones next to a broken cane. He inspected the walking stick and found it wasn’t broken, but rather the top section had been unscrewed. That piece was hollow to hide the burglar’s tools. He admired the ingenuity. Muffled voices behind him caught his attention.

A man in black robes drifted into the crime scene. His beard and long hair matched his attire. Alert, amber eyes flicked about curiously between his overgrown eyebrows and olive cheeks. Snow flurries speckled the heavy, dark fabric and melted invisibly into his robes. Saxton noticed the brief flash of a priest’s collar beneath the beard when he turned his head to address the inspector.

“May I offer the poor man his last rites?” the priest asked humbly.

“I don’t suppose I give a damn what you do with a dead man. If you want to talk to him, feel free. Unless he talks back, I couldn’t care less.” Mirov turned to the professor. “Well, what do you have in there? What was the man after?”

“How am I to know the decision making of a common thief?” Saxton stood up and stepped closer to the inspector.

“Is it gold? Silver? Something of value?”

Saxton scoffed. “If it were a crate full of gold, I would be travelling in my own private car. Better yet, I’d buy the train.”

The priest pulled the top half of the cover back from the corpse and staggered away with a gasp. The crème-colored linen rustled in the breeze and twirled away from the body like a dancing ghost. A spectator screamed. The professor’s eyes snapped to the woman who fainted into the arms of another bystander. Doctor Wells was inching closer and craning his neck for a better view of the dead man. Saxton turned to look and decided his own view was too good.

Eyes as white as pearls stared into the inky abyss above. Blood pooled in his gaping mouth and streamed from the other orifices of the face and head. Tiny bubbles swelled and popped as the remaining air filtered up from his lungs. He was dressed well, especially for a thief, but the front of his suit was stained with blood and urine. Saxton mentally noted all the details.

“That’s Goetz,” the Mountie lieutenant pointed at the body, “the locksmith. That certainly explains the mysterious robberies around the territory.”

“Mysterious how?” Mirov asked.

“The buildings were robbed, but the locks were still turned. He must have picked them open and then picked them back closed again. The man was masterful in his skill. You’re very lucky, professor. You probably wouldn’t have even realized your crate was empty until you got home,” the lieutenant explained.

“This man is blind!” the priest interjected.

Mirov rolled his eyes. “Of course, he’s blind. He’s dead.”

“Look at his eyes.” The priest knelt and lifted the man’s head. “This man was blind.”

“That’s impossible,” the lieutenant said, crossing himself. “I saw Goetz not two days past and he could see just fine.”

“Fascinating, but irrelevant.” Mirov shook his head and prodded Saxton with a finger too short for his stature. “Now, Professor, if you please, what is in the crate?”

The priest fell to the ground in hurried prayers.

Saxton pointed at the shipping instructions and the address to the university. “Laboratory samples. Anthropological in nature, of no value to anyone not in the field, I’m afraid. Even then, they have no monetary value.”

“Then it would seem they have no value at all. So, they’re fossils?”

Saxton wanted to explain, but didn’t bother. “Close enough. Yes, it’s a fossil. May I be going now?”

Mirov put his palm against Saxton’s chest. “Not until you tell me how this man died.”

“I’m neither a detective nor a doctor.” He brushed the inspector’s hand away. “It is not my concern.”

“Humor me.” Mirov sidled more directly into Saxton’s path. “I insist.”

“It was the devil!” The priest jumped up.

“The hell it was.” Saxton’s voice raised much louder than he meant for it too.

“It was. That much is clear,” the priest insisted in words tinged with the inflection of a forgotten accent. “Only the unholy vileness of Satan could inflict such horrors upon a man.”

“Not quite,” the chipper voice of James Wells shouted from the edge of the baggage area.

“Who are you?” Mirov called back.

“A man of reason,” Saxton answered. “A pompous ass of a man, but I’ll take what I can get given the circumstances.”

Wells made his way closer to the body. Despite his age, his step still maintained the bounce of a schoolboy.

“I would take great care in the handling of the body. Doctor Wells is my name.” He tipped his hat. “You see, I’ve been busying myself this last decade or so with the more recent discipline of virology. The study of viruses, that is.”

“A virus you say?” The lieutenant backed away from the thief. “Perhaps the Dominion Police are more qualified for this after all, Inspector Mirov.”

Wells produced a handkerchief which he pressed over his nose and mouth as he bent over the body. He turned to face the inspector.

“There are several cases of note that lend to similar symptomatic displays, if we are willing to accept the man may have been ill for some time. It perhaps is just coincidence that he expired while in the process of pilfering that which the professor has rightfully stolen in the name of science.”

“What kind of cases?” Mirov pressed.

Wells thought about it for a moment, tucking the hankie back into his vest pocket. “To start, the Spanish reported a similar pestilence two or three times in a certain region of Mexico. I would simply butcher the name, so I will spare you my ignorant attempt.”

“What a pleasant change,” Saxton said under his breath.

Wells continued undaunted. “There was also the mysterious Plague of Athens during the Peloponnesian War. Alex, I’m sure you’re familiar with that story.”

Saxton nodded once.

“For those less-learned, there are more well-known culprits. Yellow fever is perhaps the most commonly known, though I highly doubt the presence of mosquitoes around your fair burg. Some rare cases of typhoid have brought hemorrhaging of the brain like we see here, the same can be said of smallpox. While none of these are particularly likely, they should not be quickly dismissed.”

“Lieutenant, did the locksmith appear sick when you saw him two days ago?” Mirov asked the Mountie.

“He did not.”

“As I said, virology is a new field.” Wells rubbed his chin. “There’s much we don’t know. I would be very interested to hear of your local doctor’s analysis when he has one. Perhaps this is bacteriological. That might explain the apparent lack of symptoms.”

The priest pushed Wells away and clutched the inspector’s lapels. “No! Do not listen to the heretical lies of this man. That box contains the very essence of Satan, it must be destroyed.”

Mirov looked distastefully at the priest’s hands. “Mind yourself, holy man.”

“Humbug. You’re a fool, a damned primitive fool.” Saxton jabbed a finger at the priest. “You’re suggesting we ignore the words of a doctor with decades in his field and destroy valuable scientific samples? For what reason? Because your sheltered existence has barred you from the education of experience? Doctor Wells just told you that these symptoms have occurred across the world for centuries.”

“Science?” The priest spat at Saxton’s shoes. “The catchpenny lies of Beelzebub! This man brings the Devil aboard our train.”

“The only devil here is ignorant devotion to a savagery no better than any previous superstition. The Druids might have been a damn sight better than you. They sacrificed human lives, but you and your ilk sacrifice the human intellect, dooming generations. You sell snake oil in the form of prophets to keep your coffers full at the behest of an absentee god.”

“Blasphemer!” The priest lunged at Saxton.

Mirov shoved the man back, knocking him to his seat. “You two are making a scene.” He pointed violently at the growing crowd.

“He does excel at that,” Wells offered.

“You can leave now, whatever your name was. There’s already one too many Englishmen here.” Mirov shooed Wells like a pest and turned to Saxton. “Secure your belongings and get on your train, professor. Be prepared to make yourself ready for any questions I may have later, however. It is a long voyage.”

The priest rose and shoved Mirov to the side, producing an ornate bottle from his waistline. He splashed the contents on the crate and they steamed against the metal clasp.

“You see? Do you all see how the holy water reacts? Where Satan is present, there is no room for the Holy Spirit!”

The crowd gasped.

“Foolish rubbish, spouted by the mouth of a buffoon and accepted only by the ears of the likewise infirmed.” Saxton took the bottle from the priest.

He raised his booming, baritone voice for everyone to hear. “The water was inside his coat and robes, tight against his body. The heat leaving him has warmed the water.” He took a sip and spat it out against the cobblestones where it steamed again. “Unpleasantly so, as a matter-of-fact. It is warm, the metal hasp and the stones beneath me are not. In fact, they are damned cold. When something warm hits something cold, it steams, the same as your breaths are steaming before your own easily entertained eyes.”

A few people in the crowd huffed foggy breaths, as if confirming what they knew five seconds earlier.

Saxton pointed accusingly at the priest. “This charlatan is deceiving you with the parlor trick of a gypsy con artist and you are swallowing it as gullibly as a fish takes a baited hook.”

The crowd looked at each other embarrassingly. A few laughed nervously. Others lowered their heads and shuffled away. A few, though, crossed themselves and mumbled prayers of their own.

Mirov snatched the priest by his beard and drew him close. “That is the second time you have put your hands on me. The third time, I’ll take my chances with your god and teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.” He pushed the man away.

“Mark my words. Satan is among us, dwelling in that crate. Where it goes only death and damnation will follow. Those who have chosen to ignore my warnings will perish and burn for a thousand years in the fires before Satan’s throne in Hell. You will all see. This man has brought evil upon us. This train is doomed.” The priest pulled his coat tight around him and stormed away. “You are all doomed.”

“Father, you’ve forgotten your holy water,” Saxton called after him.

“That’s just wonderful,” Mirov sighed. “He’s a passenger as well.”

“But of course he is.” Saxton tossed the bottle to the ground, shattering it against the stones. “As you said, it’s going to be a long trip.”

“Yes. Longer than usual, if I have to spend it with the English and a lunatic.”

On the platform, the priest continued to shout his warnings to anyone that would listen. He screamed of damnation, brimstone, and serpents. He bellowed in Latin, and Saxton caught the words well enough through the commotion. It wasn’t from the Bible, but Dante.

The banners of the King of Hell advance…

Chapter Four

Wells argued with the porter and finally pulled the heavy bag away from him.

“I’m old, not dead. I can handle my own luggage. You can’t just throw these things any which way. I have bacteriological samples in there,” Wells pointed at the small footlocker, “the one you just casually slung against the wall. We may all very well die as a result of your haste, but please don’t let that keep you awake at night. On the other hand, the bag you are handling so preciously, is my dirty laundry. You have plenty of items waiting to be loaded, allow me to stow my own, if only for your own self-interest.”

Toward the center of the car, Saxton laughed softly at the disagreement. The world was changing at an exponential rate, but James Wells would always be the same. Something groaned, causing an uneasy tingle along his spine. He stared at the crate, the seeming source of the emanation. That ominous sensation from the cave returned as he inched closer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alexander. It’s the wind.” He opened a small door on the front of the crate.

A breath of frozen air escaped, made rank by the decrepit mummy inside. The caveman, a Neanderthal that never should have made it to North America, was still dead and not making any sounds. It had been packed in snow and ice, and looked as preserved as dried apples. Saxton dug out an ice block and noticed it considerably more diminished than he anticipated. He stared at the shriveled, ancient thing and slammed the little door. Another shriveled, ancient thing awaited on the other side.

“What do you want now, Wells?”

“Just curious. Damnedest thing, and you might think me mad, but I could have sworn I heard something moaning inside that bizarre box of yours.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Saxton pulled the tarpaulin back into place. “It’s packed in ice. The ice melts and moves. That’s what you heard.”

“It most assuredly is not.”

“Your mind is withering to match the rest of your body. It’s an anthropological specimen, ergo, it is dead. Frigid, lifeless, and, so far as you are concerned, non-existent.”

“Like your sense of humor. You’ve finally found a proper travelling companion, Alex. That doesn’t answer the paramount question, however. What is it?” Wells rapped his knuckles on the little door.

Saxton pulled the chains back into place. “You’ll find out like everyone else, Wells—when you read about it in the scientific journals.”

“Is that so?” Wells raised an eyebrow. “And in which one shall I find it?”

Saxton closed the heavy padlock with a hard clank. “All of them.”

***

The woman sauntered into the cargo car like it was the stage of the Lyceum Theatre. She was the proper, formal, sort. In one hand, she cradled a white toy poodle with a Scandinavian clip and in the other she held a small, chartreuse bag that clashed violently with the bright blue of her dress. She called out softly, with a delicate siren-like voice, for the porter who promptly dropped the sack he was loading and rushed to the pretty young lady’s aid.

“Yes, madam?” The man was an unspectacular fellow in all regards but hygiene. Long greasy hair hung to his shoulders and his skin was tanned by accumulation of grime instead of exposure to the sun.

The lady maintained a pleasant composure, though her countenance slipped slightly as her nose scrunched at the man’s acrid body odor. “I wish to check this bag in your safe. It is of extreme importance that it be kept secure at all times.”

“Right away, madam.” The man gave her his widest and most sincere smile. “You wait right here and I’ll fetch you a receipt. Won’t nobody get to it, I promise you that. I keep the most secure safe in the entire Dominion. The banks are jealous of my vault, I assure you.” He took the small bag and it sagged in his hand. “Bit heavier, than I was expecting. Must be quite the treasure.”

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“Seems fitting that it was delivered by a jewel like yourself then.” He clicked his tongue at her with an accompanying wink, then scurried to the back of the car. He nodded at Saxton as they passed one another.

The woman side stepped into Saxton’s path. The poodle growled as he drew closer. She shushed the dog and smiled up at him softly, yet eagerly.

The professor slowed his pace and eyed her questioningly. “May I help you?”

“You’re the man with the crate.”

He turned to the cargo hold which contained almost a dozen crates of various sizes. “I seem to be but one of many.”

“Only one killed a man. I saw briefly, before my husband shepherded me away. He doesn’t feel a young lady should be exposed to such things.”

“I agree with him on that. I’m Professor Alexander Saxton, by the way.”

“Irina Petrovski. The Countess Petrovski if you want to be a bore about it.” She offered her hand. “So, what happened to that poor man?”

Saxton kissed her porcelain fingers. “It was terrible business, but in no relation to my cargo, save for the man trying to steal it. He seems to have just fallen victim to some previous malady in the process.”

“That’s great news.” She sucked air sharply between her teeth at her words. “In a way, I mean. Not that his passing was a relief in any way, just that I’m pleased to know we won’t be traveling with anything dangerous.”

***

Wells caught the porter by the wrist as he scurried back to the young lady and Saxton. He reached into his pocket and produced three five-dollar notes with a grin.

The porter took the bills and stuffed them into his coveralls. “And what can I be assisting you with, good sir?”

“I wish to know what’s in that crate.” He nodded to it.

The porter gave it and him alternating glances, but didn’t respond.

“Oh, it’s nothing nefarious, I assure you, just curiosity. We’re old pals, and he has no face for poker. His excitement over the package is strenuous to my anxiety, a real killer at my age. I just can’t bear the wait for his big reveal. It’s a matter of my health, you understand.”

“Certainly.” The porter nodded along. “Those locks are really something.”

“That they are. Maybe you could drill a hole in the box. He won’t be upset about it, not at you anyhow. I will gladly accept his ire for an early peek at the prize.”

“I saw a drill that would do just the trick. If only I could remember where.” He stared at the doctor with a coy grin.

“Oh, right.” Wells took the money from his pocket and peeled off another fiver. “Memory properly refreshed now?”

“Very. You come back and see me in the evening, after dinner’s served. I’ll let you know what’s in there and even give you a looksee at it yourself.”

***

The dog squirmed and yipped in Irina’s arms. She tried to shush the animal again and scratched him behind the ears. “I must apologize, he normally doesn’t act this way. He’s only ever been around Polish and Americans. Perhaps it is your accent?”

Saxton laughed lightly. “Well, he is French. They’re not exactly known for good taste.”

Irina’s lips settled in a sour line. “My mother was French.”

“Bollocksed that one, didn’t I?” Saxton’s eyes turned to the ceiling and he cleared his throat. “I’m sure she was a magnificent lady, and far above the standards your father was used to.” The words had sounded different in his head.

“From insulting my mother to my father? I thought English gentlemen were notorious for their charms.”

“Unfortunately, not for our use of our own language. Apologies, my dear. I think I’ll excuse myself, the lighting in my compartment is more flattering to my embarrassment.”

“I should be impressed that I’ve made you blush. I didn’t think the English were capable. I must be getting back to my car, anyhow. I do hope to see you this evening at dinner, perhaps I have other relatives for you to insult.”

Saxton felt his cheeks grow warmer. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

Wells nudged past him and paused next to Irina, tipping his hat with a slight bow. “Perhaps the chef can cook something flavorful enough to get the taste of your foot from your mouth, Alex.” He smiled at Irina and exited the car.

Irina’s sweet birdlike laughter almost broke Saxton’s stone face.

“I loathe that man in so many ways.”

***

Saxton checked his ticket against the compartment numbers over each of the doors. A twinkle on the floor caught his eye and he knelt down to pick up the gold and opal cufflink. He looked into the open door next to him. A small, blond, bespectacled man was setting up a chessboard.

Saxton held up the cufflink. “Excuse me sir, but is this yours?”

The man checked his wrist. “Be damned, it is.” He walked to Saxton, took the cufflink and extended his hand. “I’m always losing these things. Archibald Tremblay, from Quebec.”

“Alexander Saxton, Boston most recently.”

“A pleasure, truly. May I ask you something?”

Saxton looked down the aisles. No one was coming from either way. With no excuse to politely divert the question, he conceded. “I suppose I have a moment.”

Tremblay took a seat by the window. “I saw the spectacle at the baggage area, and I’m not sure I agree with the doctor’s virus theory. I’m a doctor myself, you see. Not of medicine, however, but rather of physics. I’m an engineer, that is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow. What was the question?”

“I’m a bit of a forward thinker you might say. I’m extremely fascinated with atomic power. Do you suppose radiation might be to blame? You did say laboratory samples, after all.”

“Not that sort of laboratory.” Saxton chuckled. “I’m an anthropologist. I’m not sure what the man’s malady was, but I do know it wasn’t my specimen that was responsible. The authorities will sort all of that out. Virus or radiation, it doesn’t matter to me. It clearly had nothing to do with my cargo.”

“Are you sure?”

Saxton had been bouncing around the possibility since Wells mentioned the Plague of Athens. He didn’t really know, and somewhere in his calculating mind, he was convinced that there might be some truth to it, but he felt fine. Byron was exposed to the Neanderthal three weeks previously and he was still alive. Surely, if some prehistoric illness had thawed out with the iceman, they would have been the first to experience its effects. Still, the idea scratched and dug at the back of his mind like a hound at a fence—the question repeating like its incessant baying.

What if they brought something back from the ice?

***

Wells tossed his bag onto the top bunk and hung his homburg on the hook behind the door. He stretched and blew a relieved breath. The door flew up a second later and banged against the wall, smashing the hat flat. Wells jumped and gawked at the ruined homburg with the brass hook protruding through it and then at the woman that hurried inside. She slammed the door behind her and took off her overcoat. She held it out for Wells to hang up, peeking through the curtain into the aisle.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re in the wrong compartment. And you’ve just brutalized my hat.”

She spun on a pointed heel and placed a hand on her hip. Her lavender dress was far more revealing than those worn in the polite circles he was accustomed to. His gasp was a prayer of thanks to whomever made it for her. Barely thirty, with auburn hair, and the friendliest cleavage in the Dominion of Canada, she waited patiently for Wells to take the coat.

He did.

He gingerly hung it next to his crumpled hat. “Ma’am, I assure you, I have never done anything to deserve your company. You must be in the wrong compartment. Let’s see your ticket, perhaps I can assist you in finding the correct one.”

“I don’t have a ticket. I’m in trouble. You must help me.” Her full lips pouted.

Wells agreed vehemently to assist her in any way possible. She batted her lashes hypnotically and he realized he had only said the words in his own head.

He shook himself.

“Yes, right. It would be rather ungentlemanly of me not to help a lady in need.” He took her hand and guided her to a seat. “Tell me, what seems to be the trouble?”

***

Saxton opened the door to the compartment, lost in his own thoughts. Miss Jones was lying on the bed with a book when he entered.

She propped herself up on an elbow and curvaceous hip, lowering the tome away from her face. “The train isn’t even rolling and the conductor’s already sending me dessert.”

Saxton stammered. “So sorry for the intrusion. I believe I have the wrong compartment. I was looking for number eight. This isn’t it, apparently.”

She dangled a shoe from her stockinged toe. “No, dear, seven normally comes after six.”

“Right. Apologies, again.”

“Oh, nothing to apologize for. I don’t mind them being a little dumb when they’re tall and full of dash-fire.” She gave him a wink as he backed out into the aisle.

Saxton heard her giggling as he closed the door. “A female version of Wells. What great sins have I committed to deserve two of them?” He continued to the next compartment and made sure to check the number before opening the door.

Wells sat at the table patting the hand of a striking young lady.

Saxton stepped into the aisle and double checked the number against his ticket. Both said eight. “Damn. Maybe the Devil is on this train.”

Wells bolted upright and met him in the center of the compartment. “When I said we should catch up on the train, I hardly meant just waltz into my room at your earliest convenience.”

“Our room,” Saxton grumbled. He pulled Wells’ bag off the top bunk and tossed it to the bottom, replacing it with his own.

“Brute.” Wells wrestled the ticket free from his trousers pocket. “Clearly, you are mistaken. See here.” He pointed at the big black number eight. “Compartment eight. This is my room.”

Saxton jabbed a finger at the subscript next to the number. “Eight-A. You’re in the bottom berth, old chap.” He held his ticket up. “Eight-B. Our room, as I said.”

“I don’t recall ever doing anything to deserve this. As you can see, I’m already cohabitating with the young lady. Have some decency, for old times’ sake.”

“Fair enough.” Saxton swatted his shoulder with a wide grin. “I would hate to turn away a lady. She can stay and you can bunk with Miss Jones.”

“Or you could,” Wells suggested. He leaned in to whisper. “Can we negotiate, perhaps?”

“No.”

Saxton smiled bigger than he could remember doing in years. Being stuck with Wells was no joy, but ruining whatever gag-inducing plans he had for the evening was the greatest thing since discovering the iceman. The woman stretched seductively, drawing both men’s attention back to her.

“I don’t wish to be any trouble,” she said. “The good doctor offered to assist me.”

“Yes.” Saxton nodded. “I’m sure he prepared a wide berth of gynecological examinations for you. In the meantime, I’m sure we can all agree you’d be better off in a different compartment. Or the good doctor can sleep at the table. Perhaps the closet, for that matter.”

“It’s rather small.” Wells stared at the closet and tugged his collar. “A bit much like a coffin, don’t you think?”

“At your age, you should probably get comfortable in one sooner, rather than later. Do wake me for dinner, if you’d please.” Saxton crawled into the top bed and let his shoes fall with heavy thumps next to Wells.

It might be a pleasant journey, after all.

Chapter Five

Monte, the baggage man, whistled “O Canada” gayfully as he turned the drill against the side of the crate. The little coils of wood twisted around the bit and fell into a neat pile on the handkerchief he’d set down to catch them. He gave a little pressure and turned the drill just fast enough to keep his momentum going. Monte never got in a hurry for anything, other than his weekly trip to the store after getting paid. He so looked forward to that trip and the bottle of Canadian Club it would yield.

The drill fell through the hole and Monte pulled it free, shaking the bit clean. He blew the sawdust into the crate and squinted inside. He pressed his face against the rough boards—a cool air seeped out around his eye from inside, but still he saw nothing in the inky darkness. He huffed and stepped away. Thinking about his whisky made him thirsty anyway.

Monte headed to the back of the car and poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid. He knew full well the dangers of having too many on the train. The year prior, a fellow porter slipped from a moving car and froze to death. He scratched at his muttonchops and considered a cigarette. He drummed his fingers on the Prince Albert tin. There were only seven left to get him to the next stop. He decided to wait and grabbed his flashlight.

He whistled his tune as he made his way back to the mysterious cargo. He shined the light in the hole and was rewarded with a view almost completely unimproved. Monte flipped off the light and picked up the drill again. If he couldn’t show the limey anything, the old man might take his money back. He needed to widen the hole.

Before long, Monte had produced four holes. He set the drill down and used a handsaw to connect the holes. He was left with a rough rectangle, four-inches wide by six-inches long. He angled the light to the gap and checked in on the prize. It was still hard to see. It occurred to him that he should have put a hole at the top to shine the light through and decided he would add one before the old guy came back. Maybe the extra effort would get him another fiver.

Monte could just make out the dark form inside, packed in snow and ice that bounced the yellow beam of light back at him. His eyes adjusted and he started making sense of it—noticed the eyes that looked like prunes, the lips withered back from dingy teeth, and spotted the fingers curled in tight fists.

“Thundering Jesus.” He turned away shaking his head rapidly. “The man’s got a dead body in my car,” he whispered to no one. He made his way for another drink.

He poured a little from his flask and then a little more. He downed the glass, bobbing in place with each deep breath.

“The car’s already silent as a tomb and twice as cold. Don’t mean I should be riding with corpses.” He noticed the coffin beside him and patted the lid. “Except for you, of course. At least you’re in your proper receptacle. Not packed up in a box like some old what-nots. It’s not civilized.”

A low thump and rattle came from the crate.

Monte leaned to listen, but didn’t take one step closer.

Another rattle.

“Probably just the ice moving. Right? I heard the Englishmen saying that happens.” He glanced down at the coffin. “Not sure if I feel better or worse for you not answering. The hole’s just made it warmer and the ice melted some. That’s what that is. Sure enough, that’s what’s happened.”

Something scratched at the wood from the inside.

“It’s not a dead body at all.” Monte tipped his flask to his lips. “Mother of God. That fellow’s still alive!” He grabbed the flashlight off his little makeshift desk and eased to the crate. “Hello? Do you need help?”

More scratching.

“I suppose that’s a stupid question. You’re locked in a box full of ice, of course you’re needing help. I’m going to get you out of there, don’t you worry none.” He pressed his eye to the hole but couldn’t see the person moving. “Can you say something?”

Silence.

Monte examined the chains. “Look, it’s going to take me a minute to get you out. I’m going to find some tools. Knock again if you understand.”

A low hiss answered him. A light steam oozed out of the hole, like breath.

Monte didn’t have time to respond. He couldn’t even scream.

The withered hand clutched his throat, the bare bones of the fingers tore the flesh and tightened their grip. Something hissed in the darkness. Monte choked and sputtered. Pressure grew behind his eyes until it felt like his head would come apart from the inside. In the back of the crate, something began to glow bright red.

Then everything just went black.

***

The poodle stared straight at the door of private compartment and growled ominously.

“I can’t think with that damn stupid dog carrying on,” Marion Petrovski spat. “Every time some imbecile walks by the door, it sends that mongoloid into a fit.”

Count Petrovski hunched over his desk, trying to organize his scribbled notes into something resembling coherent thought.

Irina sat on the burgundy carpet next to the dog and stroked his back. “I don’t know what has gotten into him. Bae is never this anxious.”

“He is not anxious, he is terrified. I do not blame him, either” the priest said from the corner of the room. “The Devil’s at work here and the dog can smell it. It is the stench of evil.”

“The only thing I smell is more of your bullshit mysticism,” Marion huffed and dropped his pencil. “Pietro, you have done nothing but sulk since we boarded the train. You are still upset about what that mean scientist said to you, no?”

“He is of no consequence, Count Petrovski. A buffoon is the least of our concerns. There is evil aboard this train. We ride with the Adversary of God!”

“I assure you the only evil here is envy. With this contract, the company is going to lead the world in innovations for decades. No! For the century and longer.”

Pietro got up and paced the quarters. A narrow hallway outside allowed passengers and crew to move across the car, unimpeded. However, the entire length of the unit was a mobile home for the wealthiest of passengers. It had a private bathroom, a bedroom, and a small room with a double bunk for attending servants. It was lavishly decorated with fine furnishings, all in an oriental style that seemed alien in the Canadian frontier. Three chandeliers and eight wall sconces provided brilliant, electric lighting.

“Mammon tries to seduce all men.” The priest waved his finger in the air. “His voice is smooth as gold and his eyes sparkle like emerald. He speaks to the prideful loudest of all. He beguiles them with promises of more and caresses their egos as a lover.”

Marion laughed. His wrinkled face contorted into a condescending smile. “Pray for my eternal soul then. That’s why my father makes me keep you, after all. Be sure you pray often, because I will boast my successes until they have fallen on every ear. Ford and Insull will be afterthoughts!”

Bae unleashed a barrage of high-pitched barks when the Count raised his voice.

“Shut that miserable thing up, woman!” His dark eyes darted to his wife and her dog. “I’ll make the wildest fiction a reality with this discovery, Pietro. That site will alter the course of human history in ways your God still hasn’t.”

“You should mind your words, Count.”

“And you your tone. Your position is a requirement of my inheritance, you are not. Irina! Did you store the samples in the train’s safe?”

She sighed, then turned to face him. “Yes, Marion. Your samples are locked away, like you keep all of your possessions.”

He noticed the way she accented the last word and answered with a disgusted grunt. “Good, get ready for dinner. We’re celebrating, even if these peasants don’t know why. You should be dressed for the occasion. Put on something nice.”

“Something modest, as well. That atrocity you wore at the unveiling would make the Whore of Babylon blush,” Pietro muttered. He continued his anxious pacing, staring at the door as intently as the dog.

Irina got up and walked to the trunk of clothes. “In your opinion, a woman is whorish in her appearances if her ankles are showing, Pietro.” She pulled out a long blue dress and held it up. “I think I’ll go with this one and whenever I feel lustful eyes upon me, I’ll be sure to send them to you for absolution.”

Pietro held up an apologetic hand.

Irina ignored it. “Or perhaps I should add it to my own confession, as in your opinion, my attire is to blame for the covetous immorality of any man that lays eyes on me.” She twirled around and disappeared into the private bath. Slamming the door for emphasis.

Pietro stared after her as if to say something, but only sneered. He turned to address the Count when the palm struck his cheek.

Marion caught him by his tunic before he could fall. “You are a religious advisor to the company, not to my wife. That’s twice in as many minutes you’ve presumed your worth, Pietro. There are many more priests, most with less questionable pasts than yours. Find something to do elsewhere. I need to finish my proposal and your pacing is as bothersome as that loathsome cur.”

The priest nodded sternly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “Yes, of course.”

“Go.” The Count pushed him away. “Leave me to my work. Pray for that pest’s silence if you want to do something useful.”

Pietro nodded again and stepped out into the corridor without another word.

The poodle’s growls turned to fierce barks when the door opened.

Marion threw a pencil at it and dropped back into his seat. “Irina, do something with your damn dog!”

Irina threw open the door and stood in nothing but her undergarments. “Of course, dear. I’ll just take Bae outside for a walk.” She threw a surprised hand to her mouth and gasped. “Oh! We’re on a train. How silly of me to forget. Where would you like us to go, Marion?”

The man’s face scrunched and reddened. “Try to pretend you’re not the daughter of a rezun and his French whore. Act like a proper lady of stature, for once. Lock the dog in the bath with you or throw it out a window for as little as I care, but silence it. Now.”

Irina whistled for the poodle who ran into the room with her. She slammed the door.

“And wear your corset!” Marion growled.

He returned to his work and couldn’t find his pencil. He looked over his shoulder and saw where he threw it at the dog. He got up to retrieve the instrument and felt the warm moisture soaking through his wool sock. He stared down at the puddle of poodle piss and cursed his bride and her dog. Her father should have paid him to marry the brat. He peeled the sock off and tossed it at the bathroom door.

The lights flickered around him. The generators mounted under the cars were new and prone to such momentary inconveniences. He remembered the last trip out where a wire froze and broke, casting the car into darkness for three miserable hours.

An idea, horrible and malevolent, crawled into his mind. His lips stretched wide with amusement. Marion picked up his pencil, tapping it against his palm as he worked out the details of his plan. It would be marvelous.

There was nothing that could go wrong.

Chapter Six

Two Dominion Police constables walked behind Wells and Saxton with two more leading the way. They didn’t say anything other than that they were sent to collect the two men and escort them to the baggage car.

“What is the meaning of this? I was preparing for dinner.” Wells asked, but no one responded. He leaned close to Saxton and whispered to him, “Do you think it’s about the girl?”

“If it is, I suggest you tell them everything you know.”

“Nonsense, I’ll do no such thing and neither will you.”

“You’re being ridiculous. She’s forty years your junior,” Saxton hissed.

“Just because she’s young, doesn’t mean she can’t have impeccable taste.”

“If she does, it’ll just be another point against you.”

Wells stopped walking, gawking in offense. “Bastard.”

One of the officers pushed him without a word.

“I’m going. Calm yourself.” He looked over his shoulder at the gargantuan constable. “Are you a mute? Or can you just not hear me up there?”

When they arrived at the baggage car, they found Mirov waiting with four members of the Northwest Mounted Police. Apparently, whatever was going on required every available man, regardless of his service.

Mirov ran a hand through his near-white hair and pressed a cigarette to his lips. He waved for Saxton and Wells to join him next to the chained-up crate. “I hate to disturb you gentlemen.”

Saxton held up a hand to stop him. “No, you really don’t. Forego the pleasantries, Inspector. Why have you brought us here?”

Mirov chuckled. “Straight to the point then. I like that. I need you to open your crate.”

“No.”

Wells nudged him with an elbow. “Can you stop being difficult?”

“Also, no.” He glanced at Wells then turned back to Mirov and the Mounties. “Why should I open my cargo?”

Mirov gestured for him to come around to the other side. He nodded at the drill and light on the floor. “The porter was snooping inside. I took a peek myself. I’m curious as to why you have a dead body in a box.”

“Because I’m an anthropologist and it’s an important specimen. I need it to stay in the box, iced, so that I can examine it back in Boston.”

Mirov nodded. “An anthropologist? Like Gobineau?”

Saxton’s face turned sour. “No, not like Gobineau.” He said the name like it had substance—an oily scat laying a permanent stench across his tongue for having even used it. “I am a scientist, not an uneducated socialite.”

“Oh, here we go.” Wells shook his head.

Saxton continued, “I have dedicated my life to study, exploration, and experimentation. That fool wrote romance novels of times that never were. To call him an anthropologist is to call a monkey flinging feces an artist.”

Wells stepped between them, patting the air with delicate hands. “Gentleman, if you’re going to continue this, may I suggest a more civilized solution, like a duel?”

They both stared at the doctor blankly.

“That’s the problem with society. No one duels anymore.” Wells threw up his hands excitedly. “You’ll find that the prospect of being shot really drives home the triviality of most arguments.”

“Cheese it, James.” Saxton’s eyes stayed locked intently on Mirov’s.

“Alex, everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, even when they are ignorant beliefs propositioned by asinine fools like Gobineau.” Wells turned to the inspector and smiled widely. “As for the intrusion into the crate, I asked the man to drill into the box. There’s no reason for alarm, Inspector. It wasn’t a theft or any such nefarious thing. It was simply the curiosity of a bored old man.” He smiled widely.

Saxton grabbed Wells’ sleeve. “What is in that box is none of your business, it was private.”

“You were going to show the world. That’s hardly private. I figured I should see it first, I did save your life, remember? Twice, at that.”

“You were the reason I was in one of those situations.” Saxton turned for the door.

Wells followed. “And I didn’t bill you for the stitches, now did I? That’s what friends do, Alex.”

The Mounties formed a crimson wall in front of them.

Wells eyed the four men with their broad, lumberjack shoulders and statuesque composure. “They certainly grow you boys big out here, don’t they?”

The guards responded with menacing glares.

Mirov approached them. “Whether you were attempting a theft or not, Doctor Wells, there are still questions I need answered. There’s blood on the floor next to the tools.”

“People cut themselves on tools all the time, that’s hardly cause for alarm. Simply ask the man what happened.” Wells turned to the scarlet knights that refused to move aside, standing with their hands clasped behind their backs. “Quite big, indeed.”

Mirov dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “The porter is missing, so I can’t do that. I’m going to need to look in that crate, professor.”

Saxton stared down his nose at the man. “Like hell you are. The porter could be in the loo. You said he was cut, maybe he went to the conductor for medical attention.”

“I never said he was cut, the doctor did. Hand over the keys.” Mirov reached for Saxton’s jacket.

Saxton grabbed the inspector’s collar and shoved him away. “Don’t do that again, mate.”

One of the Mounties clubbed Saxton across the back of the leg, sending him to his knees.

Wells interjected and the Mountie pressed the club into his chest.

Wells looked at it and then up at the man. His usually jovial face contorted with a hardness from years past. “My boy, are you familiar with the subject of proctology? Because if you don’t remove that baton, I’m going to use it to give you a lesson in the field.”

The man stared down at the elderly doctor. Wells’ hardened glare caused the police officer’s shoulders to sag, and he slowly lowered the club to his side.

“Enough of this!” Mirov placed his hand on the butt of a revolver. His fingers tapped at it anxiously. “Give me the key, professor.”

Saxton stood up and jerked the key ring free from his pocket and held them up for the inspector. Mirov reached out for them and Saxton flicked them out an open window.

“Whoops. Damn breeze caught them.”

“Hold them,” Mirov growled.

The Mounties moved fast and secured both men. Mirov retrieved a fire ax from the wall. He held the blade close to Saxton’s face for a moment. The professor snarled right back at him.

Wells kicked his friend’s shoe. “The man has an ax. In my experience, that’s when you should stop antagonizing someone.”

“Shut up, James.”

The inspector turned to the crate. He swung frenzied blows against the lock until it broke and then ripped the chains and tarpaulin away so that he could go to work on the second lock.

Wells made a psst sound and tilted his head to the open window. “It’s well below freezing. Why is the window open?”

“I’m not speaking to you,” Saxton said without removing his fiery eyes from the wild inspector.

“Now’s not the time to be childish.” Wells rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked the man to break into your cargo.”

Sparks flew with clangs from the crazed chops. Wood splintered with each miss. The inspector grunted louder with every successive swing. His attempts grew more frenzied, swinging wider with more power and less control. The lock finally fell away, and Mirov opened the hasps and threw the door wide.

Snow and ice spilled across the floor boards. Everyone gasped at the body that collapsed out with it. The leathery cave mummy was curled tightly into a fetal position. Saxton broke away from his guard and checked on the specimen. Wells knelt down beside him.

“This is a Neanderthal!” Wells’ face was pure elation. “You weren’t wrong, Alex. This is sublime. You found him here, in Canada? Oh my dear boy, this is fantastic.”

“Are you satisfied?” Saxton looked distraught. “He looks terrible.”

“Nonsense, he’s perfect. He looks better than some of the specimens coming out of Egypt even. A natural mummy in this state is unheard of.”

“No.” Saxton groaned with frustration. “He’s decaying too fast. He should be as I found him still.”

Wells pressed his fingers to the dead skin. “He’s certainly cold enough. How has he changed?”

“He was… I don’t know. Fuller. As if his organs might not have been completely desiccated. His chest cavity is collapsed, his jaw unhinged, but that might have been from the fall.” Saxton’s eyes snapped to the inspector. “You’d better hope you haven’t done any more damage. Is your curiosity satiated? May I repack him before he decays further?”

Mirov waved him off. “I don’t give a damn what you do with it. We need to find the porter.”

Wells cocked his head and squinted against the light. “Inspector, did you remove any other locks in here?”

“No, of course not,” he said, digging out a fresh smoke. “Why?”

Wells pointed at the coffin. “The locks are missing from the clasps and there’s blood on the lid.”

“Maybe the porter was a necrophiliac,” Saxton offered. He looked at Wells bitterly. “This is your fault!”

Wells shrugged. “Potentially.”

Saxton jabbed a finger into his chest. “Help me lay the crate over, so we can repack him.”

Mirov and two of the Mounties moved to the coffin. The men readied themselves to throw it open and Mirov produced his pistol. He cocked the hammer and gave them a quick nod. The lid flew open. Mirov pointed the pistol at the baggageman. One of the Mounties looked in and screeched effeminately.

Wells and Saxton exchanged glances and went to have a look.

The porter’s mouth was open wide, pooled with blood. More trickled out of his nose, ears, and eyes—and his eyes, horrible and white, stared up at nothing, wide and terrified.

Mirov wheeled around on the men. “Lock professor Saxton in my quarters and two of you stand guard over him at all times.”

“Me? What have I done?” Saxton asked.

“Two men tampered with your precious cadaver and now they’re both dead under mysterious circumstances. As far as I’m concerned, you murdered them until proven otherwise. Who was next? Wells?”

“That’s ludicrous. Alex would never try to kill me,” Wells said. He leaned over to Saxton. “You weren’t going to kill me next, were you?”

“I haven’t killed anyone, though if I start, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know. Can we all take a moment to examine the facts?”

Mirov motioned for his men who promptly seized Saxton’s arms. “I have, professor.”

“What about the body, then? Where’s the corpse from the coffin? You have a real killer on the loose.”

“From the coffin?” Mirov laughed. “Dracula, perhaps? Yes, my men will begin their search straight away.” He pointed at the exit. “You six go and find the body, the professor probably stashed it somewhere. We don’t want it startling any of the passengers. Search compartment by compartment, but keep it quiet.”

Wells leaned over the porter’s body. Small cuts drew his attention, camouflaged by the blood. “How peculiar.”

“James, you owe me for this. Repack him, quickly. I implore you.” Saxton continued to repeat his instructions as he was pushed out of the car.

Wells nodded, but his attention was elsewhere. He glared at the Neanderthal’s hands. The mummification made the body draw up into a tight ball. Only the fingers were wrong. Wells made his way to the body took one of the hands. Its short, thick fingers were unfurled and dancing loosely from their hands. The skin was gone from most of the tips, leaving the pointed bones protruding like claws. The doctor moved them delicately, finding them fully mobile and damp from shipping.

No, it wasn’t the ice.

He realized his own hands were sticky with the moisture. The Neanderthal’s fingers were damp with blood. He looked over his shoulder at the baggageman’s corpse. The wind howling across the open window turned his attention to it once more. He rubbed his chin.

“How very peculiar indeed.”

***

The Mounties worked their way through the cars. They politely rapped on each door. It was a quarter past seven and most of the passengers were still awake. Several were preparing for dinner, being served late since the train departed two hours behind schedule. The police officers worked in three groups of two to speed things along, with each group leapfrogging the other two. They were careful to follow Mirov’s orders and reveal as little as possible.

“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” Corporal Jacques Laurent asked an older lady.

She pulled her robe tight over her dressing gown. “Just a Mountie asking ambiguous questions. Goodnight, sir.” She shut the door in his face.

Jacques joined the Mounted Police to appease his father. He had been on the job for eleven months, but learned to hate it in only three. It was painstakingly rigid, boring, and thankless. To make it even worse, he was forced to work with that asinine inspector. He sighed and waved for Claude, his partner, to check the next compartment.

“I already knocked. No answer. This is stupid, Jacques.”

“Knock again, let’s be sure. I don’t want to give the inspector anymore reason to keep us busy.”

“We don’t work for the Dominion Police. Wait until we get to the next station. I will tell the Cossack all about how this inspector talks down to us and wastes our time.” Claude banged on the door with a meaty fist. “If someone saw a dead body, they would have reported it by now.”

Jacques shrugged. “Probably. Those British codgers said that thing was a caveman. I figure that’s a big deal, probably worth a pretty bit. Maybe somebody meant to steal away with it. Bet they were going to stuff it in the coffin and that’s why the body’s missing.”

“What about the porter?”

“Betting he caught them in the act. Might have been the old limey even.”

“He’s both a bit long in the tooth.” He stared at the closed door. “See? No answer.”

“Probably no one in then. Just go ahead and have a peek inside.”

“That wouldn’t be proper.”

***

Inside the compartment, it listened intently. The children slept in the bottom bunk, snoring noisily. The little girl stirred, and it crouched next to her. Its cold fingers flexed above the child’s throat, ready to silence her permanently. It needed something more formidable. Its fingers rested on her young flesh—her pulse thumped against its fingers in a steady rhythm. It could tear that artery open, pluck the rest of her workings out before she made a sound.

Outside, the voices continued. Finally, one of them said to move along. It listened for the footsteps to move further away. It tensed as the child rolled over. A door opened and closed and silence returned to the aisle. It moved as quickly as the decrepit body would allow and shuffled out of the compartment in pursuit.

***

“Hey, Jacques. I just thought of something.”

“What’s that, Claude?”

Claude pointed to the rear of the train. “The colonist cars are empty. Going back for another load, you know? They’re attached to the other side of the cargo cars. Nobody went to check them.”

“That’s true. It would make sense to hide there. For a time, anyhow.” Jacques rolled the idea around. “Go ahead and check them out. I’ll check this car while you do that.”

“They don’t run the lights on those cars. I don’t want to check them.”

“Then you shouldn’t have suggested it. Go on, hurry up.”

“Merde. Fine, I’ll go.” Claude turned back the way they came, stepped into the vestibule and shut the door behind him.

The wind screamed outside as a harsh winter storm moved across their path. Jacques had been listening to the winds howling outside long enough to know they sounded wrong this time. They were still screaming, but he could’ve sworn someone else was as well. He started to the vestibule and paused at the door. A sense of unearthly dread overwhelmed him, and his fingers trembled an inch from the door handle. He called out for Claude.

No response.

A whistle caused his skin to prickle. He lied to himself and said it was the wind, but then it took form. He recognized the notes of “O Canada,” but they were wrong—a horrid attempt at whistling by a child, almost, but ragged and wheezing. He held his breath and moved a hand to his pistol. His other hand rested hesitantly on the handle. He whimpered slightly as it began to lower.

It was turning from the other side.

Chapter Seven

Wells sipped his Old Fashioned. His eyes twitched from one spot on the table to another, but never focused on anything in particular. He was replaying everything since the platform. His non-drinking hand scribbled notes on a ruled pad. He took another sip, scratched off a word of Latin and wrote a replacement next to it.

Natasha, his new roommate, sat across from him. She twirled the thin stem of her wineglass between equally delicate fingers and batted her lashes at him slowly. “Aren’t you going to ask about the situation?”

“Hmm?” Wells looked up at her and gulped the last of his drink. “Right. Yes, well, if you want to share. Might I take a guess, first, however?”

Natasha gave a sultry smile. “If it pleases you.”

Wells’ lips curled up devilishly. “You’re about to tell me about your horrible relationship. You boarded the train not caring where it was going, as long as it was away from him. You have nothing to your name, thus no money for a ticket. The man you’re running from was an abusive ogre. The type that grows out this way, burly and bearded and most certainly adorned in flannel. Probably an immigrant, brought out on one of the colonist cars, though not a Spaniard, like yourself.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but the corners of her smile dipped slightly.

“Your accent is well-practiced, my dear but there’s enough inflection in there to give it away.” He finished his drink and signaled for another. “You’ve been abroad most of your life, but those old habits die hard. You said you have no money for a ticket, yet you could rent an entire car for the bracelet that you toy with whenever you get bored. That sapphire in the center is a karat-and-a-half by my estimate. That’s not factoring the lapis stones or the sterling setting, which are comparatively cheaper both in price and appearance. That would make me think it was a personal gift, something someone worked for and probably the only thing that you own that’s rightfully yours. Your coat is a Cifonelli, I saw the tag when I hung it up, and your dress was tailored by Charvet. A dancer I’m quite friendly with back home wears the same designer.”

Her smile dissolved to a thin line and she tried to hide it behind her glass.

The Quebecois serving boy rolled a beverage cart down the aisle and paused at their table, gave Natasha a coy smile, and set a fresh cocktail in front of Wells. The doctor waited until Natasha’s glass was topped off before continuing.

“Just leave the bottle, if you would.” Natasha tilted the glass to her lips and slurped down the merlot before the waiter could set the bottle down. She handed the empty crystal back to him. “On second thought, I’ll have one of his. It’s becoming that sort of an evening.”

“Oui, mademoiselle.” The server took the bottle back and excused himself with a curt nod to Wells and a wink to Natasha.

The doctor rolled his eyes at the boy’s attempted charms.

He packed his pipe as he spoke. “Your hands are smooth, but not the pads of your fingers. Undoubtedly from years of practicing with lockpicks. You assume that because I’m old, I’m easily seduced. When in reality, I’ve always been easily seduced. I’m simply more appreciative of the opportunity now. It might be the last time it happens, after all.” He smiled as he struck a match to the pipe.

“I worked hard on the story I was going to tell you. Now it’s all for naught. You should be ashamed.” She looked around the car. “Where is that boy with my drink?”

“I am not a particularly good person, but I am a damn fine doctor, and that means paying attention to everything, my dear.”

She dug into her clutch for a silver cigarette case. “What else have you been paying attention to, my good doctor?”

He dropped the match into his half-eaten salad and carefully blew the smoke into the aisle, away from his date. “Your panic was real when I first saw you. My guess is the ticket agent tried his over-booked routine with you. Then the fellow at the baggage area died and you used the opportunity to sneak aboard, but also spotted the inspector. I like to think I don’t believe in coincidence. There’s a reason he’s on this train now and I’m thinking it has something to do with you. You need me to hide you and say you’re my acquaintance of several years.”

“And what do you need?”

Wells’ eyes sparkled with a charm fifty years younger than the rest of him. “Nothing more than to get acquainted with you, of course.”

Natasha’s smile began to return when an odd, bespectacled man slid into the booth next to her.

He extended a hand across the table to Wells. “I’m Archibald Tremblay.”

“I’m unaware of how that’s important.” Wells ignored the hand and chewed the stem of the pipe.

Tremblay pushed his glasses up his beaklike nose and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wasn’t meaning to interrupt—”

“But you managed anyway. Would you consider that a talent of yours?” Natasha asked.

Tremblay turned to her apologetically. “I am sorry for the intrusion, miss. Say, weren’t you at Petrovski’s soiree?” His eyes widened excitedly. “The materials he presented are really something, aren’t they? I’ve never seen a metal with such qualities. What did—”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha tapped her long nails on the table and turned to Wells.

Tremblay cocked an eyebrow at the lady. “Are you sure you weren’t there?”

“I generally don’t forget where I’ve been, Mr. Tremblay. I assure you, I’ve never seen you before and I have no clue who this Petrovski gentleman is.”

“Do forgive me.” Tremblay cleared his throat. “I didn’t think there could be two women as striking as you in this frigid wasteland. I guess I was mistaken.”

The waiter returned with Natasha’s cocktail and another wink. Wells puffed smoke directly in his path and watched the young man’s complexion turn.

Wells clicked this tongue impatiently. “Now that we’ve established that you don’t know either of us, would you please come to your point, sir?”

Tremblay paused, seemed to be looking for a word. “I saw you at the platform, doctor. You know, earlier,” he leaned in close, “with the body.” Tremblay whispered the last word, like a conspirator in the fellow’s demise.

Wells looked at his notes briefly. “Yes, and?”

“I’m a scientist, a physicist, to be exact. I’ve recently been in the employ of Mr. Nikola Tesla, though our last collaboration I am contractually forbidden to speak of as exciting as you would find it. You understand, I’m sure.” Tremblay stopped himself and straightened his lapels. “Sorry, I have trouble focusing sometimes.”

“Thank goodness you pointed it out,” Natasha muttered before drowning her contempt.

“The fellow on the platform, well, I was thinking that level of hemorrhaging could be caused by radiation.” Tremblay nodded enthusiastically. “A gamma burst, perhaps.”

“Yes, in theory.” Wells puffed at his pipe, staring at a similar note on his pad he’d already scratched out. “The level of radiation required for that rapid an onset would have affected everyone in the vicinity. Since we are not dead, I think we can rule out such an event.”

Tremblay raised a finger and an eyebrow. A smirk of self-assured brilliance stretched across his face. “Actually, there has been quite some debate in the scientific community about harnessing such powers for the use of mankind.”

“Yes, I’m quite fond of science fiction myself. Cromie’s The Crack of Doom, perhaps? Maybe The Columbus of Space?”

Tremblay reddened at the insult. “I have seen the effects of roentgen rays first hand, felt them even. As I said, my silence is contractually obligated. One thing I can say, however, is that as a species, we have proven we are only limited by our imaginations.”

“And those imaginations are nigh limitless when it comes to killing. When given sticks and stones, we sharpened them to kill one another more efficiently. In the very near future, Mr. Tremblay, I to believe man will know atomic power, followed shortly by atomic devastation. Thoughts like that make me glad my time is almost at an end.” He smirked at Natasha. “And company like I was enjoying make me glad I still have some hours left. Are we finished here?”

The waiter rolled a cart next to the booth before Tremblay could answer and began setting the table. The trout lay on the silver platter staring blankly at Wells. The aged doctor cocked his head at the lifeless, white eye. He looked down at his notes and then back to the fish’s eye.

“It’s white. Completely erased,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Of course, it is. The fish has been boiled.” Tremblay stood and straightened his jacket. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, doctor.”

“That makes no sense. None at all.” Wells scrawled a giant Z through his notes. “There’s no accounting for the eyes.” His gaze shot to Tremblay and he held up a single finger. “Radiation wouldn’t do it either, before you go getting excited.”

Tremblay plopped back down and leaned over the table to read Wells’ notes. “Perhaps a toxic gas? There has been interest in such weapons. Though, that would still leave no accounting for how it was isolated. A poison?”

Wells shrugged. “Seems unlikely. There are some similarities to a few naturally occurring toxins. However, none of them are naturally occurring in this region. A synthetic poison, concealed in another pilfered case or crate perhaps? Like a booby-trap.” Wells scowled “That seems rather ludicrous, when said out loud.”

Natasha glowered at them both, staring disinterestedly into her cocktail. “I see you have a found yourself a new date then, Doctor Wells. Perhaps, I should—” She turned her head sharply and flipped her hair over her face, busying herself with an in-depth study of the tablecloth’s embroidery.

Inspector Mirov leaned against the back of Wells’ bench and bent next to him. “Pardon the interruption.”

“Think nothing of it, Inspector. Interrupting my dinner seems to be the preferred entertainment aboard this train.” Wells gestured to Tremblay. “I’d offer you a seat, but it’s occupied. And I don’t like you.”

Mirov scratched the corner of his lip. “I suppose I was a bit harsh earlier. I’m working a very important case that has been quite bothersome. It’s kept me on edge and, as a result, I was abrupt with both you and the professor. Perhaps, I was even excessive.”

“Yes, it was rather penile of you.”

Mirov sighed and shrugged. “Yes. Agreed. You are a medical doctor, isn’t that right?”

“Not until after dinner, I’m not.”

“Please, Doctor Wells, I need your assistance.”

“With what? Have you a patient on board?”

“Of sorts.” Mirov shooed away the waiter, casting a nervous glance at Tremblay and Natasha, then leaned closer to Wells. “It’s the baggageman.”

Wells scoffed. “I assure you, even I can’t help him.”

“I would like you to perform an autopsy.”

Tremblay’s beady eyes seemed to grow ten-times. “Has there been another death? This is exciting news.”

Mirov shushed him, slicing the air with his hand. “Keep it down. Something about this is vexing me. I will release your friend from his confinement as soon as you are finished with the autopsy.”

Wells thought about the proposition and stole a glance at Natasha’s plunging neckline. “Keep Alex in your compartment for the night and you have a deal.”

Mirov nodded in agreement. “I’ll see you after your meal, though I would prefer you dine quickly.” He made his way out of the dining car.

“Should you really be eating before an autopsy?” Natasha asked.

“Oh yes, my dear. Eating during one is much too messy. However, I would like to wrap this up sooner. So, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls. Afterwards, I’m all yours.” Wells rose and gave a slight bow to Natasha before walking to the back of the car, where Miss Jones was dining in a booth of her own.

Wells tipped an imaginary hat to her.

“What in the sweet hell do you want now, Jim?”

Wells feigned a chest wound. “Only the benign pleasure of your company.”

Miss Jones stared at him and picked at a piece of romaine between her teeth.

He huffed. “Oh, fine. I need your help, damn it.”

Jones leaned over for a look at Natasha, then sat back and smiled. “At your age, I’m not surprised. She could best even a young man, I believe.”

“Not with the girl,” Wells gasped. “Why do you pester me so, woman? We have an autopsy to perform.”

“In that case, I’ll grab my bag.” She stood up and gently pushed past Wells. “You better tell your date goodnight. She probably has a bedtime still.”

Wells checked the time. His face soured. “Let’s make this quick, just in case.” He snapped the watch closed and jammed it back into his pocket.

***

The knock was light and soft. Not the knock of a police inspector. Saxton stared at the knob for a moment and dropped his fork to the plate with a clatter. The inspector’s quarters were much smaller than his own, but he had been enjoying the lack of Wells in the tight little compartment.

“Come in, if you must.”

The door opened and Saxton immediately wished to take back the bitterness of his invitation. He tried to snap to his feet, but his lanky build and the tiny room made it impossible. His knees banged against the table and his barely stopped the wine glass from toppling over. A splash of pinot spattered against the inspector’s suitcase.

“Please, you don’t have to get up,” Irina reassured in her honeyed tone.

Saxton slumped back into his seat. “That’s good news, since it seems impossible anyhow. What may I do for you, madam?” He wiped off his hands with the pressed napkin.

“You intrigue me, Professor Saxton.” She drifted gracefully into the bench seat across from him.

His raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I’m quite the bore.”

“Perhaps on a normal day. Today, you’re being held for the murders of two men.”

Saxton opened his mouth, but never got the chance to speak.

“Oh, I spoke with the guard outside and he told me about the late porter. Terrible business. I take it that uncouth inspector doesn’t want everyone to know, but the gentleman outside is much more pleasant and told me the whole, sordid tale. People always find it very easy to speak with me.”

“You’re not too horrible to look at either.”

“Are you attempting to flatter me?”

“If it’s working.”

“It is not. However, I don’t fancy you as the murderous type. Do you believe your specimen might be involved?”

Saxton refilled his wine glass and offered it to Irina. “Apologies, I only have the one glass.”

“I don’t drink.”

“That’s a tragedy. I’m much funnier when you do. I should add better looking, but there isn’t enough wine for such miracles, I’m afraid.”

Irina giggled and shook her head. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“Everything. Or so I’m told. Wells, on the other hand, is a childish buffoon, but only when he’s not being a brilliant physician. He could be correct about a contagion—a virus, frozen within my Neanderthal, perhaps. So, yes, I suppose my specimen may be at fault.”

“Then why not destroy it?”

“Are you daft? A Neanderthal in North America is unheard of. They were dead and gone, twenty, maybe even thirty, thousand years before Paleo-Indians made their way to this continent. It unravels all of our beliefs about human evolution.”

“Evolution.” Her eyes rolled. “A vile and immoral theory.”

Saxton’s eyes hovered over the small, golden cross, enchantingly dangling above her breasts.

“It is no theory, it is a fact. Facts cannot be immoral. They simply are. Just as simply as two men are dead. If it is to be determined that my specimen somehow carries a living disease after all this time, then we should be even less inclined to destroy it. Nothing should still be viable after so long in the ice, and, if it is, then this is the greatest discovery in two separate fields of science. Perhaps many more. We cannot simply dispose of it, because it’s inconvenient to nosy porters and thieves.”

Irina’s jaw dropped open. “Are you so callous?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Perhaps I should be more sensitive to the situation, but I cannot be. I am a man of science, not words, and I apologize if my manner is offensive. The facts are what interest me, madam. I have seen many claims of the supernatural and not one fact to back them up.”

“Baudelaire said ‘The devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.’”

“It is not the devil whose existence was ever in question. I have seen plenty of evidence to support it, in fact. I am an anthropologist. I study both the history and science of man and, if you wish to find the source of all evil, you have it in those three letters—man is the only devil here.”

Irina rose and smoothed the creases of her dress. “I suppose he is.” She opened the door and stepped into the corridor with a curt nod.

“Baudelaire also said that it was through the unknown that we find the new.”

Irina stopped with her fingers gently hooked on the door handle. “You brought the unknown the onboard this train, Professor. All anyone has found as a result is death. Goodnight.” She shut the door on her way out.

“Bollocks.” Saxton reached for the wine bottle.

Chapter Eight

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mirov pointed a flashlight for Jones while she tapped a chisel along the baggageman’s skull.

“Oh no, of course not. I usually just handle the laundry.” She gave the chisel a hard jerk and snapped open the man’s skull. “I also make sandwiches.”

Pooled blood spilled across the floorboards. The cargo car had been converted into a makeshift operating room, complete with three crates covered in old tarpaulins for an autopsy table and two twirling lanterns dangling dangerously overhead for better light.

Jones cocked her head to the side and stared at the brain. “Doctor, what do you think of this?”

Wells squatted slightly to get at eye-level with the organ. “Interesting, very interesting.”

Mirov craned his neck, not getting any closer. “What’s interesting?”

Miss Jones gently coaxed the brain from the skull so Wells could severe the spinal cord. She held the brain directly under Mirov’s nose, an inch from his lips.

“Notice anything strange about this brain, Inspector?”

Mirov grimaced and paled, taking a small step backward. “Aside from the fact that it’s outside the body, ma’am?”

“No, you ninny. It’s much too small. Even for a man.” She moved it in front of Wells.

The doctor pointed at three concaved areas on the frontal lobe. “Those are cerebral infarctions. There’s another in the cerebellum. The thalamus and hypothalamus are…well, they’re pudding. Aren’t they?”

“It’s entirely too soon to see that kind of necrosis. It looks to be affecting the hippocampus, too.” Miss Jones used her scalpel to indicate the spreading black lesions.

The sunken tissue was full of hollows, like a fleshy sponge. The matter collapsed under the slight pressure of her probing and oozed. Tiny pustules seeped along inflamed blood vessels that tore their way through the soft pulp of the brain like angry worms.

“Fascinating.” Wells rubbed his chin with a gloved thumb. “We need to open up the rest of him.”

“Indeed. Inspector, would you be so kind?” Jones pushed the pus-filled brain into Mirov’s hand and moved to the body opposite of Wells.

Despite his advanced age, his hands danced with steadiness and grace. Jones moved like an extra appendage, sliding in behind him and opening the ribcage like luggage. The wet pop of the breaking ribs made Mirov squirm uncomfortably behind her and jostled the beam of his light. Wells failed to suppress a giggle. He stopped laughing when he peeled open the abdominal wall. The stench of septic rot rushed up from the cadaver.

Jones inhaled deeply. “Reminds me of Jersey.”

“You’re disturbed, my dear.” Wells fanned the air in front of him. “Even for an American.”

Mirov dropped the brain and covered his mouth, immediately getting a whiff of the cranial fluids as he smeared them across his lips. His stomach gave up the fight instantly. He threw himself over a crate to vomit in the shadows.

Jones’ round cheeks lifted in a toothy grin. “Are you okay, sweetie? You can always take care of the laundry, if this is too much for you.”

“Dear, God. What’s happened in here?” Wells steadied the swaying lantern above them. “No virus does this. Nothing does this.”

“Something does this.” Jones gripped the esophagus and ran her fingers down its length. Ribbons of torn tissue flopped away from the fleshy tube. “It’s like he swallowed razors. Why would he do this to himself?”

“He didn’t.” Wells snapped his fingers, splattering blood from the gloved digits. “The cuts on his lips. Someone forced whatever it was down this poor man’s throat. We need to check his stomach contents.”

Jones examined the small lacerations and nodded slowly. “Good news, Inspector. This is just a case of regular old murder. No virus to worry about.”

Mirov, slightly greener than before, pressed himself back to his feet. “A murder, huh? Like a professor might commit after catching someone snooping through his valuable belongings?”

Wells huffed. “Nonsense. Alex is hotheaded, but reasonable. He would have simply broken the man’s jaw, like a civilized chap. As for this being a murder, I agree. As for it being regular, I’m afraid Miss Jones is entirely wrong.”

Jones rested her hands on her hips with a snort of displeasure.

“Well, you are. The effusion is far too great. There’s entirely too much blood in the abdominal cavity. Almost all of it in fact, and I think I know why. Look at the liver.” Wells pointed with the scalpel.

The brown organ was blossoming with yellow-white globs of fat. Knots of swollen scars bulged around them.

“Yes, it’s cirrhosis.” Jones nodded. “It would have been a perfectly fine cause of death had he not been murdered first.”

“Look closer.” The doctor pulled the liver back to give her a better view. “The hepatic artery has completely exploded. There’s no way a murderer did that.”

“Marvelous.” Jones leaned on her knuckles. “So then, what killed this man?”

“That is beyond me.” Wells cocked his head and stared into the back of the cargo car. “What killed that man?” He gestured with the scalpel.

Mirov and Jones turned to stare at the empty coffin slid against the wall. Mirov made his way to the coffin and pulled a small envelope, nailed to the lid, free. It contained the local doctor’s notes for the man’s family in Regina.

Mirov squinted at the scribbled words. “Tom Brandt, age twenty-six. Death by exposure. He froze to death, in other words. It happens a lot out here.”

“I know what exposure is, thank you.” Wells wrinkled his nose. “Frozen. I don’t know why, but that seems important.”

“Not just important.” Jones walked past him and rapped her knuckles on a crate. “It seems familiar.”

Wells turned to look at her and, beside her, the crate Alex Saxton brought onboard. The crate with the perfectly preserved, frozen Neanderthal.

“Bloody hell.”

***

Boris Mirov strode through the cars, unaware of everything around him. Two dead bodies, a missing corpse, a murderer on the loose, a thief that had eluded him for almost two years hiding on the train—it was all too much for him to deal with. He debated just beating a confession out of the professor so he could get back to the case at hand. He could always shoot him before anyone challenged the details. Maybe Saxton could try to escape at the next stop. Yes, that would do nicely.

A man turned out of the lavatory and collided with the inspector. Mirov gave him a shove and cursed him in Russian. Mirov didn’t have time to bicker with some drunkard. The other man simply bounced off the wall and continued on, whistling the national anthem as he staggered about. The inspector turned the handle to enter the next car when he noticed the slick stripe on his ash-colored sleeve. He pressed his fingers to the blood—it was still wet. He unholstered his revolver and whirled around, but the man that bumped into him was gone.

He stalked down the corridor and nudged the lavatory door open with his toe. One of his police officers sat on the toilet with his pistol lying on the floor, next to his severed head. The walls were painted in arterial spray. Someone screamed. Over the howling winter winds and rumbling train, it sounded much further away. They kept at it—terrible, high shrieks of panic, but not from the direction the murderer had gone.

“Why did no one scream here?” Mirov wheeled around on one of the compartments and kicked the door in.

The brass latch shattered the wooden frame and in the flickering moonlight he saw the still bodies with their heads turned at unnatural angles. He bolted to the next car to find the source of the screams.

A middle-aged woman stood in the corridor, shaking against the doorframe, her white dressing gown stained with urine. Mirov nervously peeked inside her cabin. A man lay dead on the floor, though he seemed much too young to be keeping her company. And much too well dressed.

Mirov stepped into the room for a closer look. The man’s suit was split down the back. The inspector rolled the body with his foot and knelt beside it. He gave the suit a light tug, peeling it away from his torso with ease. A line of stitches from shoulder-to-shoulder, and another descending his abdomen greeted him.

“Autopsy wounds,” Mirov’s voice was low, and as accusatory as it was questioning.

“Is that her husband, sir?” A Dominion police officer said from the doorway.

“No, Daniels. This is Tom Brandt, age twenty-six. Cause of death was exposure.”

“He attacked us. Attacked my Otis,” the woman muttered. “Otis didn’t never hurt nobody. He violated my Otis. That thing, it was the devil.”

“What are you on about, ma’am?” Officer Daniels asked.

Her weathered hands curled into fists as she seized his collar. “It was the devil in that man and it took my Otis from me! I saw it. I saw the devil.”

***

Natasha waited until the footsteps passed her before ducking into the cargo car. She needed to hurry. Not going to prison depended on the doctor playing along, and he would be looking for her soon. He was disgustingly ancient, but she couldn’t help but find his self-assurance somewhat appealing. Besides, at his age he probably wouldn’t last past her dress coming down. The wind whistled passed an open window, letting the winter’s frigid breath caress her bare skin. She was dressed for seduction, not arctic exploration, and shivered violently against the sudden chill.

She passed the professor’s crate and peeked inside at the withering caveman. It wasn’t as impressive as she had hoped, and certainly wasn’t worth stealing. She turned and shivered again. The porter’s dissected body laid on an ad hoc table next to a pile of his organs. Sure, she had killed before, but never because she liked it. Her occupation came with certain risks and twice she was forced to take a life to save her own. Her fingers fidgeted with the lapis stones around her wrist—there was one time she enjoyed killing. Still, it wasn’t the same as the cold, scientific mutilation laid out before her.

She crept around the autopsy table and navigated to the porter’s workspace in the back of the car. Beneath a roughly made shelf was the gold embossed Mosler safe. Natasha pulled a wool blanket from a nearby hook and laid it down on the floor. Her fingers traced the manufacture’s brand on the black enameled steel door. She knelt on the blanket and removed the stethoscope and a piece of chalk from her clutch.

“An 1892 Mosler. How quaint.” Concealed by the shadows, she smiled softly at the safe. “For what Old Man Edison is paying, this should’ve been a much harder job.”

Listening intently, she heard the fence fall into a gate and wrote the number on the door in chalk. She wiggled the combination dial back and forth to narrow down the number, scratched out her first and wrote down the correct one. Her fingers moved minutely. Small, soft, twitches found the next gate and then the third. She marked the numbers and then worked backwards to find the order of the discs. Inside of ten minutes, the fence fell into place with a sharp snap. She eased the door open and found the velvet bag in the sickly chartreuse color. She slid the contents out into her gloved hand.

Marion Petrovski’s super metal would change the world. She had been there when he unveiled it and had seen the demonstrations. The metallic bars were bizarre in every way. They were the size of gold bricks, but each was a third of the weight. Their color was a ruddy puce with specks of magnesium shimmering unnaturally in the dim light. The metal was nigh-indestructible, much like the ego of its discoverer. Too bad it wouldn’t be Marion’s name on the patents.

Thomas Edison’s pull was too strong in America, and his mines in Ontario would present all the necessary paperwork to back up his “discovery” of the new material. She wondered how much Petrovski would offer to keep that from happening. Then she remembered what became of the last person that crossed the old man. She was better off sticking to the deal. Edison was not to be trifled with, and her body was much more seductive in one piece.

A spear of light shot through the room and a shadow fluttered over her. She tucked the bars into their bag and stood up slowly. Goosebumps crawled up her tanned skin. This was going to turn out badly, she could just feel it. Some phantasmal dread twisted in her stomach. She peeked between the porter’s shelves and didn’t see anyone, but the door was standing open. Natasha gingerly crept around the racks for a better look into the cargo car.

She slipped her hand into the purse for the Browning M1900. Her fingers caressed the checkered, wooden grips as she took a comforting hold around the pistol and drew it.

The breath crawled across the back of her neck.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the voice whispered behind her.

Natasha squeezed the trigger, firing blindly under her arm at whoever it was, before turning. She brought the pistol up and prepared to fire again.

The man looked bemusedly at the oozing hole in the middle of his nightshirt. “That was a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

His milky eyes stared at her blankly and then started to take on a new color. He snapped an icy hand around her throat and wrenched the gun from her grip as she fired another round into his cheek. Those horrible eyes glazed over with a swirling vermillion fog that glowed in the darkened car.

Natasha tried to scream through the vicelike grip on her windpipe.

“Why were you here? What was Monte hiding in there that you needed so badly?”

The pressure in her head grew with the glow of his eyes. His words continued, though his mouth never moved and she felt them echoing louder every time the questions repeated. Her eardrums popped, then the blood vessels inside them. She couldn’t speak, but she told him everything he wanted to know anyhow.

She managed a squeal when her eyes started bleeding.

Chapter Nine

“What in the sweet hell was that? You heard it, didn’t you?” Miss Jones leaned closer to the door to better hear.

Wells dried his hands over the sink, which was stained pink with Monte’s internal fluids. “What could you possibly have heard? We’ve just been there. It was probably something falling over. It’s not exactly a proper operating room.”

“So, you did hear it?” Jones twisted to him. “That was a gunshot. There! That was another! Something is happening in that boxcar.”

“Probably that policeman we heard passing earlier. He must’ve returned to the car. Undoubtedly, he’s the one doing the shooting.” He stared at his shoes. The caliber was much too small to be Mirov’s revolver and Wells knew it.

“James Henry Wells, I have never known you to be a coward.”

“I prefer to think of it as selective heroism. Did I tell you about the time I was impaled by a Zulu spear?”

“Yes, you show me the scar every time you’re drunk. Barely even a flesh wound, if you ask me.”

“It was quite worse at the time, I assure you. That’s exactly the sort of thing that happens when one rushes into danger. It’s foolishness, and foolishness is a luxury of the young. Wise men know when to act their age. Besides, I’ve skipped dinner and I need to take my medication.”

“Laudanum doesn’t count as a medication when you take it recreationally.”

“I’ll have you know it’s for my anxiety.”

Jones put her fists on her hips and glared. “You don’t take anything seriously enough to have anxiety, James.”

“By God, the tincture must be working then.”

Jones shook her head and stared him down, gritting her teeth.

“Fine, you damnable harpy. I will go and see what is going on. You can wait here, so that I may gloat when I prove it was nothing but the inspector shooting Alex’s mummy or something equally unworthy of investigation.”

Jones waved for him to hurry as he opened the door to the adjoining luggage car. If he hadn’t insisted that they stop to wash up in the larger lavatory, they would have been back to their compartments. Her with a book and him with a feisty redhead.

“A damned dreadful way to spend my evening this is.”

Suitcases, duffel bags, gunnysacks, and tied pillow cases lined the walls of the car on crude shelves. They seemed to isolate the car from the noise outside. He barely noticed the sound of the wheels chugging along the rails or the winter winds. The floor was open and far more spacious than a passenger car but had fewer lights… all of which flickered sporadically overhead. The effect made it just as claustrophobic as the rest of the train. He made his way to the opposite end of the car and opened the door. In the vestibule, the whistling wind picked up again.

A shadow fluttered past the door’s window. Wells jumped and took a step back, but never let his eyes waver. His heart was pounding in his ears. Still, he pressed his face to the portal and tried to see who was moving about. The electrical lights were out, only slats of silver lanced through the small windows to provide illumination. He moved his hand to the shaft of his walking stick, gripping it like a fencer’s foil.

“Surely, there’s nothing to worry about. Just the policeman.” He stepped into the car and let the cane lead the way.

Wells knelt slightly and paused. Something was ahead of him, but there was something else creeping to his left. The primal part of his brain warned him against both. A shiver racked his body as a bitter breeze blew through the nearest window. He distinctly remembered closing it after he packed up the iceman. All six of them were open now.

Wells inched forward and noticed the tangle of auburn hair spilled out around the blood-streaked face. He lowered himself more, dropping to his belly, and crawled to Natasha. His fingers searched her neck for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. The blood vessels in her eyes had exploded violently, turning them into burst grapes. The little Browning pistol lay near her feet and Wells crawled to it gingerly.

A steady ticking drew closer, became clearer—it was wet and dripping. Someone whistled in the darkness. Not just a sharp call, but a tune. It was a little off key, but through its twisted notes the tone of “O’ Canada” was clear. The musician was much too jolly to be in a room full of dead bodies.

Wells snatched the pistol from the floorboards and rose faster than his body was accustomed to. He tried not to curse his decrepit knees and hips as they popped from the exertion. His heart raced faster, and spots swirled and flared like fireflies in his vision. Someone darted by and he fired a shot in their direction. The bullet snapped harmlessly against a heavy crate.

“Does everyone now greet strangers so viciously?” a voice asked from the shadows.

A hand seized the pistol and stripped it from Wells’ hand. It clattered across the floor and disappeared. The doctor swung his cane and almost fell over as he missed completely. The shaft clacked across the top of the safe and he righted himself, tightening his grip for another go of it.

“You are much too slow, Doctor.”

Wells wheeled around and saw the man, dressed for bed and missing a large chunk of his face. The ragged wound trickled below the glowing, red eyes. Another bullet hole trickled as calmly from his chest. Both should’ve been gushing fountains.

“I’m not that slow.” Wells stroked the man across the cheek with the cane.

“You are frail and old, much more so that I would prefer. However, I hear you are quite brilliant. You will serve me well. For a time.”

The man batted the walking stick away and grabbed Wells’ collar. His eyes glowed brighter as he pressed the doctor against a crate and drew closer.

“I will break your body first, if you make me. Surrender, doctor.”

Wells felt the pressure growing inside his head—like bony, frigid fingers twisting into the soft tissue, molding the gray matter. He groaned in pain and beat a fist against the man’s side with no effect. He struck hammer blows to the man’s kidneys, a tactic that had felled much larger adversaries in Wells’ past. Still, he got no result. The man lowered his face toward Wells.

The pressure grew like a vise cranking tighter as the man’s face leaned in. The eyes swirled with an iridescent fluid that shimmered shades of red, and he lowered his scarred mouth against the doctor’s in a morbid embrace. Wells’ eyes widened as he felt the spongy flesh probing along his tight lips. A nip of pain made his eyes water. Something teased his flesh and forced his lips open.

A pistol boomed.

Bones cracked and blood splattered across the cargo. Wells crumpled and fell to the floor as the man above him staggered and dripped fluids from the new hole in his face. His torn jaw dangled—but he didn’t die. Wells crawled quickly on all-fours across the boxcar as two more shots fired overhead.

Mirov stood in the door with his feet wide and his Webley revolver clutched in two steady fists. He took his time with his next shot. The bullet found its mark, striking the man squarely in one glowing orb. The shot drew a horrible shriek, too loud and high for a human to make. The inspector, who seemed frozen in place, began a long string of mumbled Russian.

The man moved closer, his wounds dripping placidly down the cream-colored night gown. His remaining eye locked on Mirov and never wavered. A nearly-inaudible hum buzzed under the other sounds of the train, pulsing in rhythm with the flickering glow of the vermillion eye.

Wells forced himself off the floor and to Mirov’s side. “What are you waiting for? Shoot him again!”

Mirov’s face slackened. “I… I can’t.”

“Bloody hell!” He snatched the revolver from Mirov’s hands and fired the last two shots.

The ragged man shrieked again, staggered, and toppled over.

“See? Easy-peesy, Inspector.”

Wells stared at the corpse for a long moment. The forehead was sunken in where his shots collapsed the skull. The pulpy contents spread across the slats of the floor like spilled porridge. The remaining eye glowed dimly, partially dislodged by the trauma. Wells felt like it was still watching and shivered as the preternatural light died out completely.

“We should begin autopsy of the body as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?” Wells looked over his shoulder at the policeman. “Inspector?”

Mirov leaned against the entrance, rubbing his head before staggering back to Wells and nodded slowly.

“Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ll move it over with the porter. You should clean up. Take as long as you need.” His shaky hand retrieved his pistol from the doctor.

“Yes, well, I believe I shall do just that.” Wells gave the body a solid, unanswered, kick to the ribs. “After all, I don’t imagine our fiend will be going anywhere.”

Chapter Ten

Corpses lined the floor of the boxcar on blankets. Three passengers lay in one row with Natasha at their head. They all died, seemingly, from massive hemorrhaging of the brain. Opposite them were four other passengers and one Dominion Police officer all killed by external means. The killer, identified as Otis by his widow, was kept in a third group. Keeping him company there were the wondering corpse of Tom Brandt, the autopsied remains of Monte the porter, and one thawing iceman. Mirov informed them that two Mounties, Jacques Laurent and Claude Raimi, were missing as well.

Tremblay paced between the rows of bodies and paused at one, muttering an incoherent train of thought and then moving to another. Wells and Jones prepped their makeshift autopsy table for their next patient. Mirov rolled a cigarette between his fingers and watched the science-types.

Saxton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure this is necessary? His organs should be raisins. I won’t be able to find the injuries you’re looking for.”

“There will still be signs. I think.” Wells looked at his friend and threw his arms in the air. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve never dissected a mummy before, but we must do this to be sure. We need to do a comparative autopsy and your iceman is the only one that might solidly link two of these groups. I have a theory, but right now it sounds like lunacy.”

“A dead fellow got up and killed the porter before violating a passenger who then suffered multiple gunshots without dying and kissed you in his last breath.” Jones shrugged. “I doubt you could say anything more bizarre than we’ve already encountered at this point.”

“Don’t challenge him so, my dear.” Saxton started the incision down his mummy’s torso. “James takes pleasure in find new ways to be disagreeable.”

Mirov tucked the unlit cigarette into his pocket and shook his head furiously. “I don’t know why this is necessary. The culprit is dead.”

“So are fifteen other people. We’ve been underway for less than six hours and still have almost two more until we arrive at our next stop.” Saxton cracked open the iceman’s ribs with his bare hands causing the entire left side to come free from the spine. “Bollocks.”

“There are only thirteen bodies, Professor.” Mirov made his way around a row of them. “We have no reason to believe the Mounties are dead. They simply cannot be found.”

“Yes, I’m sure they just stepped out for some air.” Jones pointed at Otis’ body for the doctor’s approval.

Wells shook his head. “No, let’s do Mr. Brandt first.”

The physicians hefted the body onto the crates and pulled back his funerary clothes. The incisions from his last autopsy were still intact for the most part, minus a few torn stitches from his undead wanderings. Jones snipped them open again.

“If he died by exposure, why autopsy him?” Tremblay asked.

“He was found frozen in the woods. They were probably making sure he went out there of his own volition.” Mirov leaned over the body and stared into the open torso. “Suicides are common in the winter, especially the further out you get. Being away from home, alone in the unknown. It feels hopeless after a while. Being frozen doesn’t seem such a terrible thing after being isolated from all you know for so long.”

“And somehow you’ve made this whole ordeal that much more depressing, Inspector.” Miss Jones shook her head. “Does that just come naturally?”

“Obviously. He’s Russian. Melancholia is in their blood.” Tremblay leaned in for a look into Tom Brandt’s abdomen and turned away with a whistle. “Zounds! We can rule out radiation.”

“On that we agree.” Wells pointed out the esophagus and liver damage that were the same as Monte’s. “I missed this before. The aorta is breached, ever so slightly. That explains the abdominal effusion we’re seeing.”

“The what?” the physicist asked.

“The pooling of blood in the torso. It’s quite heavy, but not as bad as the baggageman’s. I believe that… yes, here it is. The hepatic artery of Mr. Brandt is far more preserved. I’m not seeing any sign of the bursting we detected in the porter.”

“Monte wasn’t a picture of health.” Jones shrugged. “He drank too much, ate too much, and didn’t bathe enough. Most of his arteries were probably clogged. The obtruding object, whatever it may be, needed to shove through them. That’s why his were more heavily damaged.”

“Brilliant deduction, Miss Jones.” Wells beamed. “Aces.”

On the floor, Saxton examined the same locations on his Neanderthal. “The esophagus has scar tissue. The arteries are too atrophied to make out. Are you thinking he swallowed a contagion?”

“Not a contagion,” Jones said, catching up with the doctor’s theory. “A parasite.”

“That does sound like lunacy.” Mirov made his way to the door. “I’ll leave you to your investigations. If you find anything of importance, I’ll be in my compartment.”

“I think you should stay.” Saxton stood up, wiping his hands on a soiled rag. “This is your investigation, after all.”

Mirov paused by the door. “Just one of them.”

“That’s right. Why were you on the train in the first place?” Saxton started toward him.

Wells and Jones looked at each other and sighed.

“It is of little relevance now, but I was pursuing a thief.” Mirov met Saxton in the middle of the floor and gestured to the row of corpses. “The redhead was a burglar of international renown. Though it seems my investigation has come to an abrupt conclusion.”

Tremblay snapped his fingers. “She was the girl at the Count’s party!”

Wells looked at Natasha’s body and then up at Tremblay. “Yes, at dinner you said something about that. What was this party?”

“What does that matter?” Mirov growled.

“Because she was breaking into the safe for something of importance.” Wells pointed to the corner where the safe still hung open. “Something that seemed to interest Otis, as well.”

Tremblay jogged to it and found the hideous green bag on the floor. He came back to the others with the metal in his hands. His jaw moved excitedly, despite no words coming out. He held the bars up for everyone to see. The others exchanged glances then turned to him for an explanation.

“It’s the Count’s super steel,” the physicist finally said.

“Wonderful.” Mirov snatched the bars from his hand, sliding them back into the satchel and pulling the strings tight. “I will take these to him myself, since the safe’s security can no longer be trusted.”

“Why is that? Are there more thieves onboard?” Saxton gripped his wrist.

“You cannot be sure what’s onboard this train anymore, professor.” The inspector jerked his arm away.

“Perhaps you’re not the best person to guard those baubles,” the professor said. “After all, there’s been two attempted robberies under your nose already. I don’t like coincidences.”

“While we’re on the subject of dislikes, you are beginning to irritate me, greatly.”

“Just now?” Wells extracted Brandt’s brain with a bemused grin. “Most people can’t stand Alex in the first minute.”

“I’m going to take Petrovski his trinkets now.” Mirov sucked air through his teeth sharply, making a little whistle sound. “Does anyone else have any objections?”

“To you leaving? None at all,” Wells quipped.

Saxton cracked his knuckles as he watched the policeman leave. “Think I could kill him and blame it on your plague, James?”

“I think it might look suspicious, but I would support you nonetheless. He is a frightfully detestable sort.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Also, Miss Jones is correct. We’re not dealing with a disease. Possibly.” Wells moved his hands like scales. “Maybe not just a disease. It’s hard to be sure right now. I need you to extract the caveman’s brain.”

Saxton scowled. “You’re talking about the further desecration of the find of the century.”

“It’s a new century.” Wells shrugged. “There’s time to find another.”

“I bloody hate you.”

“Archie, dear.” Jones pointed at Monte’s corpse. “Would you be so kind as to pull the brain out of that one for reference? Just hold it up for the professor, he’ll do the rest. Thank you.”

Tremblay paled at the task, but made his way to the porter nonetheless. “Alrighty then, let’s get this over with.”

***

Marion Petrovski slammed the metal bars onto his desk tearing a divot from the mahogany surface. He wheeled around and jabbed a finger into the inspector’s chest, pushing him back as he powered forward. “You told me she wouldn’t get close to my samples!”

Mirov brushed Petrovski’s hand away. “You needn’t worry about it, Count Petrovski. The thief is dead.”

“Only because you failed to detect the murderer that was also onboard this train. What if she succeeded and got my samples to Edison? Or worse, that brudas Tesla?”

“I don’t imagine it would have affected me in the slightest. Tell me about your samples, Marion.”

“I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. I am a Count of Poland.”

“And yet here we are.” Mirov gestured around the car. “Looks as if we’re not in Poland. Your title means precisely naught. Now, where did you find them?”

“I did not find them.” He pointed at the bars. “I crafted them. This metal is unlike anything this world has ever seen and it was made by my hand. It can withstand temperatures as effectively as tungsten and is stronger than titanium, yet weighs almost nothing. It conducts like gold. Cuts like steel. This is an alloy meant for gods. The uses for my Svarium are limitless and there is nothing of this world that can break it.”

Mirov nodded thoughtfully. “The pressure of the deepest oceans?”

“More than strong enough and still light enough to enable flight! This metal will make me master of all the world’s secrets. There will be no place out of reach and it will be all because of the alloy I crafted. It is not unreasonable to believe it might even conquer the stars!”

“Well, now. That would be something.” Mirov sighed. “Yes, indeed.”

“And you almost lost it, you idiot.”

“Apologies. You may rest easy, however, now that the thief is dead. As is her killer.”

“Fool,” the voice growled from the corner. “Nothing but a damned conceited fool.”

Mirov turned to face Pietro.

Petrovski held up his hands expectantly. “Do you care to elaborate or would you rather remain vague and ominous?”

The priest closed his Bible and snapped to his feet. “You cannot kill evil with bullets. Satan still lives. You will see, Inspector. The Devil walks among us.”

“The Devil, is it?” Mirov’s natural scowl lifted to a pointed smile. “How quaint.”

Petrovski waved a hand dismissively. “Pietro, that’s enough. You’re grating on my nerves with this. There’s a definitive line between being faithful and being a superstitious primitive. If you can’t tell the difference, then you may as well put a bone through your nose like one of those African fellows.”

“Evil is not superstition, Count Petrovski.” Pietro pointed the Bible at both men. “Mark my words, this train is doomed. That blasphemous Englishman brought Satan aboard and now all our souls are forfeit.” He turned on a heel and headed for the door. The Byzantine cross above it fell as he reached for the handle and shattered in his path.

Mirov gave an icy smirk. “That’s not foreboding or anything.”

Chapter Eleven

“This is satisfactorily disturbing.” Saxton stared at the row of dislodged encephala.

Wells nodded. “Every single one of their brains shows the same cancerous liquescence. That would imply a disease of some sort.”

“Have you had any side effects from your encounter?”

Wells pursed his lips. “A headache since.”

Jones slugged him in the arm. “I’ve seen that look before. What are you hiding, James?”

He shrugged. “Nothing that makes any sense. Hallucinations when Otis was trying to kill me.”

“It would have been preferable if you hadn’t shot him in the head.” Saxton poked at Otis’ brain sending a loose piece toppling off the mound. “At least, not so excessively.”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t more considerate to your needs while defending my life, Alex. I shall try to keep your convenience in my thoughts, henceforth.” Wells thumbed his nose at Saxton.

Tremblay flipped over Natasha’s brain and stuck a finger in the rotten limbic region with a squish. “What is this?”

Jones gasped. “A person’s organ, you ninny. You don’t just stick a finger in it.”

Saxton raised an eyebrow. “It’s not as if the lot of them are in any condition to complain.”

Wells gestured at the brain. “Natasha was a very nice young lady, who I happened to be quite fond of. Have some respect for the dead, gentlemen.”

Saxton crossed his arms over his chest. “If you were any more full of shit, you would be a flower bed.”

“And I would grow you tulips, so that you may kiss my ass.”

Jones clapped her hands. “You’re both very lovely and will make wonderful wives someday, but I’m afraid Archie gets to wear the glass slipper right now.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones.” Tremblay removed his slimy finger from the brain and held it up. “My question was, what does this part of the brain do?”

Wells shrugged. “The brain is an interesting organ. There’s a lot that we don’t know and more so that we’ve had wrong this entire time. To the best of my knowledge, you’re probing the memory ba—” Wells cocked his head and clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s something we didn’t consider.”

“The memories?” Saxton uncrossed his arms and shifted uncomfortably. “That shouldn’t be possible. Should it?”

Jones nodded slowly. “It has been theorized that memories could be passed on genetically—that some, or all, of the memories are copied outside of the mind.”

“Oh, hogwash.” Tremblay waved her off.

“I didn’t say it was theorized by anyone of note, but right now we are well past the realm of known medical solutions. The sane answers simply don’t work here, Archie.”

Saxton chewed his bottom lip. “Okay, we’ll assume you’re correct. Otis was stealing people’s memories. Why the baggageman? Why was the corpse moved, and what does this have to do with my specimen?”

Tremblay pointed at the bodies. “Let’s not forget the internal damage. It looks like something was shoved into their mouths.”

“Oh, dear.” Wells touched his lips and felt the small incisions. “Bloody hell.”

Everyone turned to face him.

“Maybe they weren’t hallucinations.”

“What weren’t?” Tremblay asked.

Wells sighed. “I believe Miss Jones is correct about the memories. I also believe that we are, in fact, dealing with a parasite. Everything from this point forward is going to get much more insane, I fear.”

“A parasite? In my Neanderthal?” Saxton looked at all the bodies. “What is it trying to accomplish with all this?”

Wells threw up his hands. “My guess is the same thing it was trying to accomplish when it climbed into that caveman forty-thousand years ago, Alex. The bastard’s trying to survive.”

“We didn’t find a parasite in any of the bodies, though.” Tremblay eyed the corpses suspiciously and scooted away from them as best he could. “I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you won’t.” Wells leaned on a crate. “I think it’s escaped. It could be anywhere on this train, or more pointedly, anyone on this train.”

Jones picked up a scalpel and went to Otis’ body. “You said his eyes were glowing when he attacked you, yes?”

Wells nodded.

She peeled back the lid. “Human eyes don’t glow, which means that this thing might leave traces of itself in the previous host. Maybe some part of it was retained in the ocular fluid. You were seeing its memories, Jim.”

Wells bobbled his head, weighing the options. “That seems valid. The images were… well, they were bizarre and not in any sort of order. They could have been memories, yes. There were flashes of faces and the train… then there were other things that weren’t as clear. Unrecognizable structures and colors.”

“Older memories perhaps,” Saxton offered. “Strained or misshapen by the age of the thing or perhaps corrupt by its long stint as a snowball.”

“Perhaps.” Wells nodded. “Miss Jones, what are you doing to that poor man now?”

Jones held up Otis’ remaining eyeball by the optic nerve. “I have a theory, and you’re not going to like it.”

“I rarely do.”

“Only because my theories are always correct.” She rested the organ in her palm.

Wells pouted. “They are.”

“If the parasite can absorb memories by consuming the gray matter of the host, then you might be able to absorb its memories by consuming its flesh as well.”

Saxton snapped his fingers and smiled widely. “You’re going to have to eat that eye.”

Wells blanched. “Like hell I am.”

“I’m afraid it’s the only plan we’ve got, Jim.” Jones held the orb up in her palms like an offering—a pulpy, hazel truffle for his consumption. “We can’t risk losing the material by heating it, so you’ll have to do this raw.”

Tremblay nodded along with the others. “You’ve already shared a moment with the thing, so there could be enough shared material between the two of you to act as a proper conduit. This should work. Hypothetically. We really don’t have time not to try it, Doctor Wells. We must hurry.”

The cargo door opened and the priest swept in. He stared at the bodies, then at Miss Jones with the eye. “What barbarism have you blasphemers committed now?”

Saxton pointed at the disembodied organ. “We’re trying to make Doctor Wells eat this man’s eye to find out what drove him to murder all these people. We think it’s a parasite like a worm.”

“Not a worm, but a snake. A hell-spawned serpent.” Pietro pointed at the eye. “The eyes contain the souls of all things. Satan has besieged these people and will have tainted their souls with his evil.”

“You see, we were all wrong. It’s just Satan.” Wells smiled nervously. “Nothing to worry about and no reason to eat the dead man’s eye.”

Pietro held up a finger. “On the contrary, if you consume the soul of that man you will be able to confirm the Devil’s presence here.”

“Of course I will.” Wells kicked a crate.

“The Adversary is still at work, hiding in some poor fool. We must exorcise him from this realm and banish him back to Hell’s bottomless abyss. To do that, we need to know where he has gone. You must eat the eye, doctor.”

Saxton pointed at the priest. “See that, James? Even the priest agrees with us, and he’s a buffoon.”

Wells took the ball delicately between his fingers. His stomach churned noisily. “I hate you all, so very much.”

Chapter Twelve

Wells put his tongue to the eyeball. It had mostly dried, but there was still a salty, copper tinge that crept along his taste buds straight to his gag reflex. The taste test caused him to heave violently, but only the whiskey came up in a steaming splash against the wooden floor. He braced himself on a narrow shelf next packed with assorted luggage.

“Damn it, Jim you’re a doctor. Act like one.” Miss Jones shook her head. “You’ve just vomited in our operating room.”

“Precisely why I say to never eat in an operating room to begin with, my dear.” Wells wiped his mouth on the tweed sleeve of his jacket. “Especially when you’re eating parts of the person whom you’ve just operated on. How do you know this isn’t going to give me some horrible disease?”

“At your age, it hardly matters.” Saxton offered him a handkerchief. “Besides, you might be seeing the memories of a previously unknown species. You’re at the cusp of scientific discovery, old chap.”

“Then this should be your honor, Alex. After all, you’ve already lost one major find today. I would hate for you to miss out on another.”

“Oh, he won’t.” Tremblay offered Saxton a tin mug.

Wells’ peaked face twisted into a poor attempt at a smile. “What is that?”

Saxton scrunched his face at the odiferous fluid. “Something I won’t be imbibing.”

“Yes, you will.” Tremblay pushed the mug into his hand. “It’s important that we try every option, Professor.”

“Archie’s correct, Alex,” Jones said with a short nod.

“What if his works? Then it wouldn’t be unnecessary.” Saxton pushed it back toward Tremblay.

The physicist clasped his clammy hands around Saxton’s so he couldn’t release the cup. “Every good experiment needs a control group. Drink the damn drink, Professor.”

“I’m a man of science. You should give it to the priest, for a proper control. He believes in magic and all that nonsense.”

“All the more reason not to give it to him. We’re out of time.”

“It is against my religion to desecrate the body of the dead.” Pietro cleared his throat. “Though I know it would be forgiven in the eyes of the Lord if it were done to stop the Adversary. I will drink with the professor.”

“Oh, now you wish to be agreeable,” Saxton grumped.

“I suppose we do have sufficient resources to make another. Give me three minutes.” Tremblay spun and jabbed a finger up at Saxton’s face. “Then you will toast and drink your anatomical aperitif with the priest like a proper gentleman.”

The cargo car’s door squeaked open, interrupting Saxton’s argument. Irina Petrovski seemed to float into the room with the flowing scarlet skirt hiding her feet as it swept across the dusty floor. Her alabaster complexion somehow fell to another shade of white when she saw the rows of corpses. She swooned and leaned against the door.

Pietro dashed to her side, clasping her arm, and bracing her against his robed form.

She pointed an accusatory finger at Wells, who held the eye before his open mouth.

“What atrocities are you committing here?” She fanned herself and straightened up.

“I assure you, Irina, it is not what it looks like,” Saxton said in his monotonous tone.

“Forgive me, Professor. The infirmity of my femininity must be taxing my vision. Apologies for any misunderstanding.” She spread her hands to frame the scene. “It looks to me, however, that you’ve all been desecrating the dead with these vile dissections, and that the good doctor there was steeling himself to swallow a man’s eye. I’m sure that you are completely correct, Alexander, it must not be what it looks like at all.”

Saxton’s shoulders sagged. “Actually, that’s a fairly accurate assessment of where we’ve arrived.”

“Oh, I do like her.” Jones chuckled. “I hope she doesn’t get horribly murdered like the other young lady.”

“Of all the things you bloody colonists stole from His Majesty, subtly wasn’t one of them.” Saxton held up the mug. “We have a theory on how to find the culprit and stop it once and for all.”

“I was told this was over,” she said. “The inspector was just in our car”

“The inspector is a fool,” Saxton answered.

“The professor is a heretic and his beliefs are the lies of Lucifer. However, of the inspector, we agree. The man is a moron of the highest quality,” Pietro conceded.

“This cerebral cocktail, or that eyeball, might give us the insight we need to stop this thing.” Saxton sniffed it again. “Jove! It gets worse the longer it sits.”

“Perhaps we should trade,” Wells offered.

“Eye think not,” Saxton said with a grim smile.

“The Devil is among us, Countess. You must return to the safety of your own car.” Pietro snapped his arm out straight and pointed to the door.

Irina cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

“Poppycock! There’s no devil. Not on this train or anywhere else,” Saxton scoffed. “There’s a scientific explanation for all of this.”

Pietro stepped forward, red-faced. “And do you know what it is?”

Saxton straightened up. “Not at the moment. That’s why we’re experimenting.”

“You still hold onto the false idol of science!”

Irina snapped her fingers and swept between them.

“I’ve had enough of this. Your conviction that everything has a scientific explanation is no more close-minded than Pietro’s belief that this does not. People are dead, and while I absolutely believe in the Devil, I do not believe he is aboard this train. Something else is, and that something is killing people. Not knowing what it might be, makes it momentarily more dangerous. I suggest you keep an open mind to the possibility that this is not so simply resolved, but if you think your drink or the doctor’s cannibalism can aid in the destruction of this monstrosity, then it is your duty to do so.”

Wells, Saxton, and Pietro exchanged glances and then hung their heads while the scolding continued. Jones chewed her lip and tried not to laugh at their predicament. Tremblay tried melting into the cargo to spare himself the ire of the Countess.

“That’s right, you should be ashamed.” Irina spun in slow circle, taking in the faces of the three men. “This bickering is the argumentative prater of spoiled children and solves nothing. There are other people on this train and they are all frightened—and they all matter more than your damn discovery. They’re whispering of monsters and madmen now, but how much more will it take before they’re all in a full-blown panic? How long until they start turning on each other? Madness or demon or parasite matters not. Anyone could be the next killer and soon they will all turn to murder to protect themselves. There is no more time for your egos and opinions. Let us get on with this!”

“Yes, I think I like her quite a lot.” Jones nudged Wells in the ribs. “Eat the damn eye, Jim.”

Wells nodded and shoved the orb into his mouth. He suppressed a gag as he rolled it between his molars and bit down with a splat-pop that made Miss Jones shudder and Pietro wretch. Saxton maintained his calm composure, albeit in a pale shade of green.

Irina sat down and fanned herself frantically as the good doctor chewed. She put her head between her knees and mumbled prayers. The physicist casually stirred his concoction as if the day’s events were perfectly normal.

“It’s actually quite minty, but very tough and gamey. A bit like gristle on a stag.” Wells rolled the gnawed tissue with his tongue causing a spurt of ocular juice to trickle between his lips. He dabbed it with Saxton’s handkerchief and apologized. “It’s making my face tingle.”

“That’s probably some sort of residue from the parasite.” Jones nodded as she scribbled the observations into a notepad. “Maybe even eggs or some other means of reproduction.”

Wells swallowed the pulp. “I assure you my dear, it was a horrible enough experience without any further conjecture on what bodily fluids might have been infused with that poor fellow’s eye. Other than that, I’m not feeling any different. Alrighty Alex, your turn.”

Saxton raised his cup. “Our turn. Tremblay, would you bring the priest his goblet. Man was not meant to suffer alone.”

“That is why God made woman,” Irina offered.

“And woman alone is why that man suffers. Alex is only doing this to impress you, my dear. I hope you can appreciate that.” Wells picked at his incisors. “Who knew eyes clung to the enamel in such a way.”

Irina caught Tremblay’s sleeve. “If this is some parasite, could the drink not infect them as well?”

“It is a possibility, my dear Countess.” His eyes darted to the floor and he sighed. “I’m afraid we can find no other way, however.”

“And if it does?” She looked to Wells and then to Jones. “Does anyone have a suggestion for what to do if this experiment turns them into murderers as well?”

Jones knocked on the large sliding door. “We’ll throw them from the train.”

“That’s reasonable.” Wells nodded in agreement. “Not preferable, but reasonable.”

“Arguably,” Saxton conceded.

“This thing survived freezing once before,” the priest offered. “Beheading might be a prudent measure, before throwing us off the train.”

“Not a horrible idea.” Wells looked around. “Where did Mirov leave that ax?”

“Can you not be so damned jovial about it?” Saxton grumped.

Tremblay shrugged and handed the mug to Pietro. “Just think of it as a custard. Actually, it’s probably best if you don’t think of it at all. It smells much worse than it tastes, I imagine. Sociable.”

“Pretty sure you have to drink too, if you’re offering a salute, my friend.” Saxton glared at the congealing fluid, making his face sour instantly. “You see, James, this is what happens when people meddle with business that they have no hand in. If you’d left my Neanderthal alone, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“May this blasphemous alchemy send the dragon back into the abyss.” Pietro scrunched his nose at the odious brew. What shall we drink to, Professor Saxton?”

“Why, killing the Devil, of course.”

“Of course. Saluti!”

“Cheers, mate.”

“This is madness.” Irina slumped against the wall, keeping her hand close to the door handle, ready to purge the men from the boxcar should they turn.

The mugs came together in a clank and the men downed the physicist’s potion in singular gulps. Saxton leaned against a shelf and bit a knuckle trying to keep down the ghastly brain juice. Pietro’s heavy beard hid his ashen complexion as he staggered to find a seat on Tom Brandt’s coffin. Saxton opened his mouth to speak, snapped it shut instantly and held up a finger while he composed himself. The priest belched through tight lips and swayed in place. Irina moved to check on them, but was intercepted by Jones. The doctor gently guided her away.

“It’s probably best to give them their space, sweetie. I think their dinners might clash with the rest of your outfit.” She gently guided the Countess back to her seat and shot an accusatory glance at Tremblay. “You milked the cysts, didn’t you?”

“Well, of course I did. If the creature was going to leave any trace of itself, especially its memories, it would be in the tumorous growths it caused in the limbic region. Just because I’m a physicist doesn’t mean I’m not familiar with the more outdated medical sciences.”

“Putz.” Jones rolled her eyes.

Saxton rubbed his watering eyes until they were clear and stood up straight. “We’re no closer to the parasite than before, but at least we’ve found a wonderful new anorectic.”

“I was so sure that was going to work.” Tremblay took off his glasses and polished the lenses. “Strange. Everything made sense in my head anyhow.”

“Damn science. We need only to p—arrgghh!” Pietro crashed to the floor, blood spattered as his nose flattened on the boards. His limbs contracted, pulling him into a tight ball.

Saxton followed him down like a broken marionette, curling in agony as he landed. Dust hovered around the two men as their limbs started to twitch. Tremblay and Jones rushed to their sides as the convulsions started. Their bodies thrashed in horrific spasms. Jones clapped and pointed to Irina.

“Start counting. Archie, keep Alex from bashing his head open.” Jones scooped Pietro’s head into her lap and made soft shushing noises—a forgotten maternal instinct.

Spittle flew into the air with half-realized words by the two stricken men. Jones watched Tremblay try to wedge a billfold between Saxton’s teeth. She leaned hard and punched him in the ear.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Don’t stick anything in a person’s mouth when they are seizing.”

“A man could swallow his tongue during such a paroxysm.” Tremblay forced the professor’s jaw open with his fingers.

“No, they cannot, you ninny. Just keep his head from hitting the floor.”

“Well, there’s no harm in being cautious. I’d rather be saf—” his argument turned into a high-pitched squeal when another spasm racked Saxton’s body.

The professor’s mouth slammed shut like a porcelain portcullis on Tremblay’s left thumb. The meat of the finger parted in a sanguine gush, and teeth etched the bone.

“Get your finger out of his mouth before he breaks his teeth on the goddamn bone, Archie!” Jones grabbed the physicist at the elbow and jerked his arm away.

His hand came away from Saxton’s mouth with a moist snap. The muscle was ragged and exposed where the teeth stripped the skin from his thumb. Tremblay’s eyes glassed over and he toppled backwards. Jones cursed the situation and called for Wells, but didn’t get an answer. Saxton’s body stiffened, then Pietro’s, and the convulsions turned to steady shaking. And then nothing.

Stillness.

Jones let out a long breath. “How long?”

“What?” Irina blinked and shook herself. “Oh, fifty-seven seconds. Give or take.”

“Put that in the notes, Jim.” Jones stared at Wells and her jaw quivered.

He was lying face down on the floor, fifteen feet away. His eyes closed tight and his body unmoving.

“James Henry Wells, you get up right this instant!” Jones watched for any sign of life, whispering his name again. Demanding he rise and getting no response, she lowered Pietro to the floor and rose shakily.

Wells eyes twitched open slowly and he pressed himself into a semi-seated position. “I’ve just had the strangest dream. I was travelling, but beyond any human concept of the word. I looked down and there was the world. Our world, our continents and oceans, spread out before me through a layer of clouds. It was as if I were looking at it from outer space.”

“Heaven, you damn heathen.” Pietro rolled to his side suddenly and vomited. He coughed out the last bit of brain-stew and continued. “It was the view from Heaven. Satan is among us. He who sat at the left hand of God and stared down on the world in its formation. I saw it and I saw his demoniac servants, the antediluvian beasts that God washed away. There is no doubt. I saw the apostles of the Adversary, great dragons flitting through the air and towering over the Garden. I saw them as if his eyes were my own.”

The others exchanged nervous glances.

Saxton sat up with a groan and pressed his palms into his temples. He dug in his coat pocket for a tarnished cigarette case.

“I saw what you saw, Pietro. But those weren’t serpents.” He lit a cigarette and took a long pull. The expectant faces all stared up at him. He blew the smoke with a tired sigh. “This thing killed the bloody dinosaurs. We’re all proper fucked.”

Chapter Thirteen

“You’re overexaggerating, Alex.” Wells rubbed the back of his head and tried to shake something off. “It probably only killed some of the dinosaurs.”

“Is that supposed to be calming in the least?”

“Conservatively.” Wells brushed a hand through his hair. “There was a fire. It was all very fuzzy, but I remember looking down at the world. Then I was surrounded by flames.”

Pietro raised a damning fist. “Because you saw the Fall! You witnessed, through Satan’s own eyes, his fall from the grace of God!”

Wells patted at the air. “Do you have to yell in such a way? My head is in bits over here.”

“Perhaps the priest is right,” Saxton said.

Everyone cast unbelieving glances his way.

“Irina was correct earlier.” Saxton huffed. “We need to be open to all possibilities, even the idiotic ones. We have to consider the Devil—I can’t believe I’m saying this—the Devil may in fact be to blame.”

Wells’ jaw hung open for a long moment. “Dear lord, I think the brain cocktail infected him. Open the door and fetch my ax. He must be the thing.”

Saxton held up two fingers. “Blow it out your ass, you senile bell-end.”

Wells shrugged. “Never mind, it’s him.”

“We must spread the word!” Pietro stood quickly and wobbled about. “We must tell everyone of the Adversary! They must all know what terrific thing is among us. It is my duty!” The mad priest darted for the door and clumsily stumbled out of it on his second try.

“He’s going to cause a panic, hollering like that,” Jones added without looking up from her notebook.

Tremblay sat up from the crates he was laying on. “Do you think we should retrieve him?”

“No. No, we should not.” Wells pointed at the physicist bandaged hand. “How’s the thumb?”

He sniffled. “The professor nearly bit it clean off of my hand.” He held up the appendage and its blood-stained dressing for effect.

Jones smacked the back of his head with the leather-bound journal. “Next time don’t stick your extremities in someone’s mouth without permission, you ninny. In the meantime, I’m going to clean this mess up. There’s a stop coming, you know? Our operating room looks like an abattoir.” She swept her hand across the scene. “Not even a good one, at that.”

“That’s insanity. We can’t let this train stop.” Tremblay rose shakily to his feet and wiped a strand of snot across his sleeve.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tremblay.” Saxton tried to stand and then thought better of it. “The memories are coming in flashes and there’s a lot of them. It’s disorienting. They’re also coming in order, or so it seems. It could be a while before the three of us get around to who the current host is. If there even is one. For that matter, there could be more than one by now. We still know next to nothing, and we need help. There’ll be Mounties there that can isolate everyone while we come up with a proper test.”

“What if this thing, this parasite, was on a meteoroid?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Saxton said.

“Wells said he saw fire, like an object entering from space. The force and heat generated by a meteoroid coming through our atmosphere and striking the Earth would be profound. There’s nothing that could survive it known to any discipline of science, that I’ll guarantee. Consider a parasite that can jump from host to host, continually gaining knowledge of our world. Now consider that it can’t be killed by even the extremes of space travel or crashing into a planet.”

“That would be very bad,” Wells agreed.

“What are you thinking, Archie?” Jones asked.

Tremblay took his glasses off and scrubbed a splotch of bile from the lens with his jacket. “Two years ago, a flight was made between Paris and London in just over three hours. Imagine a parasite that could learn to build planes just by invading the mind of an engineer. How long until every living thing became a part of this thing?”

“Not very,” Irina offered. “Marion, my husband, he is very fond of air travel. We own two airships ourselves, and he hopes to improve the capability of such machines with his new metal. He says that it’s only a matter of time before flight is the only way people will travel. If he is correct then the automobile may already have become obsolete. I think it’s madness, personally.”

“Many things seemed madness before our journey began.” Tremblay paused. “Count Petrovski wishes to build airplanes?”

“He already does. He does not consider me capable of understanding the complexities of his business. It benefits me to pretend he is correct. The company is currently attempting to build an airplane that can transport goods many times faster than shipping and to areas deep inland. They are getting very close.”

Wells and Saxton exchanged suspicious looks.

Saxton forced himself to his feet. “I’m sure other people know this as well?”

Tremblay nodded. “I’ve seen several people from Count Petrovski’s party on board the train, aside from the thief that is. He made sure to mention aeronautical applications for his new metal on several occasions. Why do… oh.”

“Exactly. The man has the knowledge and the means to make that nightmare scenario of yours a very true story. It’s the most logical target for this thing to go after, if it is still alive. I’ll take Irina to her car and keep an eye on the Count for the time being.” Saxton made his way to the Countess and offered his hand.

Wells stood up. “And what if the creature comes for him?”

“Then I’ll give him a bunch of fives.” Saxton cracked his bony knuckles.

“Are you sure punching it in the face is the best solution?” Jones asked.

“For almost every situation, my dear.”

“A man that fails to plan, is planning to fail. It’s been my experience that the simplest plans are often the best. Aces, Alex. I’m glad we can count on you being simple.” Wells thumbed his nose and stretched. “I prefer a bit of redundancy, however. I’ll go see the conductor and try to convince him, without sounding like too much of a lunatic, that the train needs to continue moving until we can kill this thing.”

“And do you have any idea how we can accomplish that, James?”

“Why, with style and aplomb, of course.” Wells smiled brightly.

“That’s a no, then.”

Tremblay raised his hand. The makeshift dressing was bulkier than a boxing glove and drew a snicker from Jones. “I don’t know about killing it, but I think I can trap it. I’ll be in the caboose if you need me—no one else should have any reason to be there, so it’ll be the ideal location.”

“It’ll be the obvious one.” Wells scratched his chin. “It’s a capital idea, but the setting is all wrong. Have you ever hunted a tiger, Archibald?”

Tremblay scrunched his face. “Dear God, no. I’m Canadian.”

“Clever bastards—tigers, not Canadians,” Saxton grumbled. “They know when something is too good, too exact. You have to set the ambuscade in their killing field, not yours.”

“Precisely, Alex. The monstrosity killed most of his victims two cars up. There’s no one there and only cargo and the empty colonist cars coming this way.” Wells nodded and turned to the physicist. “It would be a better place to set your snare, in my opinion.”

“I see,” Tremblay said quietly. “That might work far better for the device I have in mind, as well. Yes, I think it will in fact. Let’s go kill us a… whatever-the-hell this thing is.”

“Oh, Jim.” Jones held up her journal. “I want to get all my notes down while they’re fresh. Once they’re organized, I’ll put them in the usual place for you. In case you get back here before we catch up.”

Wells nodded with a smile and stalked across the car. He patted Tremblay on the shoulder. “Good luck, my boy. And do keep your eyes open.” He exited the car followed by Irina and Saxton.

“Do you need any help in here?” Tremblay paused at the exit.

Jones shook her head. “Don’t be foolish. Go set traps with your friends and leave me to the medical hubbub. I’ll wrap up here.”

“Of course. Good luck, Miss Jones.”

***

Wells nodded as he passed Inspector Mirov who gave him a hard slap on the shoulder.

“Doctor Wells, I need a moment of your time.”

“Sorry, old bean, can’t talk. Got to save the world and all that. Alex will assist you, I’m sure. He’s just a moment behind.”

Wells scurried through to the next car despite the inspector’s continued pleas. Saxton entered the car from the opposite end and swore loudly when he saw Mirov.

“Professor Saxton, a moment. Please.”

“That’s a wonderful scowl you’re wearing this evening, is it new? It’s much more intimidating and less constipated than your normal face.”

Mirov’s eye twitched. “I have neither the time nor the patience for your witticisms. There’s a killer on this train after all.”

“I thought you said there wasn’t?” Irina questioned.

“After having discussed the matter with your husband, I feel I may have spoken in haste. What did your autopsies reveal?”

“Quite a lot. Miss Jones is wrapping up in the baggage car. She can fill you in. I must be getting Mrs. Petrovski to her compartment. Her husband may be the next victim.”

“That does seem likely. Carry on and I will go see your lady doctor for the information I need. Thank you, professor.”

Mirov smiled and nodded as he turned toward the rear of the train.

“Strange. I didn’t think his face was capable of such emotional range. Come, Irina.”

***

The door hissed open and Jones glanced over her shoulder at the police inspector. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. I am glad you’re here however, Inspector Mirov.” She pursed her lips. “No one’s ever said that, have they?”

Mirov managed his friendliest snarl. “Not that I recall.” He took out his tobacco tin and set it on a crate. “The professor says you have information for me.” He leaned on the crate and filled a long paper with a pinch of tobacco.

Jones eyed the cigarettes in the tin and then smiled at Mirov. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, we’ve learned quite a bit. The caveman killed the baggageman, then Tom Brandt killed most everyone else. Except the thief, Natasha—she was killed by our friend Otis. They were infested with some sort of parasite.”

“A parasite?”

“So it seems. The thing we’re looking for came to Earth long before we got here. We found a way to share in its memories, you see.”

“Is that so? That’s very clever of you. Did you see where it’s gotten off to?”

“No, not quite. We’re waiting, but I believe the memories will surface in a sort of chronological order. The current host will be revealed quite soon. Little good it’ll do us. By the time the memories catch up, it will be too late, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that?”

“Humans are too frail. This thing used to gestate inside the mighty tyrannosaurus, after all. It burns through us too quickly. I believe it’ll find a new hiding place before we discover where it’s gone.” She pointed at the cigarettes in the open can. “Mind if I have one of those?”

Mirov looked down at them and then up at Jones. He licked the cigarette he’d been rolling and twisted it between his fingers. “How about a fresh one instead?”

“All the better.” Jones took it, gave it an appreciative sniff and stuck it between her lips. “Much obliged. It’s strange, this thing. It comes from a place beyond our understanding—a place right out of our wildest dreams, I would imagine. Yet, it’s so monumentally simple.”

“Simple?”

“Oh dear, yes.” Miss Jones laughed softly. “Bizarre as it is, as alien, it’s barely more than a pubic louse. It’s much more destructive to be sure, and it has the neat brain-melty abilities, but at the end of the day, it’s just a louse. Scurrying about, being a pain in my pleasantries.” She extended the cigarette towards him. “A light?”

Mirov paused and reached into his breast pocket for the brass lighter. “Of course.” He struck the flame.

She leaned in and took a few short puffs then a long drag. She smiled and blew the smoke in the inspector’s face. His face screwed and he hacked.

“Mirov smoked more than this damn train. He was also a real asshole. That’s something you can’t fake, you ninny. It’s too human.”

Mirov tried to laugh, but it came out as inarticulate groans. Then he threw down the lighter. “I know what laughter is, but none of you know how you do it. It’s a reflex that I can’t seem to get right. Maybe you can teach me.” It closed in on Jones, stretching Mirov’s face into an unsettling smile.

“Come close and I’ll give you a lesson, that’s for sure.”

“I do love the female mind. The fairer sex is so much more… aware.”

“I’m not much for fair.” Jones snapped a stout leg up and kicked Mirov in the groin.

Apparently, the creature shared the nervous system of its host. Mirov doubled over and caught himself on a box. Jones slashed down his forearm with an autopsy knife. Its pained shriek contorted into the distorted mock-laughter once more.

“Please stop fighting. I promise, I really do love you for your mind. Do you like music, Miss Jones? I hear it’s quite soothing in times of distress.” He whistled softly, off key, but close enough.

“You can’t have my mind, and you couldn’t handle my body, dear. James is going to kill you, I hope you know.”

“Hmm, that’s cute. I was here when this world was fire and ash. I feasted on your great dragons. Survived their apocalypse and walked in the icy hell that engulfed this world. Before monkeys learned to speak, I shared words with beasts you’ve never known. I am forever and undying. What do you think I have to fear from a man?” His eyes burned bright red over a predatory grin. The thing inside Mirov’s body, a stringless puppet, stalked closer. “Enlighten me. Tell me all your plans, Miss Jones.”

Jones rolled the knife between her fingers and tightened her grip. A smile creased her lips. “If you really are the Devil, then we’ll finish this in Hell.” She swung the surgical blade up, piercing her carotid artery and ripping across to the other side. A vermillion eruption washed across his grim suit.

He shouted at her falling body and seized her collar. A flash of white beneath the cascading crimson caught his eye. The doctor had cut herself to the spine. The wound tore wide as her head fell back. The arteries spurted softer. The creature roared and cursed in a language human ears had never heard. He dropped the body to the floor and kicked it repeatedly. He stopped abruptly, leaning against a shelf. Mirov turned his nose up and sniffed the air.

“Are you eager to die?” He slipped the bloody jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the dusty floor.

The figure moved out of the shadows slowly. “No, I am eager to serve.”

Chapter Fourteen

Wells pushed through the crowd of commuters gathered in the lounge car. They barked demands and moaned complaints. Over the ruckus, he could only make out pieces of individual complaints. The general point being that they all wanted away from the murder train as fast as they could. Wells agreed. He slung a boisterous man out of the way by his coattails and stepped through the gap. He straightened his lapels and smiled pleasantly at the guard. The Mountie promptly jammed his palm into Wells’ chest.

“No passengers beyond this point. That’s straight from Inspector Mirov’s mouth.”

On a normal occasion, Wells would have explained that he was aiding Mirov’s investigation and had pertinent information to share with the engineer and conductor. However, this particular Mountie had put his hands on the good doctor twice since the journey began, and that altered the situation ever so slightly.

“What about that gentleman there?” Wells pointed behind the scarlet sentry.

Naturally he looked. Not a full turn, but enough to give Wells the angle he wanted. The knuckles landed right on the tip of the policeman’s square chin and spun him to the ground.

“That’ll teach you to wrinkle an Englishman’s jacket, you knob head.” Wells rolled the man on his side as a courtesy. He turned to the crowd. “The rest of you just wait here. I’m going to have a word with the conductor.”

A British accent and a sense of urgency had a way of sounding official, so they nodded or waved or cheered in affirmation. He tipped his imaginary hat and thanked them for their patience—it only seemed proper after all—and headed through the crew car and outside.

The wind cut through his dinner jacket like shards of glass. His bare hands and face took the brunt of it as he skirted the open coal car. The sweeping drifts sparkled with moonlight but blotted out any view of the Canadian wilds. He couldn’t even see the rest of the world and never would again if he didn’t stop the creature.

Wells sped up, but the buffeting snow and ice forced him to stumble. His hand instinctively reached for a rail. He regretted the decision immediately. He righted himself and forced his hand open with a growl. Bits of skin remained on the iron beam. He squeezed the fist tightly and felt tears freezing on his cheek.

The old doctor gritted his teeth. A long, pained breath steamed from his nostrils.

“Let’s hurry this along, James.” He forced himself on, stooping to limit his exposure.

The door was in a recess out of the wind, but he still used his sleeve to rattle the steel handle. It was locked up tight. He kicked the door and shouted until someone opened it. The engineer pulled him in by his coat, slammed the door and rushed back to his station. Wells looked around the empty engine. There were supposed to be at least four people. Instead, the engineman ran the entire show by himself. The hirsute man mumbled something of a greeting as he raised a leg and shook it, then fanned the air behind him.

“Where in the bloody hell is everyone?”

“It’s Christmas, you heathen fuck.” The engineer spat tobacco in the floor beside his spittoon. “Always got a skeleton crew for the goddamn birthday of our Lord and Savior. That should be obvious, even to a dirty fucking foreigner like yourself.”

Wells scoffed. “I’m English, I’ll have you know.”

“The worst kind.” The engineer waved him away more ferociously than he had his digestive winds. “We just got rid of your sort.”

Wells grimaced as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “Where is the rest of your crew? Even with the holiday there should be more than just one slovenly cretin driving the damned train.”

The barrel-chested Canadian spat again and stood up. He turned to Wells and raised an angry fist. Wells batted it away and jabbed two fingers into his throat. The engineer fell back onto his stool with a rasping wheeze. Tobacco juice trickled down his blonde beard and onto his coveralls.

“I assure you, fine sir, I am in no mood for your banter or body odor.” Wells leaned closer to the gauges. “I’ve never driven a train. However, I am aware of how the process works. It is entirely too complex for one person. Especially when that one person is you. Where’s the conductor gotten off to?”

The engineer held up a hand while he hacked and coughed. “You made me swallow my tobacco.”

“Apologies, but I’ll buy you another.” Wells crossed his arms over his chest. Partially to look serious, but mostly because he was freezing. The tweed jacket wasn’t meant for Canadian winters—it was made for style, damn it.

“That was a pretty nifty thing. Don’t many folks get one over on Ol’ Johnnie, but you sure did. And at your age, even!” He rubbed his throat and shook his head. “Lawsy, you sure you ain’t Scottish? I’ve been walloped by a Scot before. That I might believe, but an English codger? No, sir. Just ain’t no way that happens.”

“It seems it did.”

“Yep, suppose it did.” The engineman snorted and a smile formed somewhere between the wilderness of wiry facial hairs. “Name’s Johnnie, by the by, Johnnie Voss.” He stood again and offered his hand.

Wells shook it hastily. “James Wells, doctor of just about everything and currently trying to save your life.”

“Shit, you probably should’ve opened with that one.” Johnnie gave Wells a hard slap on the shoulder. “The conductor’s no doubt in the lounge getting lushed up with some lady of light morals, if you catch my drift. The engine’s the only car without a covered gangway. Keeps people from bothering me normally. Unfortunately, it’s colder than Lucifer’s back pussy and just as appealing, which means that butterball won’t be making the trip lessen we’re at a stop.”

“I wish someone would’ve pointed that out before I made the journey. What about your fireman? Where’s he gotten off too?”

“You noticed we got a caboose instead of an observation car, yeah?” Johnnie pointed to the rear of the train.

“I did but wasn’t aware of any profound significance. How’s that pertain to this?”

Johnnie huffed like he was suddenly the smartest man in the room. Wells let it go, since it presumably didn’t happen often.

“The colonist cars still have manual brakes on them, and there’s six of those heavy bastards. We had to hitch a caboose to the back so we could control them on the slopes. We got two brakemen back there. Normally either of them boys could handle three cars each, maybe four, but no way tonight.”

“What’s all this have to do with the fireman?”

“You have to insert the braking handle from above, as in up on the roof, and turn it. Then you jump the gap and get the next car. That’s why they switched to the automatic brakes, but no one really gives a shit about the immigrants, so the cars they ride in still got the manual brakes. The wind’s up and the temperature’s down. It’s too much to hope them two boys can get across the roofs fast enough. It’s only another twenty minutes to the next stop, which is right after a bitch of a slope, so Chuck went back to give them a hand. Get it?”

“Got it.” Wells nodded and then sighed. “It’s a moot point, however. You can’t stop this train, Johnnie. There’s a contagion onboard.”

“A what now?”

“A sickness,” Wells groaned. “A very terrible one. If you make the next stop, you could be putting the entire Dominion of Canada at risk to this thing.”

The engineman raised an eyebrow. “A sickness, huh? What kind?”

“I’m still working on that.” Wells looked around. “I’m going to have to run all the way to the back of the train to tell your people not to stop, aren’t I?”

“Do I look like I’m going to do it?”

“Bollocks. Don’t make that stop, in fact, speed up. The passengers are spooked and we can’t risk one of them jumping off.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the pewter money clip.

Johnnie’s eyes went wide at the sight.

Wells peeled off two twenty-dollar notes and stuffed them into his own pocket before tossing the rest, clip and all, to the engineer. “Consider it a Christmas bonus. Keep us moving, Johnnie. If I’m right, you’ll be saving the whole damn world if you do.”

“Seems a bit peculiar, this whole thing. First the murders, now you not wanting to stop. How do I know you’re not the murderer?”

“All the more reason to do as I say.” Wells turned to the door and gripped the handle.

“Now hold on a damn second.” The big brute stomped after him.

Wells wheeled around ready to fight when the meaty hand slammed into his ribcage. He looked down at it and saw the herringbone ulster it held. His face twisted.

“It’s a coat, you old codger.” He nodded at the door, though the bushiness of his beard and hair made the motion almost imperceptible. “It’s called hospitality. Not something you fucking English are familiar with, I know. You’ll catch your death out there, though. I’ll keep us running full steam, but you need to get Chuck’s grumpy ass back up here and tell them kids to stay off the brakes. I suggest you run.”

***

“I have seen through your eyes. I experienced the pain of your fall. I know now the errors of my ways and the falsehoods of my learnings.” Pietro flung himself to the ground before Mirov, pressing his tear-streaked face to the dirty floor. “Please forgive me and my blind acceptance of gilded lies.”

Mirov sighed and kicked him in the side of the head. “Imbecile.”

“Please, Master,” Pietro sobbed. “Allow me to serve you. I can take you to Petrovski.”

“Or I can walk there on my own.” Mirov turned to leave. “This is a train. He cannot flee.”

Pietro clamored to his feet and clutched at Mirov’s gray sleeves. Miss Jones’ blood squished from the fabric and stained his hand. He held it up for the thing inside Mirov to see.

“Your clothes are bloodied,” the priest said. “You can take mine.”

“Because the policeman suddenly dressed as the priest wouldn’t draw the same attention?”

“Then you could use me, wear me, the way you wear the inspector.” He wrung the fabric in his fists, pleading for the demon’s acceptance.

“I only take beneficial hosts. I don’t need to be inside you to know your mind is empty. Besides, my time in Mirov has taught me much.” He wrenched the priest away by his hair. “Everyone believes you to be a superstitious fool. That is the only purpose you can serve me. The cerebral concoction that scientist gave you was the final straw. You’ve become unhinged and murdered the poor doctor.”

“Yes, Master,” Pietro’s words became sobs of joy as he accepted his purpose. “A most brilliant idea, indeed. I shall convince them, my Lord. I shall protect you.”

“Do as you wish, you pathetic tool. I have business with the Count.” The Mirov-thing tossed the priest aside and shook his head, grabbing a roll of gauze from Jones’ bag. “Our next stop is rapidly approaching.”

He whistled his tune softly as he left the boxcar.

***

Bae bounced in place as he barked ferociously at the irritated ranting of Marion Petrovski. The Count paced the floor, swearing in Polish and shaking his fist in the air.

“This is the work of that damn Serb!”

“That does not make the slightest sense, Marion.” Irina sighed and draped herself across the plaid divan. “Nikolai Tesla is not to blame for this. It is a parasite, like a leech.”

“Or a wife,” Marion spat. “That fucking Serb! And you!” He spun to face Saxton. “What have you got to do with all this?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? I work for the Serb,” Saxton said dryly.

Saxton picked up Petrovski’s pipe and sniffed the bowl. He nodded appreciatively and flopped into the Count’s chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“That is my pipe.”

“Yes.” Saxton dug a match from his vest pocket. “And I plan to smoke it in your chair, in your private car.”

“But,” Marion looked around for some support. “I’m a Count, damn it.”

“I think you’re giving yourself one too many letters there.” Saxton puffed at the pipe and watched a smoke ring drifting idly.

Petrovski’s jaw hung open as he watched Saxton smoke his pipe. No one in all of Poland would dare talk to him that way. He took a step forward and the poodle bounded between him and the professor, carrying on its rapid-fire yipping. “Would you do something with your goddamn dog?”

“Bae, come here.” Irina’s voice was barely audible over the cacophonous conniption.

Still, the dog sprinted to her and jumped onto the divan where it nestled against her hip with a final growl in Marion’s direction. The Count twisted his mustache. Saxton cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

“You have bizarrely short fingers. Has anyone told you?”

“Get out of my car, at once.” The Count pointed at the door. He looked at his outstretched finger self-consciously and jammed his hands into the pockets of his smoking jacket.

“As I already explained, someone is coming to kill you.”

“With a parasite? Preposterous!”

“If it makes you feel any better, your priest thinks it’s Lucifer.”

“Isn’t that much more reassuring, dear?” Irina petted the poodle.

Petrovski whipped his head around and stared at his wife intently. His chest heaved with each breath. Then something cracked behind him. The Count turned his attention back to Saxton, who popped his knuckles methodically. He clearly hoped for a chance at the habitual British barbarism.

The Count straightened his collar. “I donated a considerable sum to this railroad so that they could have a telegraph aboard. Perhaps you should use it. I believe it is in the crew quarters.”

The door opened and Mirov stepped in, looking grimmer than usual. His gray shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, but spots of blood still soaked through them. His jacket was gone entirely and his left forearm was wrapped in a bloodied bandage.

“Now, we’re all much safer.” Saxton set the pipe down and rose from the chair.

Mirov hung his head. “I’m afraid there has been another murder, Professor. The lady doctor has been killed.”

“Miss Jones?” Saxton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does James know?”

“Not yet. I came here first, after I spoke to Mr. Tremblay. He told me he saw Pietro, the priest, going that way. I went back to see what the madman was doing, but he… I failed.” He held his wounded arm in front of him as evidence. “Miss Jones was already dead when I arrived. The mad bastard slashed me with one of her medical knives while I tried to save her. I believe it is best for everyone to avoid the man and assume his intentions are ill, until we know more.”

“The drink must have infected him after all.” Saxton punched the wall, the paneling snapped beneath his bony knuckles. “It was over and we gave the thing a new host! I’m going to the crew car to telegraph the Mounties.”

“Perhaps I should go with you. The priest is out there somewhere.”

“I can handle one pr—” Saxton stumbled against the wall.

Mirov looked at him and took a slow step back. “Are you feeling unwell, Professor Saxton?”

“Jesus, he might have that thing inside him!” Marion dipped behind Mirov.

The inspector eased his hand to his revolver. “Perhaps. Perhaps something worse.”

Saxton waved them away dismissively and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just another flash of memories from the damned parasite. Do you know what it’s like being frozen for forty-thousand years?”

Mirov’s face twitched.

“Because this thing does,” Saxton told them. “It was conscious the entire time. Maybe not fully awake, but aware nonetheless. It was trapped inside the iceman’s body like a prison cell. That would be enough to drive anything to murder. Not that this thing needed much of a push.”

Irina sat up on the divan. “What do you mean?”

“It’s more than just memories, my dear. I can feel its emotions—for lack of a better word—they’re not like ours. It’s lonely, so it kills everything around it.”

“That’s insanity,” Marion scoffed.

“By our understanding, yes.” Saxton let his head lean against the mahogany panels. “Imagine your first love. Being away from her made every other woman seem drab, inadequate. I think that’s what this thing feels like. It misses home, its own kind, and if it can’t be with them, then it will be alone.”

“Alone?” Irina leaned forward. “You mean it will kill everything?”

“Yes, in the sense that we know it,” Saxton said. “It’s going to kill us. Corrupt us. Turn us into it.”

“I think you need to rest, Professor.” Mirov placed a hand on Saxton’s shoulder. “You’re talking nonsense. Go rest and I’ll see the telegraph operator.”

“I’m fine.” Saxton stared at the policeman’s hand before Mirov removed it. “I’ll go to the telegraph, you just keep the Countess safe.”

Mirov’s lips pursed. “The Count, you mean?”

“For now. If the thing comes for him, you kill him before it can get into his brain, however.”

“Excuse me?” Marion shoved the inspector’s back.

“I wouldn’t risk the poodle’s life for you, Mr. Petrovski.” Saxton turned his attention back to Mirov. “I damn sure won’t risk the rest of the world. Kill him if that’s what it takes.”

“I want both of you out of my car now.” Petrovski shoved both men ineffectually. “If you insist on keeping an eye on me, then do it from the damn hallway. I won’t have you in here any longer.”

Saxton and Mirov filed out of the compartment and into the narrow path.

“It would be simpler to kill him now. Can’t get a brain parasite, if your brain is running down the wall.” Mirov smiled slightly.

“Stop smiling, it’s unsettling when you do it. Gather the passengers. They need to hear from someone in a position of authority. We also need to see if there’s any way to screen them. Maybe we can find this creature before it can do any more harm.”

“Yes, that would be preferable. Good luck, Professor.” Mirov extended his hand.

Saxton ignored it. “Let’s make this fast, Mirov. Get Tremblay while you’re at it. I think he can help with the test.”

“Yes, of course.” Mirov turned to the rear of the train. “I’ll make the good physicist my primary concern.”

Chapter Fifteen

Saxton and Wells sat on one of the bunks of the crew car. Saxton puffed his cigarette and offered it to Wells, who dismissed it before producing a small flask from his coat pocket. They took turns sipping in silence for a few moments. Saxton was never good at bad news—or subtlety—and lent himself to a more direct approach.

“The damn priest.” Wells rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting back building tears. “I didn’t see that one coming. I suppose I should have. We should have put some kind of safety net in place. Maybe isolated us from the others until we were sure.” He drank again. “I should have taken better care.”

Saxton hung his head soberly. He could recite the entire history of humanity from memory, but didn’t have the slightest idea of how to relate to it. Not in times of emotional distress anyhow.

“I can’t believe anyone would ever want to harm Trudy.” Wells shook his head. “She was the most amiable person in the world. The one person on this train that had no damned business getting killed.”

Saxton chuckled.

“What’s so funny about that?” Wells stiffened.

“No, no. On that we agree.” He patted Wells’ shoulder. “It’s just, Trudy. I honestly believed her full name was Miss Jones.”

Wells smiled. “She could be quite dictatorial at times. Probably the only thing that’s kept me alive these last twelve years, in fact. That woman had the heart of a saint and the mouth of a sailor. Who else could possibly put up with me?”

“The Pope would have struggles.”

“Exactly.” He threw his hands up. “I don’t honestly know what I’m going to do without her to keep me from thinking for myself.” He passed the flask back to Saxton.

“That doesn’t often turn out for the best.” Saxton smacked his tingling lips. “Is there laudanum in this?”

“Just a pinch.” He took the flask for another sip and then put it back in his coat.

“I truly am sorry, James. She was a great woman and she didn’t deserve to be caught up in this mess.”

“No, she didn’t.” The doctor rose and rubbed his eyes clear with his palms. “I think I’m going to go kill a priest now.”

“Excellent!” Saxton stood and stretched from being hunkered over in the bunk. “We really ought to go to Mirov’s address first. We need to make sure this thing hasn’t jumped bodies again. We also need to think of way to actually test them. I was thinking we could check the eyes. The parasite makes them glow, so maybe we can illicit that response somehow. Make it nervous or frightened so that it’ll show itself.”

“Don’t be an imbecile. It’s unbecoming.” Wells scratched at his earlobe. “Trudy said something about her notes earlier. I’m going to go fetch those and some of my belongings from the cargo hold.” He held up a finger. “I had a memory earlier. Another burst of them from this thing we’re hunting.”

“Me too. About being frozen.”

“I’m right there with you, chronologically. The caveman, your Neanderthal, did you see him? The way the thing did, I mean.”

“No.” Saxton sank a little. “I missed that part.”

“You would’ve liked him. He was fierce. So was the warrior the thing was using when he took him.”

“I saw that bit. The Pilgrim.” Saxton nodded. “That’s what it called him.”

“Yes. The Pilgrim, that’s right.” Wells paced as he spoke. “This creature is pathetic. It’s frail and miniscule, and I think it hates that. Maybe it picked up on the notion from spending too much time in humans, but it despises physical weakness.”

Saxton pinched the bridge of his nose. “James, you know how I hate that bloody pacing. What are you getting at?”

“Children, the elderly, the infirm. It would avoid them. Which means we don’t need to test them. We just need to get them out of the way.”

“Are you suggesting we throw them from the train?”

“Yes.” Wells spun on a heel and pointed a finger at Saxton. “Don’t get too excited, it’s not going to be as fun as you’re thinking. In fact, it’s going to be extremely dangerous. Remember when we spoke at Trinity in Dublin?”

Saxton thought for a moment then snapped his fingers. “That Irish writer was sauced and arguing with you about his idiotic vampire novel.”

“Yes, I still say that his medical research was poppycock at best and his narrative was the melodramatic drivel of a well-spoken tosspot. I am currently speaking of the train ride, however. There was a miniscule village that didn’t warrant a stop, so they used a slip carriage. You commented on it, I believe.”

“They let the bloody carriage go careening wildly by itself.”

“Not by itself. There was a brakeman onboard to stop it and let the passengers off without stopping the train. Our brakemen have been together this entire time in the caboose, meaning the thing couldn’t have taken over one without alerting the other.”

“So then, we put all the weaklings in the caboose, disconnect it and let them off at the next stop.”

“Exactly. Less places for the bastard to hide and less people to get killed by mistake.”

“Don’t we need the brakemen?”

“No. The brakes up here are automatic. The engineer controls them. You’d like him, he’s of high color and low class. You go to the meeting and figure out who’s getting off the train, and I’ll go get the fireman, because we do need him.” He looked over his shoulder at the gangway door. Voices mumbled in the distance, some clearly shouting. “Sounds like Mirov brought the meeting to you.”

***

Tremblay jumped at the shadow and cast a glance up at the clerestory roof. Moonlight streamed through the glass, but nothing else.

“A branch. Perhaps a night bird,” he reassured himself. “What damn fool would be on the roof after all?”

He rubbed his frozen ears and ducked through the access panel in the floor again. His bandaged hand stretched out, the wind under the train sliced through his wool shirt and whistled sharply. The prize of his peril was much further away than logic suggested it would be and hanging upside down wasn’t making the job easier. Neither was the roar of the steel wheels speeding along the rails that made his brain pound with its rhythm.

“Gee Whilikins, what have I gotten myself into?” He stretched further, letting more of his body slip through the panel.

Finally, he hooked the cable he was reaching for and tugged it loose from the brace on the side of the car. Immediately, the lights inside his coach went out. He tried to wriggle backwards through the panel, but the precarious angle left him with little purchase. His shoulder burned as lactic acid spread through it and into his rhomboid, then down his side. His legs tensed as he flexed his heels into the carpeted flooring in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. He felt his foot slipping from his shoe and quickly adjusted his leg.

The movement forced him out of the panel further and the frozen ground ripped a strip from the elbow of his shirt—and the skin beneath. He pinched the cable between his fingers and palm tightly. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he worked his arm closer to his chest.

“Please be well insulated.” He closed his eyes and bit down on the cable, holding it firmly between his teeth. With his hand free, he found a rusted beam to push off from and slid back into the car. Tremblay kicked the panel shut and spat out the cable.

“This is Saxton’s job,” he huffed. “Canadians don’t do this sort of thing.”

He groaned at the forming blood puddle in his palm. He inspected the wound through the ragged tear. “That’s going to hurt like the dickens when my skin warms back up.” He tied the cable into place so it wouldn’t slip away while he staunched the bleeding.

***

“Two pair, pine d’huître!” Sasha laughed and threw the aces and eights across the table for the other brakeman to see.

“Mes couilles sur ton front.” Fredrick tossed his cards onto the floor. He fell for the bluff and folded on three of a kind. He rose sharply, sending his stool over with a bang. “You’re a cheat. Enjoy your stolen goods, you dick skin.” He slapped the pack of cigarettes he’d bet across the table to his partner.

“Don’t be so happy, Sasha.” Chuck, the fireman, picked his nostril. “You know what they call that hand in America?” He eyed the prize of his efforts and wiped it on the coat hanging next to him.

“Of course not, Chuck. They won’t let me into America.” He stuffed the cigarettes into his bibs. “They know all their ladies would follow me back here.” He laughed again.

Chuck snickered. “Don’t get cocky, kid. We have work to do and it ain’t getting any warmer out there. Let’s start this shit show.”

“Hold up, Chuck.” Fredrick pulled his toboggan over his ears. “What do they call it? The hand?”

Chuck pulled the coat down across his lap. “Aces over eights is a dead man’s hand.”

The glass overhead shattered for emphasis.

Shards rained down and tinkled across the table a second before the man in black landed on it. His wild eyes burned beneath dark brows caked with beads of frozen sweat. His hand lashed out, and the white of his priestly collar flashed briefly beneath his beard. The brakeman’s head tilted back, his throat gaping wide. Twin fountains shot from the severed arteries as he stumbled away. The priest spun and smiled. He flung the blade into Fredrick’s back as the man turned to run.

Chuck made it through the door and slammed it shut. His ashen face shook back and forth violently as he denied Fredrick’s pleas for help. The young brakeman was jerked away from the door and landed with a yelp on the knife protruding from his back. The priest pressed his face against the glass and eyed Chuck merrily, the glass fogging over with his breath.

His bloody finger traced a two-barred cross in the condensation, then twisted a figure-eight around its base.

“I am saved by our one true Lord and reborn in His image. I am Leviathan, the devourer of the damned. I shall rend your flesh and drink of your blood so that your soul may find its home upon the Master’s spit.”

Chuck ran.

“Yes, run. Run fast and herald the coming of the one true God, Lucifer, for His time is now. Tell them all, you pathetic cockroach.”

Fredrick watched as the priest sighed blissfully and turned his attentions back to him. The man raised his hands and shrugged.

“Now that he’s out of our way.” The priest drew a long amputation knife from behind him. “Let’s hear those sins, my boy.”

***

The screams coming through the door made Mountie Earl Hicks’ hand freeze in mid-knock. The high-pitched shrieking and cursing overlapped the moans and slapping of flesh. The crude concert made his cheeks redden. The wooden bed frame struck the wall with a rhythmic pounding that drowned out his puny knocks and forced him to beat an assertive fist against the thin door. A woman giggled and then wailed. Another voice begged for rapidity and depth. Hicks fanned himself as his imagination painted a picture of the goings-on in his captain’s quarters.

The banging continued and quickened. Finally, the captain’s voice was heard in a bearlike grumble followed by a groan that turned to victorious laughter. Satisfied moans softened and then faded to whispers and coos. Hicks sputtered his lips and knocked again.

“Enter, you fucking drudge,” the shout came.

The Mountie entered the room and froze. His mouth hung open and wiggled slightly.

Captain Kazan sat against the headboard with a brunette lady buried against him. She traced his various scars with her slender fingers. Hicks blinked in disbelief, having just arrested the girl that morning for the immorality of prostituting herself in front of the general store. That sort of behavior was why the city paid for alleys, after all. A sheet twisted around her pale legs but covered nothing else, and the captain couldn’t even be bothered with that much modesty. He sat spread-eagled with his deflated member draped across a powerful thigh.

The Inuit girl that cooked for the station sauntered across the room. Her brown breasts bounced hypnotically and made Hicks’ head nod along unconsciously. He hadn’t noticed their fullness under her usual attire, but he would never be able to not notice henceforth. She puffed one of the captain’s cigars and slipped back into bed, pulling the fur blanket over her curvaceous rear. She pushed the cigar into Kazan’s mouth and nuzzled his neck. The former strongman’s still-massive arm wrapped around her as she nested against his ribs.

Kazan smiled around the cigar. “Even a Cossack needs a break from time to time.” His voice, more a rumble of thunder, was accented only slightly. “But not a very long one. Get to your purpose, piss ant.”

“Sir, I have been quiet far too long. You have been here for several months now, and I believe it is time that I say something.”

“Seems to me you’ve said quite a lot to have not said anything at all.”

Hicks looked down at his polished boots and tapped the toe of one to the heel of the other. “It’s just that… well, don’t you think your behavior is more than a little indecorous for a captain of the Mounted Police?”

Kazan filled one mighty hand with a perfect brown breast and the other slapped down on the prostitute’s porcelain ass which drew a pleasured sigh from her lips. “It wouldn’t be any goddamn fun if it wasn’t.” He laughed heartily.

Hicks cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. But… oh, never mind.” He held up a piece of paper. “We’ve received a telegram from the continental express, sir.”

“And?” His attention drifted to the nipple between his finger and thumb. “Is there a problem?”

“The whole thing is quite moonstruck, if I do say so. It claims there’s been some murders. As in more than one. I don’t see how such a thing is possible, especially with Mounties aboard.”

“None that I’ve trained, obviously.”

“No, sir. I don’t believe so, anyhow. They’re bypassing their stop and requesting our assistance. They want us to board between stops, in the wilderness, if you can believe that. It seems they’ve gone quite mad. The frozen lakes of Hell would be a tad warmer, I think.”

“You fucking Canadians don’t know cold.” The Cossack looked up at Hicks and chuckled. “If there is a killer onboard, then meeting in the wild is exactly what I would do. It is a strategic move, a soldier’s move. The murderer will have no choice but to face me.”

Hicks nodded. “Yes, of course, sir. I should have thought of that. The telegram says he’s already killed a score of people including Mounties, though. I would suggest we not take undue risks.”

“If he has already killed many, then maybe he poses some challenge. I so miss a real challenge.” He paused as the brunette took the cigar from his mouth and flicked the ash into the floor. “Thank you, love. The Japanese, they have some fight in them. Can you believe that, Hicks, as small as they are?”

The prostitute smoked his stogie and winked at Hicks, who hoped the stirring she caused would go unnoticed. She teased the end of the cigar with her tongue, making the Mountie shift uncomfortably. She snorted as she suppressed a laugh.

“Their little yellow bodies make the most satisfactory sounds when you crush them, but they make you work for it.” Kazan stared at the ceiling and grunted. “Those are real goddamn warriors. Not enough of them anymore. Certainly not in Canada.”

Maybe it was the voluptuous vixens pressed on either side of him or the recollection of past glory, but the Cossack’s mighty sword rose to the occasion and further reminded Hicks of how inadequate Canadian men were compared to the indomitable Captain Kazan.

Hicks’ head hung low. “Perhaps you’ll get your wish, sir.”

“That would be a glorious fucking day.” He took his cigar back and inhaled greedily. He flicked it in the general direction of the fireplace and smiled with a sharp exhale. “We will intercept the train twelve miles out. Now close my door. There’s an uprising that these ladies need to put down.”

Chapter Sixteen

Chuck’s feet flew into the air and his back met the floorboards with a bone-jarring impact. The blood around him led back to the exsanguinated remains of a plump matron. He rolled away from her body and tried to crawl clear, only for his knees to slip and his face to splat into the bodily fluid. He pressed himself off the floor and looked back the way he came. The mad priest didn’t seem to be pursuing him, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

He ran as fast as he could, throwing open doors and leaving them ajar as he made his way to the front of the car. Chuck should never have left the engine. The engine was always safe. The door was solid iron. Then there was Johnnie. No one could best Johnnie in a brawl. He should’ve stayed in the engine. He made it to the eleventh coach and froze instantly.

The lights were off.

The bloody carpet stuck to his shoes, making an odd sound as he took a tentative step forward. Chuck held his breath as he ventured into the gloom. He knew that the priest couldn’t get ahead of him. Even if he went back onto the roofs and ran across, the wind was too harsh to get this far up so fast. He certainly wouldn’t have time to disable the lights. The generator’s cables probably froze and snapped—it happened from time to time, or so he’d heard. A bit of moonlight danced through the windows along the roof. Dust particles sparkled in the light. Chuck steeled his nerve and took his final step.

***

Tremblay watched from the shadows as the man stumbled into the car. The passenger compartment provided plenty of cover. More so, if the man had come from the right direction. He had expected the creature to come from the front of the train. The idea that the killer was at his back the entire time twisted his stomach like Irish knotwork. He could have died at any moment. The killer, the man-thing that it was, could have just pushed him through when he was dangling beneath the train and no one would have even known where to find his remains.

He shuddered and tried to refocus. The moonlight wasn’t much help, but it was enough. The man’s body was slick with blood, turned black by the magnesium rays washing through the high glass. It was obvious that this man was possessed by the—whatever it was. He was practically bathed in the evidence. Tremblay held his breath as the man edged forward.

If the trap didn’t work, then he would surely be discovered. He was no fighter. The creature would murder him and possess his mind like it had so many others. What secrets would he give it? Wells’ commentary on atomic weapons scratched at the back of his mind. As did his previous research with Tesla and that horrid device they made. Would he arm this thing once it had his mind? His stomach lurched.

Then the man stepped on the switch.

***

Wells froze as he reached for the door handle. The next car came to life in a lurid flashing of lights—the dim yellows flickering overhead, the searing orange of fabric smoldering, and the sharp crackling blues arcing from the man’s body as he shuddered and danced. The fibers of his pants glowed brighter and then burst into open flame. The man didn’t scream, couldn’t with his jaw clenched together so tensely. Bloody bile, forced up by the convulsions, ejected itself between his teeth. His eyes seemed to grow, until they popped from their sockets and jiggled from their nerves like Christmas ornaments.

Even through the sealed door, Wells could hear the sizzle of cooking meat. He pulled his shirt over his nose before the sweet smell of long pig got to him—he remembered it well enough from countless battlefields. He watched in horror as the man’s skin blackened and split. Tongues of lightning licked the air, cracking and popping as they searched for conduits. Wells’ stomach turned as he realized what was happening.

The electricity stretched from the man’s flailing limbs and shot towards the copper accents of the passenger car. Wells threw himself into the previous coach as the electrocuted man’s fingers moved too close to the decorative handrail. The whips of energy lashed out and around the bar.

It sounded like a cannon barrage when the generator exploded beneath the car.

The blast tore the door from its hinges and it sailed overhead, twisting and toppling through the narrow passage. The pressure wave blew out the car’s windows, and the arctic winds howled like feral wolves as they rushed through fractured frames. Even with the new ventilation, the smell of overcooked sausages hung in the air and oozed into the next car with Wells. He sat up and looked back.

The car was now blackened, but the moonlight painted a brutal picture. A gaping hole in the floor smoked as the draft moved across it with a banshee’s wail. The man’s lower body had been vaporized by the blast, and his torso leaked in a smoldering lump in the adjoining gangway.

Archibald Tremblay staggered out of a ruined compartment. Bits of glass sparkled in his curly blond hair. A rivulet of blood trickled from a busted ear drum and down his collar. He coughed and fanned the air, stumbling blindly into the next car where Wells caught him by the arm and moved him to an open seat.

“Damn it, Archibald, was that necessary?”

“Huh?” Tremblay snapped his fingers next to his left ear and then his right. “That was really loud!”

“Yes, believe it or not, I noticed.”

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying, but I think I’ve killed the monster!”

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill everyone. That blast could’ve derailed us. And stop yelling.”

“Huh?”

Wells growled and turned Tremblay’s head so that he could speak to his less-damaged ear. He spoke slow and loud, just to be sure. “We need you in the lounge, you buffoon. Saxton wants to test the passengers.”

Tremblay nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s great news. I have the most wonderful idea.”

“I think we’ll skip your ideas for a moment.” Wells looked across the blackened coach car and focused on the smoking gap. The shattered boards looked like teeth in a devil’s mouth. He huffed. “Wait here! I need to fetch some personal effects from the boxcar, and I can’t get across that hole with them.”

“Zounds, that was something else. I didn’t consider the possibility that he would touch the copper.”

“Yes, well, it was terribly frightful before the arc flash as well.”

Tremblay nodded and reached for his glasses, only to find them missing. Wells bent and picked up the twisted frames from the hardwood of the open coach.

“Did you lose these, Archibald?”

Tremblay smiled wide and Wells saw a tooth had been knocked out in the blast.

“Thank you, Doctor Wells. I was looking for those.” He examined them far longer than anyone should have needed to. “A bit worse for wear, I’m afraid. Who do you think the man was?”

“I don’t know, but I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and a puckering at the hole of my ass. I don’t imagine either is a good omen. Wait here.”

Wells used a broken door frame to skirt the maw. The frozen earth streaked by beneath him in near pitch blackness. He held his breath as the wood popped noisily under his weight. The divide was no more than four-feet across, but that was far more than he could jump at his age. He reached the other side without incident and pointed a fierce finger at Tremblay.

“Do not touch anything else, Archibald. No more traps and, certainly, no more electricity. That sort of stuff,” he gestured to the still cooking cadaver, “results in this sort of stuff. Just don’t be helpful. Stand there and wait.”

Tremblay gave him a thumbs-up.

***

The caboose rumbled, the peal of an explosion echoed from another car. Pietro brushed his sweaty bangs behind his ears and listened intently for a moment.

“Woe, woe, woe to all the inhabitants of the earth. The angel’s trumpets do sound.” He pressed his bloody finger against Fredrick’s quivering lips. “Shush now. This is the will of our true God.”

Pietro stared down at the brakeman, whose head lay in his lap, but he didn’t see the Canadian. Rather he saw the Indian, twelve-years-old, if he chanced a guess. Pietro didn’t mean to kill him. He always choked them, and most of them liked it. They certainly didn’t try to escape him. So, he squeezed harder. He paid good money for the child’s services, and he just wanted him to settle down.

No, he hadn’t meant to end that boy’s life.

The Filipino that followed, that one he meant to kill. And the two girls in Singapore the week after. The pleasure their death throes gave him couldn’t be matched. He tried. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but nothing could satisfy him so completely. It was the Moroccan girl that cured him of his pederasty. Though he hired her for sex, she was no whore. He paid two month’s wages because she wasn’t. She was more than just pure, he learned later. She was an angel.

He cut her throat while he thrust himself inside her. She didn’t fight him. Her blood poured around his tightening hand. She held his face, gazed into his soul. He screamed his hatred at her as he quickened his thrusting. And with her last breath, she forgave him. He never returned to his ship, instead finding a monastery and swearing himself to God.

“Where is He?” Pietro stroked Fredrick’s face. “Prayers and penance and, still, the urges. He never took them from me, no matter how much I begged. I prayed until my knees were pustulating sores. Flayed my flesh with leather and steel.”

He ripped open his robes. The raised, pale flesh of a cross-shaped scar rested beneath matted chest hair.

“I swore everything I had to Him, and He would not satiate my hunger.” He touched the long blade of the amputation knife to the man’s philtrum, resting the steel on his lips like the comforting finger of a mother. “Because His Word is blameless and His Way, perfect. Don’t you understand, my sweet boy? God made me, and every monster like me. Don’t you see it now? He has deceived the world.”

Fredrick managed a high-moan.

“Rejoice, however. Satan is here to shield us under his burnt wing. I have seen the Fall through His eyes. I have felt the frozen lakes of Hell as if His skin were my own. He showed me all of this, gifted it to me. That false god that I have served so diligently,” Pietro shoved the blade up Fredrick’s nostril and into his brain, “why, he can’t even say hello.”

The brakeman’s eyes grew wider as his body shuddered. His fingers curled and clawed at the floorboards. His legs ran in place and then slowed to a crawl.

“It hurts now, but you will feel nothing but His love in the next world.”

Pietro twisted the knife with a squish. The man’s boots danced nosily against the floorboards and then fell still. The priest twirled Fredrick’s hair around his fingers and rocked them both in place.

“Rest now and rejoice in Lucifer’s love.”

***

The crowd shouted over each other, raising their voices higher and higher with every unanswered question. Some pushed to get closer to Saxton and Mirov, others lingered in the back, content to grumble obscenely. Everyone wanted an answer, but no one wanted to shut up and wait for one. Beneath the chaos Saxton heard a term being thrown about. It didn’t mean anything until the conductor heard it and slugged an overdressed man of equal inebriation for saying it.

“This is my train, you dandy. You won’t say such things about her.” He wobbled as he straightened himself and collected his jacket from the arm of a nearby seat. “The Horror Express, you called her? Because someone had an accident? Childish buffoonery.”

Saxton cleared his throat. “Sixteen, actually. That we know of.”

“Is that right?” The conductor whistled. “Sixteen accidents, then? It’s a fine bit of luck you were here then. Anyone else might have concerned yourselves with keeping me up to date with the proceedings on my own damn train.” Spit flew in every direction as he rambled. “I suppose I’ll just give you my cap and you make all the decisions now. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not, I bloody hate trains. A gentleman needs nothing more than a fine horse.”

“Jesus, how old are you?” the well-dressed man asked.

Saxton’s response was interrupted when the conductor threw his hat at him.

“Ladies and gentleman, meet the new conductor of your Horror Express. Have a pleasant trip, you ingrates.”

Saxton slapped him hard across the cheek and pushed him into a seat. He stuffed the hat back onto the man’s balding head and turned to the crowd.

“That’s enough from all of you.” Everyone settled at his boisterous call. “Especially you, you bell end.” He jabbed a finger at the man in the fancy clothes.

A few people murmured, drawing Saxton’s eagle-like glare, at which point they hushed.

“There is a sickness onboard this train. It is an unpleasant thing that drives the victim quite mad. This illness, this parasite as it were, has resulted in the deaths that you are carrying on about. It is for this reason that no one is to go off alone. We stay together, and we make sure that no one else gets infected. We think we have isolated it, but very shortly we will conduct a test to make sure that it has not spread to the rest of you.”

“What kind of test?” someone asked.

“The kind that’s mandatory.” Saxton clasped his hands behind his back and glared across their number like a taskmaster. “If anyone would like to forgo taking the test, they will be removed from this train. Don’t get too excited, however. For we will not be stopping during said removal.”

The passengers grew quiet again. Some squirmed anxiously, but they kept their mouths shut. An unpleasantly round, flabby man in the corner coughed and raised his hand.

“What is it, sir?”

“Shouldn’t we be avoiding each other?”

“I would like nothing more. However, this contagion is driving people to murder. As such, there is safety in numbers.”

A few people agreed, but most just looked around suspiciously. Some found makeshift weapons—pens, jackknives, bottles, and the like—with their sweaty hands. Saxton’s eyes darted around the crowd, feeling the tension as they tried to move just a little further from one another.

“Settle yourselves. There’s no reason to believe anyone here is infected, and if they are, Inspector Mirov is here to protect you.” Saxton bit the inside of his jaw at the thought and continued his address. “I, and my colleagues, have been busy trying to save the lot of you and haven’t had the luxury of indulging in rumor, but allow me to address the one I hear you all whispering about. There is no madman onboard this train.”

Chapter Seventeen

“By Jove, what animal could do this to you?” Wells pulled a battered tarpaulin over Jones’ body and went to the olive footlocker.

He rummaged in his pocket for the key while rubbing tears from his eyes. He opened the lock and tossed the layers of neatly folded clothes to the floor. He removed the long, cloth-wrapped package beneath with far greater care. Wells flipped the lid shut to use as a table while he unknotted the twine and pulled back the old quilt from the tamboti case. His fingers slid across the African wood and traced the carved, serpentine form of Mamlambo, the Zulu river goddess.

Wells flicked the case’s brass latches and raised its lid. The contents were packed carefully in red velvet, which he unfolded with slow reverence. He stroked the sterling inlay that Miss Jones’ had specially engraved for his sixtieth birthday.

The kill of the Wolf, is the meat of the Wolf.

His head lifted sharply. He returned to Trudy’s body and knelt beside her. The cooled blood soaked into his pants leg, and a pain of realization made his heart ache even more. He jerked the tarp back and fought for the clinical dispassion he needed to do his job. Lifting her chin, he observed the bruising and tapering of the wound. The cut was deep on the left side, then grew shallower as it went straight across. If the cut came from behind, like he originally surmised, there would have been a distinct curvature to the wound.

“You did this to yourself. You were trying to keep it from learning what you knew.” Wells stood and found Miss Jones’ coat resting next to her medical bag. “But what is it that you knew, my dear?”

He sniffled as he dug out the battered, leather journal, and thumbed for the last entry. He squinted at the tiny letters, smiling sadly.

“Blasted American penmanship. Uncivilized chicken scratch.”

The porter’s cirrhosis created an environment inhospitable to the parasite, forcing it to find another body. The corpse of Tom Brandt was still intact, having frozen to death, but thawing in this boxcar started the necrotic process. I believe the presence of the parasite, combined with the physical exertion of reanimating the tissue turned Brandt’s body into an incubator that accelerated the spread of postmortem bacterium. This required the acquisition of a new host. That’s why it moved again, taking over Otis.

Apart from having his brains shot out, he was suffering from syphilis, based on the swollen kidneys and liver. It spent so long inside that caveman that I don’t believe it can use a modern human for very long. It adapted to that simpler life. This parasite has slept through most of our history. Alcohol, tobacco, medicine, pollution, all of it would be foreign to this parasite. Substances that effect brain chemistry and alter the blood quality are disrupting its ability to control us. This might be a sufficient method to identify it in a host.

“Brilliant as always, my dear.” He returned to her body once more and kissed her cool forehead. He stroked her hair and gently closed her eyes. “You don’t want to see what I’m about to get up to.”

***

“You have to admit, the Horror Express does have a certain ring to it.” Mirov propped open the door to the crew car. “Do you actually have a test in mind? A real one that can detect your monster?”

“I’m working on it. This is really James’ department.” Saxton retrieved an iron candle from a shelf mounted crookedly to the wall. He tested the light, shining it dimly on his palm. “Blast. I need something concentrated. Brighter too.”

Mirov reached into this vest pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound flashlight. He wiggled it between thumb and forefinger. “They’re the latest fashion.”

“That just might work.” Saxton reached for it and Mirov closed his fist around it.

“Just what do you plan on doing with it?” He shifted his right leg back and settled his weight on it. “Out of curiosity, I mean. Your scientific methods are… intriguing.”

“Nothing of any usefulness, I’m afraid. I need Tremblay up here. He’s hellbent on this radiation theory of his, and we need to find a way to test for it. He just might be right after all. James will have a much better idea of how to test people, but in the meantime, we have to do something.”

“So, you’re bluffing?” Mirov relaxed slightly, uncurling his fingers. “You want to give them a fake test to fill them with confidence? Am I understanding that, correctly?”

“Something like that. They can’t feel like this is an uphill battle. Hopelessness in a confined space full of scared people is sure to result in chaos and panic.”

“Did you learn that in the military?” Mirov let the light fall into Saxton’s palm.

“No, the classroom. I see it at the start of every semester.” He held up the light and nodded. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”

“No worries. I’ll go find your physicist now.” Mirov turned into the gangway.

***

Tremblay sulked on the floor, leaning against the doorjamb. His trap did work, just far more efficiently than he expected. He didn’t see what the doctor was so angry about. Sure, one car was partially destroyed, but the monster was a brisket. Provided it was the monster at all. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would have been in any of the rear cars or soaked in blood if they weren’t under the influence of the creature. He beat his fist against the floorboards but still couldn’t hear the thump.

“It better had been the damn creature for all the trouble it’s caused.”

The wind bawled through the ruined car, or maybe it just whispered. The only sound he heard was the damn ringing and a sharp whistle that accompanied a godawful chill. He sputtered his lips and pulled his jacket tightly around him. He didn’t need to hear it to know it was sharp and penetrating, even huddled in his little corner. Then he felt a new sensation, still cold but a different kind of sharp and penetrating. A sudden warmth followed, spreading wetly down his side.

The low steam oozed just above the growing blood stain. Tremblay’s eyes drifted to the sensation. He gawked at the frost-nipped fingers curled around the knife handle. The fist twisted and the blade tore open his lung. The wiry beard scoured his neck and his assailant’s hot breath crept across his cheek.

“What waits for you when you die? What does your science promise you?” The priest’s voice was barely a whisper to Tremblay’s damaged eardrums. “Where is God in all your infernal knowledge? For my God is here, Archibald.”

The physicist reached back, weakly clutching at Pietro’s hair. It was wet and half-frozen from the winds. The long knife withdrew from his side and dripped before him. Pietro brought the edge to his throat. Tremblay couldn’t see him, but he felt the tension as Pietro pressed their faces together—the muscles moving, rising. He realized the bastard was smiling as the blade started to part his flesh.

The car lit with a flash and roared with a man-made thunder even Tremblay could hear. Pietro’s presence disappeared instantly. Bits of wood fluttered down onto Tremblay’s lap. The young scientist slumped to the floor. His vision blurred and each ragged breath seemed to tighten his chest further.

He watched Pietro’s robes flap as the lunatic ran down the aisle and slammed the door shut behind him, then came another titanic roar and flash of light. He managed to turn his head, but the process caused him to cough a bubbling puddle onto the floor—across the divide was Wells with the express rifle clutched tightly against his shoulder.

Then everything just went away.

***

Saxton patted Tremblay’s shoulder and wiped his bloody hands on a towel. He glanced to Wells and nodded for him to step outside. The two went into the hallway where Mirov was waiting.

“He’s stable for now,” Wells said first. “He’s lost a lot of blood and his right lung is collapsed. We’ll need someone to keep watch over him. Every fifteen minutes or so, we’ll have to release the pressure on his chest.”

“I will stay with him.” Mirov nodded. “I don’t feel I’m much use elsewhere right now.”

“There’s no way to be sure where the priest has gotten off to.” Saxton banged his heel against the wall. He reached for the cigarette case in his breast pocket. “I don’t understand why consuming the brain fluids infected him, but neither of us.”

“Because we’re old, Alex,” Wells face soured as he said it. “I don’t like admitting that one bit. I believe we presented it with three potential hosts, and it took the one it felt was most likely to survive. The younger, clean living priest was a more hospitable environment.”

“It chose? How’s that, James?”

“I think this thing exists on an atomic level.” Wells smoothed back a stray hair. “I think it was it was in both cups and the eye, simultaneously. Every piece of it is a whole.”

“It could be in more than one host, you mean?” Saxton asked.

“Yes. I believe so.”

“I administered your fake test.” Mirov leaned on the wall. “They all passed if that gives you any comfort.”

Wells rolled his eyes. “The eye-shine thing?”

Saxton nodded reluctantly. “We need a real plan.”

Wells held up Miss Jones’ notes. “Trudy was onto something. I need some supplies, but I think I have a way to test everyone successfully. In the meantime, I brought this.” Wells hefted the elephant gun.

“Excellent!” Saxton smiled genuinely. “I’m going to go see the telegraph operator since we can now confirm it is the priest. I’ll meet you in the lounge car.”

Mirov stepped between them and opened the compartment where Tremblay rested. “And I’ll stay here and keep an eye on our scientist. He’s in good hands with me, gentleman. No need to worry.” He ducked inside and nodded at Saxton and Wells before closing the door.

The inspector waited for their footsteps to leave, and then he turned his attention to the young man on the bunk. He was bandaged heavily and the bed was sticky with blood from Wells’ impromptu surgery, but he was alive. Mirov leaned against the bed and pulled a long brass cartridge from his pocket. He eyed the nearly half-inch bullet appreciatively and dropped it back into his vest pocket.

“Never leave your weapon unguarded, Doctor. Mirov taught me that.” The Mirov-puppet sat next to Tremblay and stroked his golden curls, plucking out a piece of glass and dropping it to the carpet. He pried the man’s eyelids open and gazed into their comatose stare. “What will you teach me, Archibald?”

His own eyes started to glow brightly.

Chapter Eighteen

The wine glass shattered against the wall, its crystal shards twinkling in the light as they rained down over Marion Petrovski’s desk like falling stars. He rested his elbows on the sandalwood top and groaned as he massaged his temples. Irina’s rant continued in French, even though she knew he barely understood the language. The angrier she got, the more she slipped back into her father’s Ukrainian which infuriated Marion even further. The damn poodle threw in his two cents with baying yips of agreement.

Irina flopped onto the divan and scooped up Bae, pulling the pooch tight against her and drawing her legs up onto the cushion.

“It is childish pride,” she continued in English. “You’re going to get yourself and many others killed to protect a secret you don’t even know. Just admit it, admit to everyone so that it hears you.”

“Pride? It is the National Democracy, you ignorant cow.” The glass stem rolled on the desktop; the light caught perfectly on the broken point. Marion licked his lips greedily. “To tell the world that Polish minds crafted this super metal, and that Polish hands control it, will sway political alliances towards our goal of independence. At the very least, it will give us the power to push out the szołdry for good, maybe the damn Russians too.”

“With metal?”

“With the future! A future controlled by me!” He stood sharply, and the chair flipped over with a bang that startled Bae and sent him into another fit of frivolous yapping. “This metal will drive industries and innovations, and only I can provide that. Once we push out the foreign influence and place Dmowski in the new presidency, he will elect me as Minister of Industry. I will decide who gets my metal and how it is used.”

He stalked the floor, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He paused, pulling a sparkling splinter of the broken crystal from behind his ear. He held it up to the light, watching the colors move through the tiny fragment. His other hand stayed behind his back, twisting the broken stem between his short fingers.

“You found it, you pompous ass.” Irina pushed Bae to the divan and started to rise.

Marion lunged forward and pushed her back to the cushion. Her head thumped against the wood paneling. Bae snarled and jumped at Marion, who swatted the toy poodle away. It yelped and somersaulted through the air, crashing into the dressing mirror. Marion lurched over Irina like a vulture. A bead of blood rolled down her long alabaster neck from the point of the stem pressed against her pulsing artery.

“You really shouldn’t have mentioned that. If anyone found out about those ruins, the Canadians could claim the site has historic value and take it from us. Poland needs this metal. I will not allow anyone to interfere with our goals. Besides, there are prettier faces with quieter tongues. This marriage no longer suits my needs.” He twisted the stem slowly, drawing more blood. “I planned on pushing you off the train and saying you’d left me. This will be much more satisfying.”

***

“The brakemen are dead, Alex. We really need an assistant if I’m going to have to keep running up and down this damn train,” Wells huffed. His face was paler than normal.

He watched the papers swirl in the wind around the telegraph room. He pulled the engineer’s coat tighter against the bitter cold. Saxton leaned against the wall, shaking his head.

“I assume the telegraph operator didn’t slip and fall out of that open window.”

“No, I would say he was probably thrown out. There’s blood on the sill.” Saxton gestured in that direction. “We should interview the passengers in the lounge and see if any of them remember someone coming up here.”

“Someone other than you?” Wells shut the window somberly.

“That sounds a lot like an accusation, James.” Saxton turned to square himself with Wells and raised his eyebrows. “Is that the case?”

“Who’s to say the brain serum didn’t possess both of you?”

“Preposterous.” Saxton shook his head.

“Is it, old chum? Trudy’s theory about the memories was based on studies of flatworms, if you recall. Flatworm can divide themselves into two different animals. You were the only one that knew my plan involved the brakemen releasing the cars, and now they’re dead.”

“Coincidence. Or perhaps this thing had a plan of its own that required their deaths. I haven’t had the time to go back there and kill anyone. Besides that, it’s a bloody train. You were in the boxcar getting your rifle. I would have had to pass you.”

“The cars are too cold to guess at the times of death. When I was in the engine, you could have killed Trudy and then the brakemen. You left Chuck for dead and then rushed back to the telegraph.”

Saxton pursed his lips. “Who the hell is Chuck?”

“The fireman, not that it matters.” Wells rubbed his weary eyes with his hand. “I really didn’t think it would get to one of us. We should have been more careful with the experiments.”

Saxton slugged Wells in the jaw. “You need to listen to yourself.”

The doctor stumbled backwards and pushed his dislodged dentures back into his mouth.

“Bastard!” Wells kicked Saxton’s right knee.

The professor caught himself from collapsing. The kick grated the remains of the Zulu projectile inside his knee and pain fogged his vision long enough for Wells to clutch him by the collar and elbow. Wells twisted and tossed the lanky professor to the floor.

Saxton’s polished shoes battered the overhead light, breaking the bulbs and casting the room into near darkness. Saxton rolled over and charged the geriatric doctor, driving him into the edge of the desk. Wells found the broken telegraph and clapped it against the side of Saxton’s head. The professor fell against the window, shattering it with his face.

“Bollocks!” He kicked Wells in the stomach, doubling him over with a huff. Saxton caught Wells around the neck in a side chancery and squeezed hard, gripping his own sleeve for leverage on the choke.

“Settle yourself, James,” Saxton pleaded.

“Piss off.” Wells reached under Saxton and punched him in the groin, buckling his knees and allowing the venerable doctor to escape the chokehold. He twisted a weathered fist in Saxton’s lapel and punched him in the face repeatedly.

Saxton’s powerful hands clasped around Wells’ throat, and he drove him against the wall. With a growl, he tightened his grip on Wells’ windpipe. Then came the bang, followed by the howl of pain. Saxton stumbled, hopping clumsily and then fell to his backside.

“You shot me, you bell-end!”

Wells worked the 9mm-short from his pocket. “Of course I did, you murderer.”

“I’m not a murderer.” Saxton clutched his ankle and laid back, elevating his foot. He spoke through gritted teeth, “You shot off my toe.”

“You had ten, so quit your whinging. You punched me when you realized I knew what you were.” Wells moved around him cautiously, keeping the barrel pointed at his old friend.

“I punched you when I realized you were about to do something stupid.” He pointed at his leaking shoe. “Like shoot me in the foot, you cock.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

Saxton growled angrily and slammed his fists onto the floorboard before gripping his thigh to hold the leg elevated.

“After we left the cargo car, you went with the Countess. You probably already got to the Count, absorbed his knowledge. Then you went to get Trudy, the brakemen, and Chuck.”

“And then I told the Mounties all about myself being an alien lifeform who may or may not be the devil? When did you become a nitwit, James?” He sighed and let his head hit the floor. “I’m much too old to keep my leg up like this for long. If I killed four people, I would have blood on my suit. I haven’t changed, so how do you explain that? Where’s the priest in all of this? You saw him stab Tremblay yourself.”

“You’re right.” Wells nodded. “He could have killed them all. Maybe I’m right about it occupying multiple bodies. Perhaps you share some sort of psychic link.”

“I’m going to link my foot with your ass if you don’t come to your damn senses.”

The wood splintered next to Saxton’s head as the pistol cracked again.

“It took my Trudy, and now it’s taken you. How sad is my life that I give a damn about Alexander Saxton? If you’re not going to tell me where the priest is, then I can just kill you now, I suppose.”

“I came to tell you about Jones’ death and then you told me your stupid plan. I couldn’t—” The car shuddered violently and the wheels screamed against the rails.

“We’re stopping,” Wells said as he steadied himself.

“The Mounties. The ones I telegraphed because I’m not the bloody killer!”

“I wish that were true, old friend.” Wells leveled the pistol at the bridge of Alex’s nose.

***

Tremblay’s body stared at the door with blank, white eyes. Blood poured from the orifices of his head, and Mirov rose slowly, straightening his shirt. The conductor wheezed more than screamed at the sight. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the door handle tighter.

“I really do wish you had knocked first,” Mirov said softly.

“I… I just… there’s something going on.” The conductor put his hands on his pudgy knees and coughed twice. “Something horrible.”

“Yes, it seems Mr. Tremblay’s wounds were more severe than the doctor thought.”

“No… I mean, yes. That’s not what I… there’s been a shooting. In the crew car. I heard the shot. The madman’s got a gun.”

Mirov smiled at the man. “Yes, he does.” He drew the revolver in a flash and fired.

The conductor’s head whipped back, and he staggered into the corridor before sliding down the wall and slumping over. A shrill scream echoed down the aisle. Mirov rolled his eyes and fired another shot into the man’s heart before stepping into the hallway. He found a young woman near the gangway. He gave her his best smile and held his hands up calmingly.

“This man was infected. He just killed the man in this compartment. I’ve taken care of it, my dear. The Dominion Police are here to keep you safe, just go back to the lounger and remain calm.”

The woman stood still, panting desperately to catch her breath.

“To hell with it all, then.” Mirov took aim and pumped two slugs into her torso.

Mirov spun the pistol around his finger by the trigger guard. The woman squirmed on the floor. Her voice reduced to squeaks and wheezing as she drowned in her blood. Mirov strolled towards her casually, whistling the national anthem. He was getting better at it, but still couldn’t get it quite right. Then came another whistling that interrupted his own jaunty tune and turned to a metallic scream. The train vibrated violently with the locking of the brakes. Mirov checked the watch in his breast pocket.

“We shouldn’t be stopping right now.” He fired his last two shots into the lady’s head and blew the smoke away from the barrel. “What have those damn Brits done now?”

***

The doorjamb splintered as the latch broke through it. Pietro held up the long blade and licked the blood from it with glee. His eyes flashed around the room, taking in the details. Marion Petrovski rose slowly. Irina whimpered in a heap on the divan before him. The dog was finally silent, bleeding out amidst the wreckage of the mirror.

Marion held up the broken stem of the wine glass and let it fall to the carpet. “Calm down, Father. You’re a holy man. You don’t want to do this, Pietro.”

“Pietro?” He laughed hysterically. “He is no longer with us.”

“It really did infect you,” Irina sobbed.

“Infected? No, my sweet Irina. I have become so much more than I ever was before.” Pietro stepped into the private quarters fully. “I have become Leviathan, masticator of the putrescent spirit of man.”

“That sounds quite wonderful.” Marion walked backwards, patting the air in a calming gesture. “My father says I must maintain religious council, and I think a Leviathan is much grander than a mere priest. This is wonderful news, my friend.”

“You requested so many times that I pray with you, Irina. Now I must ask that you prey with me.” He pointed the blade at Marion without taking his eyes off the Countess. “This cockroach has fulfilled his purpose and delivered you to me. You are to be my sacred whore.” He stepped closer, moving her hair away from her eyes. “You are Lamashtu, the Mother of Sorrows. Our union will break the final seal and unleash the Master’s glory upon this cesspool.”

Marion whirled quickly while Pietro was distracted and threw himself at his desk. He fumbled with the tiny knob-handle and ripped the narrow drawer open. He closed his hand around his prize and spun back around, aiming the long black and pearl Colt 1902 at—nothing at all. Pietro was gone.

And so was Irina.

***

The passengers in the lounge car shivered against the biting wind blowing through the open door. A crimson wave of uniforms marched through and corralled them to one side—shouting for them to settle down and keep quiet. The Mounties kept their rifles pointed down, but against their shoulders, ready to fire. The passengers, now more afraid of rescue than infection, huddled together for safety. The police left a gap in their numbers. The man who walked through it made their collective skin prickle and their knees shake harder than the cold ever could.

His broad shoulders, wrapped in the heavy bearskin coat, narrowly fit through the doorway. The white-brown fur of the massive collar framed a stone-hard, pockmarked face. He removed the black papakha from his bald head, and the skin steamed lightly as the frigid winds blew across it. He smiled, and somewhere in the back of the room was a whimper. His teeth were bright and square, pressed together in a mortician’s grin.

He set the hat on a small table, and the man behind him closed the door. He let the smaller man take his coat and stepped closer to the crowd. Eyes a shade lighter than coal surveyed the passengers beneath thick, black brows. He placed his fists on his hips and let his chest swell with a deep breath.

“My name is Captain Kazan.”

Chapter Nineteen

Wells chanced a look at the door. The windows were frosting over as the temperature sank further and all he could see of their rescuers were vague shapes. Everything was foggy internally too. The creature was ahead of him at every juncture. His plan to rescue the others was shot, and Trudy was dead. The creature’s memories were swirling around inside his head, mixing with his own and making it impossible to focus. He worked against the exhaustion, confusion, and grief to make something coherent of the mess.

“I drank the whiskey from your flask, tincture and all.” Saxton rolled to all fours and tried to stand up, only to stumble and fall against the desk. “Bollocks.”

“You did.” Wells rubbed his jaw. “And you couldn’t have killed the brakemen after I told you about it. Unless you told Pietro to do it. Telepathy is no less insane than the rest of this ride. In fact, it might be the most logical form of communication this thing possesses.”

“That’s fair, except I haven’t killed you. If I was the creature that would be my number one goal at this point.” Saxton sat on the edge of the desk and held his foot off the floor.

“Because I shot you?”

“No. That is the reason I, the very human Alexander Saxton, wish to kill you. Tremblay is out of commission, Jones is dead, Pietro is possessed, and Mirov is incompetent. If I’m that thing, we can assume Irina is dead and that I have the Count’s knowledge. That means the only person trying to stop me is you. So why wouldn’t I kill you when I had the chance?”

Wells clicked his tongue and set about pacing the floor.

Saxton sighed. “Bloody hell, just kill me if you’re going to insist on your infernal pacing.”

“It was dark.”

“Not helpful. What was dark?”

“Oh, I saw it when the thing changed bodies.” Wells tossed a hand into the air. “Finally. I thought I might succumb to old age before I got to a memory of any importance. But I did. I saw myself shooting Otis. Everything was blurry after that. It was scared, but not of dying.” Wells shoved the pistol into his pocket angrily.

“There are much worse things.”

“Indeed. It was scared we’d dump the body in the cold. That it would freeze again. Someone leaned over Otis and the thing took him.”

“I was in Mirov’s custody at the time.”

“Yes, yes you were. Damn. My memory and the thing’s memories, they’re all mixed up. I can’t straighten them out.” Wells retrieved his flask.

“I’m sure the laudanum is helping the situation,” Saxton said while pulling himself to the desktop.

“To an extent. The thing can’t stand toxins like medicine and alcohol. It’s like a vaccination, that’s what it is.

“You are the doctor here.” Saxton watched the blood trickling from the hole in his shoe. “I can’t believe you shot me.”

“You could hardly expect a fair fight at my age.” He tucked the flask away and went to the desk, then offered Saxton his arm. “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for. Let’s go meet our saviors.”

***

The knife split the flexible gangway cover, and Pietro pushed through the narrow opening. Ice clung to his hair, beard, and brows, and his lips were blue. Swollen blisters had formed along his fingers where the frostbite was settling in in.

“I’ve lost her, Master.”

Mirov rested on the door, gawking at the maniac before him. “I don’t know who she is. How did you find me?”

“I’ve been watching, through the windows.”

Mirov looked into the previous car. He hadn’t noticed the clerestory windows that topped each of the passenger spaces.

“It is very cold outside.” Pietro held up his palms, raw from the skin being peeled away. “I hope you will find this penance enough for my years of ignorant, ungracious servitude of the false god.”

Mirov shrugged. “Sure.” He pursed his lips. “Actually, there’s still one more thing you need to do. The British men managed to call for help. It appears to have arrived.”

“You want me to kill them?” Pietro rocked in place against the cold oozing in behind him.

“Not immediately. I need a distraction, and I need them to leave. The scientist was extremely helpful, but I still need the alchemic formula for the Count’s metal. I wish to take him wholly, however. Tremblay seemed to think him quite powerful.”

Pietro spit, but it didn’t go far and dripped from his cracked, bleeding lips. “Marion Petrovski is vermin.”

“All humans are. Tremblay knew much about propulsion, but without the Count’s metal—”

“It is not his metal.”

“Excuse me?”

“He found it, my Lord.”

“Found it? Found… no, it couldn’t be.” Mirov grabbed him by the beard and pulled him face to face. “What do you mean?”

“Petrovski’s miners hit a hollow. I overheard the Count discussing it with the survey man. He said it was a crater. Inside, they found the ruins and artifacts. Petrovski’s been melting it all down and shipping the bars back as Svarium… his Polish steel.”

“Crater?” Mirov’s fingers twisted tighter into the wiry growth. “West of here?”

“I did not hear the location. I am deeply sorry.”

“You are a pestilence.” Mirov released his unwanted servant and slicked back his platinum hair, smiling at nothing in particular. “Still, this is joyous news.”

Pietro’s confusion wavered. He covered a gasp with his damaged hands, falling prostate before Mirov. “It is where you fell, my Lord!”

***

Captain Kazan traced his fingers along the bar, scooping a random glass and swishing the liquor in his mouth before spitting it on the carpet. He arrived at a young lady shivering on a barstool.

“I was told there were dead bodies aboard this train. I would have come faster had they mentioned your body instead.”

He pinched girl’s chin and admired her features gluttonously before turning to the rest of the crowd. The Captain pointed at Mountie Hicks, who leaned out the window and whistled sharply.

“There is a killer among you and before you.” The train whistle bellowed ahead of them and the car lurched forward before Kazan continued, “When this train stops again there will only be one of us still standing. I am told that there are lawmen aboard. Where are they?”

“Why are we not being released from this train?” a striking older woman asked, whipping her bounding curls away from her face.

“We are in the middle of nowhere, I should think that would be reason enough,” Kazan said. “But what do I know? Perhaps you would prefer to trudge through knee-deep snow all the way to your destination.”

“Well… no, that’s not it. That’s not what I meant at all,” she quickly responded.

The Cossack moved toward her, his heavy boots falling like hammer-blows as he crossed the floor. He stretched one of her locks and released it with a grin as it sprang back into place.

“What is your name, miss?”

“It’s Bennett, Eleanor Bennett.”

“You speak funny.”

Miss Bennett gasped and straighten her back. “I am from the great state of Texas.”

“That explains much. Once I have found and killed the terror of this train, you are free to disembark. Until I have accomplished that task,” He pressed the woman’s shoulders until she sat down, “you are from the great state of this fucking bench.”

The gangway door opened again, and a tall man limped through with a septuagenarian trying to keep him off an injured foot. Kazan’s men steadied their rifles at the new faces.

“Is one of you Inspector Boris Mirov of the Dominion Police?” Kazan asked as he casually strolled through the lines of fire.

“Why, do we look like assholes?” the tall man asked.

“I’m Doctor James Wells and my eloquent friend here is Professor Alexander Saxton. We’re the ones that sent you the telegram.” Wells eased Saxton to the floor.

“I see.” Kazan removed his goat-fur cap and tossed it to the lady by the bar. “And who shot the professor?”

“I did,” Wells said, matter-of-factly.

The Cossack massaged his polished scalp and laughed. “Well doctor, that is certainly one way to cure a hangnail.”

Saxton grunted. “I’m pleased that you’re all enjoying yourselves. May I have some medical attention now?” He let his head thump against the bar.

“Hicks!” Kazan shouted despite being only six feet from the Mountie. “Treat this man’s wounds. Doctor Wells, I suggest you find me the conductor and the inspector.”

“The inspector is guarding a friend of ours who has been grievously injured. Why are we moving again?”

“To ensure that no one leaves the train until I have stopped your murderer.”

“That’s absurd. We need to get everyone isolated and in the care of medical professionals,” Wells protested.

“You British believe in free speech.” He wagged a finger in the air. “But this is not Britain.”

Kazan leaned close and shoved Hicks’ arm, ramming the man’s rifle butt into Wells’ sternum. The doctor stumbled into the arms of another Mountie who quickly seized him and moved him to a nearby seat.

“Until I say otherwise, you’re all under arrest,” Kazan bellowed. “No one is leaving this train!”

The opposite door burst open. Breasts bounced dangerously close to the low neckline of an evening dress as the woman ran to the Mounties, drawing Kazan’s attention and a smile. The woman pushed two commuters out of her way, calling for help. Kazan seized her arms, lifted her, and swung her onto a stool effortlessly.

“Now is hardly the time for hysterics, lovely.” He pushed the chestnut hair from her eyes.

“Irina?” Saxton sat up to see around the medic treating his foot. “What’s happened?”

“Pietro,” she cried. “He’s tried to kill me and Marion.”

“That bastard,” Saxton grumbled.

“Marion is trying to kill me as well.” Irina sobbed into her palms.

“I here I thought the English didn’t know how to throw a party.” Kazan looked from her to Saxton to Wells. “Where is the law and order on this goddamn train?”

“I hadn’t thought of it earlier.” Saxton stared at the ceiling. “Where the hell are the other Mounties?”

Wells scratched his chin and then shrugged. “Haven’t seen them in a tick.”

***

“You’re a fool, a goddamn fool.” Johnnie Voss shoved the Mountie across the open space and into the metal door with ease.

The other red-clad soldier tried to unsling his rifle, but bumped into the furnace and howled in pain. Johnnie rapped the kid’s knuckles with a wrench.

“You don’t pull a long gun in close quarters, you dumb shit. There’s a bitch of a mountain ahead and we’ll be damn lucky to get to speed now that you all’ve stopped us. So, you’re going to be my fireman until that damn Limey gets his wrinkled old ass back up here with Chuck. You hearing me, boy?”

“Umm… yes, sir, I can do that,” the Mountie stuttered.

Johnnie pointed the wrench at the first man. “And you, you fucking nitwit, you’re going to go and find your superior officer. He needs to get someone to either stop the manual cars or cut them loose, and I mean yesterday. Otherwise, we’re going to come down the mountain so fucking fast that our balls are going suck up into our goddamn sinuses and won’t that just make for a merry fucking Christmas.”

The Mountie by the door straightened his uniform. “Sir, you need to understand that our captain doesn’t take orders, or even suggestions, from anyone. He says we’re using the tunnel, so we’re using the tunnel. The telegram was sent from our offices before we even left. Men are on their way to switch the track right now, if they haven’t already.”

Johnnie threw the wrench to the floor and leaned against his seat, stroking his beard.

The Mountie smiled smugly. “We’ll be bypassing your next stop and going straight to Calgary, where more members of the Mounted Police will be waiting to receive the culprits from Captain Kazan.”

Johnnie’s laugh was comparable to an elk’s bugle more than any human noise. He slapped his knees and shook his head. “Well shit, I am happier than a two-dicked dog in a leg-humpin’ contest that you was here to tell old Johnnie how it’s all going to work out.”

The Mounties exchanged glances, and the one by the door spoke up first. “Well, you’re most welcome.”

“Yeah, glad as can be.” Johnnie stood up and laughed again. “Course, there’s a slight problem in that there was an avalanche yesterday morning—fucked the bridge like a quarter whore on half-price night. We go through that tunnel and the only thing we’re coming to is a very sudden stop.”

The Mounties gulped and spoke in unison, “Oh.”

Chapter Twenty

Saxton rubbed Irina’s shoulder and promised her it would all be okay. He knew he was lying. There was a body-snatching monster somewhere on the train, and her husband was trying to murder her. He finished his Scotch and felt a little more of the pain ease away from the nub of his missing digit. He glared at Wells who was laying out the details of the story to Captain Kazan. The burly Mountie just nodded along with the fantastic tale.

Saxton raised the glass to signal for a refill, but Irina pushed his arm back down and shook her head. The Mounties had already given him a wonderfully generous dose of Heroin, after all. She traced her fingers along the veins of his wrist and smiled at him softly.

“I think I should go fetch the inspector and check on Tremblay,” he said.

“No, that’s not necessary, Alex.” Wells gestured for him to stay at the bar. “I need to change his dressings and collect some things anyhow.” He turned back to the Captain. “That is, if you’re finished with me.”

Kazan’s laugh made some of the passengers flinch. He gave an exaggerated bow and gestured to the end of the car.

“By all means, Doctor Wells. Your story has been quite entertaining,” he sucked air through his teeth, “and entirely unnecessary. You could have simplified the entire issue by saying, ‘Kill the priest, he’s a maniac.’ That would have been good enough for me. Take Hicks with you, he went to medical school.”

“It was veterinary school, Captain Kazan.” Mountie Hicks rubbed his temples like he’d said that repeatedly.

“A veterinarian?” It was Saxton’s turn to laugh. “James, remember that buffalo?”

Wells sighed and started for the door. “Please be sober when I return. As much as you ever are, at the least.” He exited with Mountie Hicks in tow.

“No, James, don’t go. You have to tell them.” Saxton slapped the air and tried to drink from the empty glass again.

“What happened with the buffalo?” Irina asked softly, as she peeled the glass from his long fingers.

Saxton’s smile soured a little, but remained. “Some damn fool in our regiment shot one. A great big pregnant heifer out for drink. The soldier shot her for no other reason than simple cruelty. James called for an immediate halt and pulled the calf from her. It was a couple of weeks premature, but still weighed a bit more than you, I imagine. James didn’t care though and carried it on his shoulders all the way to the next encampment.”

“Why didn’t he just kill it?” Kazan prowled when he moved and leaned on the bar next to Irina. “You were at war, were you not?”

“Yes, we were.” Saxton nodded slowly. “Most people would have shot it too, I suppose. Plenty suggested it. That’s not James, however.”

Kazan started to speak, but Saxton slurred his way back into the conversation.

“He can kill a man faster than anyone on this train, don’t forget that, but it takes both fire and ice to make a sword. Maybe it was all the people he killed or all the ones he didn’t save. Hell, I don’t know. He made sure to keep that calf alive. He named the stupid beast MacDuff. It became the mascot for his little field hospital. I’m pretty sure that buffalo was the only friend he had to that point.”

“What of the man that shot the cow?” Kazan asked, though his eyes were focused on Irina’s bare neck.

“Friendly fire, I’m afraid. He was wounded in the buttock. James amputated both the man’s legs. Fire and ice. That’s when I met him.” His smile perked back up. “I was the one that wounded the man. When I saw him deliver that calf, I knew the truth about James.”

Kazan seemed genuinely intrigued by the Heroin-induced ramblings of the professor and stepped around Irina to speak to him directly. “And what is the truth about the good doctor?”

“He’s a cocksure lush on the very best of days. On the worst, he’s a drunken man-whore with the manners of gypsy and a propensity for instigation.”

“I see why you two are friends,” Irina chirped.

“True. But when everyone else is screaming ‘fire,’ he’ll already be running towards the smoke. That’s James Wells. There have been many times I’ve thought about pushing him down a flight of stairs, and admittedly I have on two occasions, but he’s the best man I know. He will do what’s right, no matter what the cost, and the costs have been high. So, your help is appreciated, but unnecessary. James is going stop whatever this damned thing is, because when the dust settles, he’s the last goddamned hero in all the Empire.”

***

Wells stared at Tremblay’s body for a long moment. He wanted to skip to the part where he killed Pietro, but he forced himself to focus. Removing the possessed priest needed the same clinical detachment as amputating a gangrenous limb. Tremblay’s white eyes looked off at an angle and his body was still under the blankets—he had known his killer and wasn’t scared of his presence. That didn’t line up with Pietro being the host.

There were bubbles in the pooled blood trapped in his mouth, meaning Wells couldn’t have missed the killer by more than a few minutes.

“It seems he’s passed away, Doctor Wells,” Mountie Hicks said solemnly.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Wells ran a hand through his hair—silver and gold, Natasha called it.

He remembered the young thief’s seductions the way he remembered Zululand—as a lifetime ago. It didn’t feel like the same trip anymore, and he was still a long way from home. His hand stung beneath the dressing, and he massaged the raw tissue with a thumb to help focus himself.

He picked up his elephant rifle from the corner, tossed it to his left hand. Pain jolted up his arm as he gripped the weapon. The sensation was better than coffee. With a raised eyebrow, he rolled the long gun into a cradle carry. He walked into the hallway and inspected the blood spatter on the wall. The window was gone and so was the body. There weren’t any drag marks, so he assumed the victim was dumped outside.

“Why would you start hiding bodies now? You’ve never done that before.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Hicks leaned over Wells shoulder to see what the doctor was inspecting.

“The killer has been sloppy up to this point.” Wells thumbed a splintery bullet hole in the wall. “When it was occupying the corpse of Tom Brandt, two of your Mounties vanished and then it killed several people and left their bodies in the open.”

Wells saw more blood in the gangway as well. It was arterial, most likely a heart shot judging by the quantity. He made his way to the pool and a faint whistle of air caught his ear. He slid his hand between the heavy, black fabric of the umbilical connector. “He sliced the connector open to push the body out.”

He tried to visualize the scene, but nothing about it made sense. Why leave Tremblay’s body in the cabin and then dump two others? Wells snapped his fingers and rose quickly, a movement his knees protested in a series of sharp pops that made Hicks flinch and grimace.

“Someone interrupted you with Tremblay, and you shot them in the head.” Wells pantomimed the scene as he worked through it. “Then you were discovered by the victim in the gangway, forcing you to act again. Yes. That’s why you disposed of the other corpses. You had to shoot them. You left evidence. You practically signed their murders.” Wells stared at the ceiling as thoughts lined up with memories—both his and the creature’s. “Now, who would have a gun on this train?”

“Several people, I would imagine, Doctor Wells. I mean, even you seem to have come prepared.” Hicks pointed at the weapon.

“Yes, I was hoping to bag a moose.”

“Those aren’t in season, sir.” Hicks boot heels clicked as he stiffened. “You can’t just shoot whatever you like, you know? This isn’t America.”

“I plan on shooting a priest very shortly, do you have any objections to that?”

Hicks shrugged. “Not in the slightest, I’m a Mormon.”

“Excellent.”

***

Marion Petrovski flinched and swung the pistol towards a fleeting shadow. Its slick pearl grips almost slipped from his sweaty palms. He should have seen it, every last bit of it, coming from a mile away. Pietro always had such an unhealthy fascination with his wife. Then there was the eagerness with which the Church rented him out to Petrovski’s service. The man was strange and unsettling, but most priests were. Still, the bishop had been far too excited to see Pietro go.

The lights flickered in the car as the train sped up. He wanted to go lock himself in the safety of his private quarters, but he needed to get to the Mountie rescue party before his wife could. Besides, Pietro broke the lock. It wasn’t nearly safe enough. He made his way cautiously through the passenger car. Movement caused him to jump again and he turned the weapon toward the open compartment. A boy, no more than six, stared down the barrel and screamed shrilly before slamming the door.

“That’ll teach you, you nosy little shit.” Marion forced himself to move faster and swung open the door to the next car.

A few passengers slept on the long benches of the open coach car. A couple more tried to distract themselves with a game of cards, while another read. Finding it safe, Marion sprinted though in a rush to get to the front of the train.

He would be safe once he reached the lounge car.

***

Saxton stood sharply as Pietro staggered into the lounge car. His face and hands were hideously disfigured by blisters and windburn. His dripping beard framed the hideous smile full of blood-stained teeth—each big, wide, and dirty like rows of tombstones. He seemed completely oblivious to the octagonal barrel pressed into the base of his skull. Mirov used the gun like a cattle prod to drive his prisoner into the car.

“You see, Professor Saxton. I was right all along. Lucifer is among us, just as I told you on the platform. Now he shelters me beneath his scorched wings.” The laugh started deep in his throat and worked its way up to a cackle. Pietro turned to a passenger and growled, rattling his shackles.

Mirov jabbed him in the ear with revolver. “That’s enough, you buffoon.”

Pietro growled. “I will curse you all with Satan’s wrath.”

“Seize the prisoner,” Kazan barked to his men.

One of the Mounties stopped short as Pietro swung his hands around, tracing an inverted cross in the air before him.

“He has the evil eye, sir,” the Mountie stammered.

“Evil eye?” Kazan spat and made his way to the prisoner. He stretched Pietro’s eyelids apart. “Looks perfectly normal and pathetic to me.”

Kazan shoved the priest against the wall and slapped his cheek hard enough to knock him down.

“Glad you could finally be of some use, Inspector.” Saxton clapped softly and then turned to Kazan. “This is the policeman we’ve been telling you about.”

Kazan made an unimpressed noise and wandered to the Inspector and his quarry. “This is the fearsome killer that’s stalking the train? The troublemaker?”

“That’s correct,” Mirov said as he decocked the revolver and holstered it. “He came to finish off the scientist, Archibald Tremblay, and after a struggle I subdued him.” Mirov turned briefly to Saxton. “I’m afraid the second attack was just too much for Tremblay. He didn’t survive.”

“You are becoming quite proficient at delivering bad news, Inspector.” Saxton banged his knuckles on the bar.

Kazan slugged the shackled priest in the side of the head. Pietro fell to his knees—his cheek swelling immediately from the hammer-like blow. Kazan drew his own pistol and aimed it at Pietro’s head. Then looked at the weapon curiously.

“What did he do the killing with?” Kazan holstered the pistol and turned to Mirov. “There were eight policemen on this train when you left. Now all of them are missing.”

“Not missing.” Pietro smiled up at him. “Two I threw off the train, another I left in the eleventh coach with two other bodies. The remaining constables are stuffed in the lavatory in the ninth compartment car.” He laughed again. “I used a knife from the lady doctor’s bag. You should have seen how she bled.”

“Does that sufficiently answer your questions, sir?” Mirov hoisted the priest up by his collar and pushed him to a plush bench against the window between Miss Bennett and a male passenger, who shrank away, but didn’t rise.

Mirov eyed them both and slapped Pietro’s cheek to get their attention. “Oh, please do stay right where you are. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you with finding a seat not next to my murderer.”

The two passengers got up and joined Saxton and Irina at the bar.

“Can’t we just kill him?” the man asked.

“No, Robert. That wouldn’t be Christian of us. We should throw him off the train,” Bennett replied.

A third chimed in from across the car, “But that would kill him too. We should lock him in the cargo car.”

Soon, all of the passengers had an opinion, and the cacophony filled the narrow space with the subtlety of an explosion. Over all of it, Pietro laughed, maniacally and at nothing in particular, it seemed. Kazan’s fingers drummed the handle of his sashka—the curved sword of his people. The thick digits smacked against the polished wood with a quickening rhythm.

“I don’t like it.”

Saxton didn’t hear him as much as he read the man’s lips. He agreed. There was something wrong with the entire situation. Then Irina started screaming. Everyone went silent and turned their attention to her, then to the well-dressed lunatic waving a pistol in the doorway.

“Quick, Captain! Arrest that man.” Saxton stabbed a finger towards Count Petrovski and pulled Irina under his other arm. The action shifted his weight to the wounded foot, and he hoped no one noticed the squeak as his voice cracked.

Before Kazan could respond, Mirov launched himself forward and shoved the Count against the paneled wall. He drew his pistol and pressed it under Petrovski’s chin. The Count’s own weapon fell to the floor with a heavy thump. He surrendered in whimpered Polish, but the message came across anyway.

“It seems I’m stopping all the villains tonight,” Mirov quipped.

“If only you would have shown such urgency before dragging me from my bedchamber.” Kazan shook his head. His fingers had stopped tapping and instead gripped the handle of his sword. “That ferret might be the most vicious killer in all of Canada, but you would have to be the worst detective on the continent not to apprehend him sooner in the confines of a fucking train.”

“It does seem odd,” Saxton said to no one in particular. “Wait a moment, you shot Otis.”

“I did indeed.” Mirov turned on a heel and dragged the Count between him and Kazan. His revolver moved lower, held against Petrovski’s ribs. “This… illness, is moving between the passengers. I stopped the killer already. The priest was infected after he joined the British chaps in an unadvisable experiment.”

Kazan raised a questioning eyebrow. “No one informed me of any experimentation.”

“Yes, well they should wish it kept a secret I’m sure,” Mirov said. “They ingested human flesh, like savages, in an absurd attempt to discern some arcane knowledge.”

“And did you, Professor?” Kazan asked, never taking his eyes off Mirov.

Saxton cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, we did. We’ll need more time to analyze the findings, as they make little sense at the moment. It would seem that this thing is quite primeval. It’s possible that its origins are not of this world, or possibly any world, and it may be aboriginal to space. I suppose there could even be some supernat—”

“That’s fascinating, really.” Kazan sucked at his buck teeth and waved for the professor to quit talking. “Mirov? You’re from the Motherland, then?”

The inspector seemed to roll the concept around a moment before answering. He finally nodded to the bestial Mountie. “Once upon a time.”

“I knew a Mirov once. Anatole, that was his name.” He rolled his bald head slowly letting his neck pop like a ratchet. “A relative of yours? A brother perhaps?”

Mirov’s eyes drifted up, as he explored his memory for some forgotten sibling. Saxton’s own eyes moved to the revolver in the inspector’s hand—at some point the sneaky policeman had cocked the hammer. The angle of the barrel wouldn’t do much against Petrovski, however. Either he’d become inept or was planning on using it on someone else. Otis came back to Saxton’s mind.

“Yes, my brother.” Mirov nodded and looked between Kazan and Saxton. “Anatole. He is no longer with us. I miss him, greatly.”

“Yes, I believe I heard of his passing.” Kazan rubbed a bright red earlobe and massaged it thoughtfully. “I met him once, you see. It was on a Sunday.”

“That’s quite wonderful, Captain.” Mirov twisted the Count’s smoking jacket around his fist. “It must have been a most pleasurable conference for you to remember it so sharply.”

“Otis!” The realization hit Saxton like a sledgehammer.

“Yes, very pleasant.” Kazan bit his bottom lip

Mirov’s arms lashed out, the pistol raising to fire and angling for Saxton. The Heroin bogged down his reflexes, and there was no way he could move in time. When the hammer fell, he was done for. And he knew it.

Just like he knew Mirov had been the thing all along.

Chapter Twenty-One

The gun went off with the sharp snap one expects from a Webley. A pillar of smoke and unburnt powder blasted from the octagonal iron just behind the bullet that twisted through the air, straight and unerring. The severed hand still clutched the checked wood grip tightly, but it was the impact with the floor that sent the hammer forward.

Kazan’s sword danced and glistened in the lamp light and the crowd screeched in solidarity. Some pushed through the door and towards the safety of the passenger cars, others pressed themselves against the lounger’s walls. The Cossack flicked the blood from his blade and slid it into its sheath as nonchalantly as slipping into a worn boot. No one heard the mouse-like squeak as the bullet cut through meat or noticed the snap of it passing through its victim and into the bar.

Then Irina slid down Saxton’s lanky body—a bright red orchid blooming beneath her bosom.

“No!” Saxton dropped to a knee and cradled her against him. “You bastard. What have you done?”

“Saved me the trouble,” Petrovski said dryly.

Mirov’s eyes began to glow. He reached out with his remaining hand and seized the Count by the throat, pulling him closer and digging his fingers through the skin. He gripped the man’s trachea and moved him like a shield before the Mounties could open fire.

More passengers tried to file to the next car when a blob of red pushed through them. Mountie Hicks shoved between them like footballer, driving into the commuters with his shoulder out and his head tucked. One spiraled to the ground from his charge and two more toppled out of his way and over one another. Once he was clear of the rioting exodus, he stood up and straightened his uniform.

“Sir, the police inspector has been compromised and can no longer be trusted.”

“You’ve solved the case, Hicks. Congratulations.” Kazan’s smile threatened to split his face in half. “Inspector Mirov, would you please give the man a round of applause?”

Mirov’s luminescent eyes shined brighter the harder he scowled at Kazan.

“Where’s James? Irina needs him.” Saxton pressed on the wound harder, and Irina’s whimpering became a feral, agonized roar for help. “Now, goddamn it!”

“Right here, Alex.” Wells stepped into the car and aimed the elephant gun at Mirov. “Those eyes make one hell of a target.”

Mirov kept his glare locked on Petrovski. The Count’s body twitched and shuddered in the creature’s grasp.

Something rippled across Mirov’s cheek—no, beneath it. “I’m afraid I haven’t been playing fairly, Doctor Wells. I took the bullets out of your rifle when I killed your friend.”

Wells snorted. “A good soldier knows what his weapon weighs. I reloaded.”

Lids stretched wide around bright red orbs as the ramifications of this registered. The rifle boomed, and Mirov’s head came apart in a cataclysm of bone and brain matter. His tongue flopped stupidly from the stump as he collapsed to the floor, a few feet from a panicked, screaming Pietro. The priest threw himself onto the corpse, sobbing, screeching for forgiveness into Mirov’s chest.

“I have failed you, Master. I have failed you!”

Wells ignored Pietro’s continued lamentations and rushed to Irina’s side, helping Saxton lift her to the bar. “I need more light. Alex, fetch me the torch from the wall.”

“The Count’s dead. The same as your friend, Doctor,” Hicks said as he inspected the white-eyed body of Marion Petrovski. “His eyes are completely blank.”

“He’s stolen his mind. That’s what he’s doing. He… how to put this? He eats their memories that way. That’s how this thing learns. It takes what it can from everyone while keeping only the strongest available body. The tyrannosaurus, the Neanderthal chieftain, Inspector Mirov. Alex, hurry.”

“Next time don’t shoot me in the foot if you want me to be fast.”

Saxton limped quickly to the wall and removed the electric candle, oblivious to the sudden commotion behind him. Something slammed into his back, driving his head into the wall. He saw Pietro for a moment and, just before the lights died in the car, he could have sworn he saw something writhing in his hands.

“Damn opiates.” Saxton fumbled in the darkness, feeling along the wall for the light switch. He turned it and cast the room back into the safety of dingy, yellow light. “Why is this bloody thing where anyone can access it?”

Kazan snapped his fingers and pointed at the door to the crew car. “If anyone comes through that portal, you kill them.”

“Sir, yes sir!” His men barked in unison and trained their rifles on the gangway.

Hicks collected the Count’s pistol from the floor and took off his service-issued hat. “Sir, but what if the priest really is innocent?”

“Psst! We have plenty of innocent priests.” Kazan rolled his eyes. “Help the doctor with the woman. No one else is dying on this fucking train.”

***

It wriggled around Pietro’s wrists and then up a black sleeve. The soft, translucent body—nearly a meter long but no more than an inch wide—didn’t look like much, but somewhere out there in a place that the humans couldn’t begin to understand, it was the most powerful body available. It was nothing compared to the creature’s true form, if it could be described as a form at all. It existed, but not in a way that could be so easily explained. A fourth state of being that was neither solid nor immaterial and that no longer belonged in the universe.

It was not so easily destroyed.

And so, it found the wyrm, and the wyrm found the Pilgrim and his vessel. This place, the primordial waste that should have been home, became prison. It despised organic forms for their weakness, but envied them their ability to sleep. Mountains of ash, oceans, and ice that kept it buried and painfully aware of it all. That would never happen again.

The humans were correct after all. It could replicate, limitlessly even, and spread to all of humanity. So many millions of years had passed that it wouldn’t even recognize its own kind if it could find them… if they even existed still. It would eradicate humanity using the Tesla weapon Tremblay feared so greatly. Then it would spread itself among the remains, until it was all over the world.

No.

Until it was the world.

The priest opened his mouth and tilted his head back, welcoming the wyrm with his arms spread wide. It slithered down the esophagus, twisting into a tight ball as it nestled into his liver. The tentacles unraveled from its head and swam through the arteries on a path to Pietro’s brain. The words and teachings the man had babbled on about flooded into it with scores of memories. Every piece of knowledge the priest possessed, it consumed, and with that knowledge it realized that Pietro had been right all along. It had never had a name before. Its kind did not use them. But here, among these soft vessels, they had one for it.

It was God.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kazan watched the two Englishmen and his officer operate on the young woman as he stepped around the bar from the other end. He set three tall shot glasses on their operating table and reached for the Stolichnaya on the mirror-backed shelves.

“I’m always impressed when I find proper Russian spirits in this septic bog.” He unscrewed the cap and spoke as he filled the glasses, “And I’m always disappointed when the fools forget to chill it. Vodka should not be drunk like some piss-warm whiskey.”

Wells tied off the sutures on Irina’s abdomen. “We’re just in the midst of life-saving surgery, Captain Kazan. Please don’t mind us at all.”

“Oh, I don’t.” Kazan finished the three shots, bringing each glass down with a harder knock against the bar than the last. “Pour whatever you like, gentlemen. It’s on the house.”

“Very kind of you.” Saxton snipped the sutures in Irina’s back as Hicks knotted them. “We’re finished. James, how is she on your end?”

“Done. We need to keep her still as much as possible.” He wiped sweat from his brow, replacing it with a smear of blood and leaned on his knuckles. “She’s going to lose the kidney. There’s no two ways about that. The possibility of infection is phenomenal, given the condition of our infirmary. The blood loss is concerning, but that’s not for here. We’ll need to move her somewhere more comfortable than a bar. Also, somewhere more sanitary would be advisable.”

“I’ll make a litter and move her to a private compartment,” Hicks said. “Dickson is compatible. He can help move her and we can set up for a transfusion if you wish, doctor.”

“Yes, that would be fine. You’ll have to do it quickly, my boy. She can’t be jostled around like so much luggage. Get her there straightaway. No dallying.”

“Of course, doctor.” Hicks turned to Kazan. “That is, if it is alright with you, Captain.”

“Beyond this car is the crew car, the coal car, and the engine. The priest hasn’t gone far.” Kazan refilled the glasses and licked his lips. “He’s still, at the very least, an accomplice in this mess.”

“And the girl, Captain?”

“Canadian citizens have been murdered, Hudson!”

“Hicks, sir. He’s Hudson.” Hicks jerked a thumb towards a slovenly Mountie with a playing card jammed in the band of his campaign hat and stubble well past regulation.

The Mountie nodded in recognition, but kept his rifle trained on the door, per orders.

Kazan swirled a finger in the air and pounded a shot of the vodka. “Regardless, you’re the medic. When people need killing, that’s my job. When people need saving, that is your job. Do not ever again waste my time asking permission to do your job.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on it. Dickson, let’s move.”

“How did you know that Mirov was infected?” Saxton asked, pushing Irina’s hair away from her face.

“Anatole Mirov was a dissident. He lost an eye at Yalu River and, with it, all faith in the Tsar. He wasn’t wrong.” Kazan finished another shot and banged the glass on the bar. “Nicolas said we killed a mere one-hundred protestors. My men killed that by themselves.”

“You met him on a Sunday,” Saxton said with disgust. “Bloody Sunday. My word. I thought they sent men like you to Siberia.”

“I am Siberia.” He did the last shot and slammed it down, shattering the glass beneath his palm.

***

The creature stared at his new hands. The body was heavily damaged, and he would need to switch soon. The big man that cut off his last hand would be nice. That body was powerful, and he seemed to be of importance. Surely, his knowledge of violence was greater than Mirov’s had been. That would be most useful in the coming endeavors.

Pietro griped the door handle and strained to open it. The frostbitten skin oozed as he squeezed tighter. The door opened and the wind wailed as it forced its way into the crew car. Humans were more complicated than the wyrm. It was becoming harder to tell memories from emotions, knowledge from sentiment. Killing the Englishman, Saxton, was important. Nothing seemed to support that, but it needed done. Mirov, Pietro, and the Count had all agreed on that one thing.

Even a weak threat could be a serious one.

The wyrm’s species was all but annihilated by a fungus. The Pilgrim came in time, maybe hours before its host expired. If not, it would have been confined to the bacteria crawling among the fungi’s roots. Even then, the Pilgrims were weak. Paranoia spread among them and then they were all dead. Using the wyrm as a means to possess other hosts ensured it always had a body available to it. By human logic, it was a parasite inside of a parasite—like the nesting dolls of Mirov’s home.

It remembered them bitterly.

But Saxton and Wells knew about the wyrm. They would see to it that it was destroyed, and then what would happen? It didn’t know if it could exist outside of a host anymore—so many ages passed that it wasn’t even sure it did exist outside of the host anymore. Yes, it would be much better to kill these humans before it was too late.

***

Johnnie reduced the train’s speed slightly and pulled a battered map from a toolbox of equal disrepair. He unfolded it as gently as he did anything, but one quadrant tore. He lined it back up, squinted at it and let it float to the floor. His thick finger traced the line and tapped feverously on the browned paper. He nodded and mumbled affirmations as he did the math in his head.

“Good news or bad news?” he asked the two Mounties in the engine with him.

“I could do with some good news,” one of them answered.

“We’re going to fucking die.” Johnnie spat tobacco juice for emphasis.

The two lawmen exchanged confused glances. Both opened their mouths to speak, but just slouched and sighed.

Johnnie let some brown teeth show. “Don’t worry, it might not be today.”

Ever since they informed the engineer of the situation, Johnnie had been trying to find a way to save them. They’d passed the switch by the time he explained that there was no longer a bridge waiting for them. It took an additional five minutes for Johnnie to exhaust every possible use of the word “fuck” before deciding to be proactive.

Stopping the train in the middle of the mountains was out of the question. There was already one killer onboard and, if the doctor was telling the truth about the plague, that number could grow rapidly. Continuing on would stop the killer and any contagion, because they’d all be rubble at the bottom of a ravine.

There was only one remaining option.

“The bad news is, we have to jump out of a moving train. Run through balls-deep snow. Bust ice from a wye-turnout and manually force it into position. After that, it’s all downhill… literally. We’re going to careen wildly down and around the mountain. There’s a mill there that links to an American line and goes straight to the border. There should be more of you government boys there to give us a hand if we don’t come off the tracks and crash first.”

“That’s a horrible idea,” the bespectacled Mountie muttered.

“Okay, let’s go with your plan then.” Johnnie crossed his arms over his broad chest.

No one said anything.

“Right! So, at the next bend you two are getting off.” He jabbed the map and waved them over. “It’s only a kilometer on foot. The train has to go around this damn gorge, but you can run right across it. The switch is inside a control shed a bit bigger than an outhouse. But you have to go.” He pointed out the window at the upcoming turn. “Now.”

“Damn it.”

***

“I think we should still separate the cars, James.” Saxton watched as Hicks set up the blood transfusion for Irina.

“Agreed. We need to speak to the engineman, Johnnie, first. He needs to know that the others are dead. I can’t find the conductor either, and we really don’t have time to go searching.” Wells stared at his reflection in the black window. He looked his age for once. “Whatever this is, it can’t leave this train. Not one piece of it. Science be damned.”

Saxton nodded slowly. “I don’t care if we live or die. That thing stops here, tonight.”

Wells passed him the pistol from his jacket pocket. “Let’s go help that mad Cossack.”

“What could possibly go wrong there?”

***

“Good luck, you dumb bastards.” Johnnie waved as the two men tumbled through the snow. “Try not to fuck this up. All our lives depend on you.”

He turned and went back inside the engine where it was still toasty. He didn’t bother latching the door since he was going back out to get a shovelful of coal. He wanted to take a moment and get warm first—even though he hadn’t been outside long, it was long enough to make him miss the coat he gave the doctor.

“Fucking English. Never can trust them. Probably never told Chuck to get his ass back up here. Now I’m going have to stoke the goddamn fire by myself. Limey bastard probably stopped for tea and a fucking crumpet.” Johnnie sat on his stool and eased the accelerator forward and huffed a warm breath on his achy hands. “All the better. Should be a goddamn Canadian that saves the world, anyhow.”

The door creaked open behind him.

The wind couldn’t have pushed it open. The heavy steps of a man’s boot heels fell somewhere beneath all the other noise in the engine. Johnnie’s toolbox sat open on the console next to him. He chewed his tobacco thoughtfully and stared at the windscreen. A vague shape came into view, man-sized and predatory. Johnnie waited for the steps to draw closer and made his move. He twirled, kicking the stool away and snatching a screwdriver from the box all in one motion. He snatched the attacker’s greasy hair in his fist and cranked the man’s head back to deliver a killing blow. The point of the screwdriver stopped against the white collar, frozen in place.

“Oh shit.” Johnnie pushed the priest away softly and laughed until his belly shook. “Whoo! Forgive me Father, I almost sinned.”

The priest’s windburned face grinned beneath glowing eyes.

“All is forgiven, my child.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The electric candles glowed dimly on the small tables next to each of the crew member bunks. Eleven beds jutted out from the right-side wall facing the long row of windows opposite. All of the blinds were drawn, leaving only narrow slivers of silver along their edges. The yellow electric lights created a pool of shadows around each bed, and Kazan’s eyes drew in on the unseen.

Eight Mounties filed into the crew car behind him, and he gestured for two to check the telegraph room in the far-left corner. They nodded and hugged the wall as they made their way forward with their rifles at the ready. Once they were in position, Kazan signaled another man to go to the door joining the next car. Soundlessly, he continued directing his men with hand signals, while never removing his eyes from the beds. There was something menacing about that kind of darkness—the primordial kind that existed just outside of the light.

The last five men lined up against the wall and trained their MLM rifles on the bunks. None of them questioned the order. That was always the first lesson he beat into new recruits. Kazan’s left hand caressed the hilt of his sword thoughtfully while he steadied the revolver in his right. There was something under one of the beds. He gave a sharp nod in the direction of the chthonic form lingering in the abyss.

One of the men rushed forward and flipped the bed over, the other four rifles fired. Ammunition was scarce and Kazan made sure his men used it wisely. The large man twitched slightly as the four bullets tore through his torso, but he didn’t make a sound. The burly bulk just leaked, quiet and unmoving.

Kazan made his way forward, arm extended and pistol aimed between the man’s blank, white eyes. The realization struck him too late. Everything the doctor had told him about this thing was completely true. It stole the man’s memories.

“Sonofabitch. It’s a trap!”

His laggard warning did little good. The telegraph room’s door swung open and the shade reached out and dragged the nearest Mountie into the gloom. The second man charged in to help. His scream became a gurgle. The other men all looked to Kazan.

“What are you waiting for? Fucking fire!” He snapped off all six shots from his pistol, replacing aim with an educated guess based on the sounds of his dying man.

The six rifles fired in the rhythm Kazan had drilled into them. Four men fired and then the other two while those men racked in a new cartridge. The captain instilled them with an elite precision unseen anywhere else in the Dominion. As he dumped the spent cases from his weapon, he wondered if it would matter at all. The rifles emptied and the men quickly reloaded. Fifty-four holes riddled the tiny room. Something glinted in the darkness.

Kazan dived to the side as the bullet whizzed past his head and struck the wall behind him. The next man wasn’t as fast. His head opened up and splattered the men behind him with brain matter. While they tried to clear their compatriot’s mind from their eyes, Pietro made his move.

The lithe priest rolled across the floor and grabbed Hudson as he rose, burning out his mind in a flash before discarding the corpse and seizing two more constables by their throats. He held them in front of him. Shielding himself with their flesh. His eyes burned brightly in the dark. Pietro moved forward, absorbing the men’s memories as he held them like they weighed nothing at all. He cast them aside as he reached the next two Mounties. One tried to butt-stroke him with the rifle. Pietro caught the weapon and worked his thumb into the trigger guard, firing the weapon into the other man’s throat. The young Mountie quivered as Pietro pinned him to the door with his rifle.

Kazan watched as his man’s eyes faded into cold porcelain. Blood oozed from the man’s orifices as his brain melted inside his own skull. Kazan fired his pistol into Pietro’s back and tossed the empty weapon to a nearby bed before drawing his sword with a metallic schwing. He didn’t give Pietro a chance to fight back and charged forward, swinging the sword with every bit of his considerable might, right down on top of the priest’s greasy head.

Clang.

Pietro knelt with the rifle pressed over his himself. The blow split the wood and struck the receiver. He laid his head back and smiled at Kazan. The Cossack withdrew the sword and tried again, but the priest was too fast. He spun and used the rifle like a club to knock the Cossack to the floor. The rifle’s stock reduced to splinters as it struck the floor just behind Kazan’s escape. Pietro discarded the weapon with a sibilant hiss-wheeze. Kazan’s skin pricked at the inhuman sound—like a snake trying to laugh.

“I had no idea this host was so… interesting.” The thing pushed a shock of hair away from his face. “He might have been the most dangerous man on this train. The things he’s done. The ways he’s taken apart the flesh. I almost regret the scorn I showed him before. You and that British man are the only other threats that remain.”

Kazan slapped the dust from his uniform. “You’ll find that I’m more than enough all by myself.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

A gun fired and the bullet struck the ceiling with a sharp snap. Splinters floated lazily to the floor. Both combatants looked to wounded Mountie bleeding out in the corner. Pietro pointed a deformed finger at him.

“I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

Kazan’s sword flashed through the air. Pietro leapt back—a puff of his beard drifted in the air. He dodged the follow-up attack as well. Kazan spun the ancient weapon, twirling it like a cyclone of destruction. He changed direction quickly, faking a high slash, only to duck and hack low. Pietro shrieked and lashed out wildly. Kazan’s sword clattered across the floor.

Pietro clutched his abdomen. The dark blood gushed from his ravaged liver. It was Kazan’s turn to laugh.

“Even the Devil knows to fear a Cossack.”

The priest’s fingers curled into claws, and he lunged forward. He caught Kazan off guard and dug at the Captain’s face. The thing may have been faster, but Kazan was stronger.

Much stronger.

Kazan hefted him off the floor and threw him across the car. The mahogany panels snapped as the priest collided with them. Kazan moved quick, driving a meaty fist into delicate ribs. The bones caved under the force and drew another shriek from Pietro. The Cossack slammed the killer’s face through a window and pushed his throat down on the ragged glass.

“I told you I was more than enough for you, suka.” He shoved Pietro to the side slicing his throat open wide.

The priest staggered to his feet, his throat gaping grotesquely.

And he was smiling.

Kazan didn’t wait to find out why. He rushed forward like a rhinoceros and hit the priest at full speed. They crashed through the flimsy wall of the telegraph booth. They rose to their feet locked in combat. They grabbed for each other and exchanged wild blows. Pietro hooked his thumbs into Kazan’s mouth and stretched his cheeks until they tore. Kazan’s fingers twisted into Pietro’s hair and with a hard jerk, he ripped the priest’s head almost completely off. His body collapsed to the floor, and Kazan stomped on his skull until a glowing eye popped out of it. He rubbed the bleeding tears at the corners of his mouth.

“You eat all those brains and you’re still too stupid to know you should have run from me.” Kazan cocked his head inquisitively and knelt over the priest’s body.

The torso undulated. Kazan pulled a knife from his boot and slammed it through Pietro’s breast bone and into his heart.

“No one beats a Cossack in the winter.”

The thing burst from the abdominal wound. It sprang like a jack-in-the-box from Pietro’s ravaged liver. Kazan’s powerful hands caught it inches from his face. He fell to his back in surprise. The serpentine body lashed in the air overhead and then bound his wrists in a figure-eight, twisting the ridges of its thin body into the muscles and nerves until the Cossack’s grip loosened. He caught it again, but it hovered in front of his eyes. Wormlike tendrils uncoiled from around the creature’s face and worked like fingers, gripping Kazan’s bald scalp.

Its own head was oblong, spear-like, and bony. It inched closer to his face and he pulled it away as hard as he could. The pencil-thin tentacles made it impossible, though. They burrowed under his skin and anchored themselves to the nerves. Kazan screamed through gritted teeth. Then the bony head of the beast started to split, opening into a dozen claws that clamped onto his lips. They sheared the soft flesh and dug into his gums, curling against the bone, and stretching his mouth open wide. The tendrils led the way down his throat and then the wyrm was slithering past his gag reflex. He felt it ripping down his esophagus like broken glass.

Then he simply didn’t exist anymore.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saxton lifted the access panel with a grunt and flipped it out of his way. Immediately beyond the iron plate sat the coupler. Wells laid on the floor of the opposite car, reaching into the gap to disconnect the hydraulics while Saxton worked the pin from the coupler with the fire ax. Wells sat up and whistled sharply.

Mountie Earl Hicks leaned out of the window. The wind battered his face, and ice particles started freezing in his hair instantly. He signaled a volunteer on the roof with the pocket light Saxton had given him. The disgruntled passenger twisted the long pole in its socket to slow the cars manually.

Saxton watched the coupler lazily open. “You would think they would make this much more difficult. Anyone could separate these things.”

“Agreed.” Wells stood up and tried to step across.

But Saxton pushed him back with the ax handle. “Sorry mate, but you’re not coming.”

“To hell with you, Alex.” He charged forward and met the tip of the handle again, this time falling on to his rear.

“Irina needs a real doctor with her. I’ll finish this. That damned thing isn’t leaving this train. You have my word, James.”

The coupler came apart with a sharp clank, and Saxton gave Wells a polite nod as he turned away from his only friend. He could hear the umbilical connector tearing, letting in the screeching winds as the cars grew further apart. There was a monster ahead and it needed killing. The creature had eluded him so far, but now he knew what it was and who it was. It wouldn’t be able to hide from him this time. Maybe it was the Devil or an extraterrestrial horror from some unknown world. It didn’t matter. He would stop it, because he had to. It was up to him and him alone—

The brogues hit the floor behind him and clattered forward. He turned to see James Wells stumbling toward him. He caught his friend by the lapels to keep him from falling. He started to protest, but Wells’ knuckles sank into his solar plexus and he collapsed in a wheezing heap at the doctor’s feet.

“Don’t ever presume to leave me out of a suicide mission ever again, you bell-end.”

Wells walked to the door and signaled Hicks. The Mountie threw the elephant rifle with all his might. It twisted through the moonlight. Wells stretched quickly to catch it. The rifle bounced off his palm and away before his arthritic hand could close around it. He watched in horror as their only weapon struck the ground. Wells saw its stock splinter in the pale light, before it disappeared completely.

“I’m sorry, doctor,” Hicks called out. “I hadn’t thought it would be so heavy.”

Wells ran his fingers through his hair and leaned on the doorjamb. “Damn.”

“That was a cheap shot.” Saxton got up shakily and braced himself on the nearest bench. “Even for you, James.”

“Possibly.” Wells slammed the door shut. “Do you have the pistol I gave you?”

Saxton removed it from his pocket and then Wells removed it from his hand.

“Excellent.”

Saxton looked at the ax and groaned. “I suppose this will have to do.”

“I’m a better shot, besides,” Wells squeezed Saxton’s shoulder, “the strength of the wolf, is the pack.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Saxton gave Wells a reassuring smile. “Let’s go kill this fiend.”

“With the two of us, this should be quite simple really.” Wells proceeded to the door.

Saxton stopped in his tracks. “You just had to say something like that, didn’t you?”

***

The two Mounties trudged through the snow as fast as they could. The train’s lights could be seen coming around the bend, and they had to get to the switch quickly. Andy, the bespectacled one, push himself with everything he had until he reached the shed. Ernst arrived a minute behind him and collapsed against the wooden building. His heaving breath steamed in front of him and fogged Andy’s glasses as he tried to help his comrade up.

“Get the door, quickly,” Andy told him.

Ernst nodded tiredly and pushed the rickety door open. The hinges squealed, and something moved rapidly through the darkness. Something shimmered, and Ernst screamed a breathless screech more akin to a little girl’s than a hardened constable of the Mounted Police. He stumbled backwards and fell into the snow. Andy swung the lantern inside as best he could without putting himself in danger.

“What is it Ernst? What do you see?”

Ernst managed to stand up, but refused to move. Instead he shook his head viciously from side-to-side. “Nuh-uh,” he finally said.

Andy leaned in and gulped in terror. Razor-sharp claws dragged across the frozen dirt floor and saliva shimmered off the teeth. The rasping bark echoing around the dark room. He leaned back out and shook his head along with his partner.

“I think the train is just shit out of luck, Ernst.”

“We have to turn the switch. Those folks are going to die if we don’t, but I mean how?”

“It’s right in front of you, Ernst. Shoot the damn beast and get on with it.”

Ernst started to unsling his rifle and froze. “I think it heard you. It’s staring right at me, Andy.”

“All the more reason to shoot it.”

“What if I miss? They ain’t exactly the friendly sort. Or what if shooting it only makes it angry? I mean, gee-jolly, that’s the biggest darned one I’ve ever seen.”

Andy poked his head around the corner again and the beast snapped its head towards him. “Yessir, it’s a real monster that one. I don’t think it’s going to let us pick it up and take it back to barracks, though. Just aim for the head, like the Captain taught you.”

The creature barked again and Andy felt a warm trickle down his leg.

Ernst eased the rifle into position and took aim. Then the wolverine burst forward, snarling, enraged. It lunged for Ernst’s leg and tore at his calf, driving him into the snow and continuing the mauling.

Andy dipped into the shed and slammed the door to drown out his partner’s screams. He still had a job to do. The switch was frozen solid, just like Johnnie had predicted. Andy worked quickly, pouring oil from his lantern into the control and setting it ablaze with the wick. It burned brilliantly, for a moment, before the melting ice started to extinguish the flames. Andy fueled the dying fire again—he just needed it to melt enough to break it.

Ernst’s screams became more panicked and spurred him to move faster. He grabbed the handle and beat the control until the ice shattered. The rumble of the train drew closer. If he failed to flip the wye-turnout, everyone would die. He jammed the bar into its socket and pulled as hard as it could. It wouldn’t budge. The train’s headlamp flickered through the icy windows and sparkles danced around him as he laid back with all his weight. The train barreled past the shed, and Andy screamed in anger.

He was too late.

The train zoomed through the turnout and continued on its path to certain death. The switch gave out and clanked into position. Andy fell to the floor. He stared at the ceiling, sobbing. Ernst wasn’t screaming anymore. Everyone on the train was going to die. He was a failure and hadn’t done anything but trap himself in a toolshed with a man-killing wolverine outside. Then he heard the rumble of steel wheels grinding on iron rails.

He scrambled to the window but couldn’t see through the ice. He smashed it with his elbow and squinted into the darkness. He screamed with excitement as most of cars hit the turnout and diverted to safety. The engine continued chugging along the main line to certain doom, but at least the passengers were safe.

He took his hat off and pressed it to his chest, taking a moment to mourn poor Johnnie.

Andy turned and slid down the wall with his tears still pouring warmly along his cheeks, but now they were tears of joy. It was sad that Ernst hadn’t made it, but his death had meant something. They saved all those people, and that’s what really mattered. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sighed. Something huffed in the dark corner of the shed. He dabbed the tears from his eyes and saw the twinkle of eye shine. Three kits rushed out of the corner, teeth bared and stomachs growling.

Andy sobbed loudly.

The kits chewed louder.

***

The door swung open and Wells rushed in with the pistol held high. Saxton came in right behind him with the ax cocked over his shoulder. They had moved everyone back to the compartment cars for safety before cutting them loose, leaving only two open sleepers, the lounger, the crew car, and the coal car attached to the engine. With Kazan and his men in the crew car, that gave them plenty of cushion to get the others to safety should the crazy Cossack fail.

They stormed into the lounger and paused immediately. Kazan leaned against the bar on an elbow. He bit the tip off a cigar and spat it to the floor. He popped the cigar between his bleeding lips and gnawed at it thoughtfully. The corners of his mouth were split open, like a permanent smile. Bruises were already darkening on his bald, pale head. His once rosy nose was smashed and contorted. His top hung open, exposing his powerful torso. Even through the thick, coarse hair, more purple-black contusions were visible.

“Gentlemen,” he managed a grin around the stogie, “I’ve been waiting for you.” He let the crimson blouse fall to the floor. “More correctly, we’ve been waiting.”

Marion Petrovski’s foot banged against the floor, drawing the Englishmen’s eyes to his corpse. It twitched again, scuffing its heel against the hardwood. The body sprang up morbidly, spilling pooled blood from the Count’s mouth down the front of his smoking jacket. Wells and Saxton exchanged glances. The door to the crew car swung open and Mounties began to pile in. Each one’s eyes were burned white. Blood dried on their mouths, ears, and noses from where the vile thing had feasted on their memories.

“You were right, gentlemen. I can maintain more than one host. It hadn’t really occurred to me, but you humans are limitless in your imaginations. Soon, there will only be me.” Kazan tilted his head, watching the windows. He applauded slowly. “The train is gaining speed. You’ve disconnected the other cars. How heroic. Gilgamesh and his Enkidu. Lancelot and Arthur.” Kazan pursed his ruined lips. “Or is it Hansel and Gretel?

“Dear Lord, he’s going to talk us to death. James, please shoot him.”

Kazan held up a cautionary finger. “You should have.”

Wells snapped the pistol high and fired, but not before one of the revenants could lunge in front of Kazan. Pieces of skull pelted the Captain’s unblinking face. The bullet, and brains, struck the mirrored wall. Kazan pushed away from the bar as the rest of the reanimated corpses swarmed around Saxton and Wells. He tossed the cigar to the floor, scooped the bearskin coat from a bench and stalked toward the door.

“I do hope you survive, Mr. Saxton. I look forward to wearing your face when I catch up with the sweet Countess. She is quite important in this new endeavor of mine.”

Johnnie Voss’ mammoth frame pushed through the door and Kazan gave him a hard slap on the shoulder.

“By the by, I’ve learned to drive a train. Not that it matters. Our mutual acquaintance here informs me we’ll all be crashing soon. Afterwards, I’ll be presumed dead and long gone by the time the Mounties dig through the rubble. You’re almost out of time, gentlemen.”

The Captain whistled “O Canada” as he shut the door behind him. The latch clicked into place and the revenants shot forward like horses out of the gate. Wells fired into the group, but they didn’t slow as the bullets tore through vital tissue. He pulled the trigger until the hammer clicked repeatedly on the empty chamber. The ghouls formed a circle around them. Wells dropped the empty pistol and put up his fists. Saxton nodded resolutely and wrung the axhandle in his fists.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kazan watched through the small window as the corpses surrounded the Englishmen. They were fingers of a hand. Still, he hadn’t tried to control more than one host since before this world. Hopefully, they would provide enough distraction to finish making preparations. The train crashing was not a part of its plan, but it was an unavoidable reality. According to Johnnie, the tunnel was less than fifteen minutes away. Kazan stormed through the crew car and opened the access panel in the gangway. The British had severed the cars to protect the other passengers from him. It was only logical to do the same.

Kazan knelt and unhooked the hydraulics. His powerful fist gripped the pin and muscles bulged as he worked it loose of the first latch. Then he stopped. If the cars were separated too soon, the British might just jump off and then tell the authorities about him. Kazan’s body had taken a horrible beating, and it stood out plenty to begin with. He growled in frustration and shoved the pin back into place. It was better to kill them face to face.

Or was it.

The animal mind was a simple tool, just a reliquary for experiences. But the human mind was something else. It had feelings. They augmented actual knowledge, even forbade it, for those unquantifiable responses. He hadn’t meant to absorb them, nor could he process them so easily. It was all so muddled—those feelings from the previous hosts, clouded a once clear consciousness. Nothing made sense, except for one thing.

He needed to kill Saxton and Wells with his own hands.

He barreled through the door and pulled the fur coat tight against the frozen wind on the exposed coal car. Millenia in the ice gave one a special kind of hatred for the cold. He would find a place where it never snowed and remake the world in his image. He found the shovel and quickly filled two pails. If this was going to work, the train was going to have to crash a lot sooner.

***

Saxton’s ax split Petrovski’s skull and lodged deep into his chest.

“Well there’s a silver lining, James.” He tugged at the ax but it held firm.

“What’s that?” Wells asked, struggling with the Mountie named Hudson.

“I got to see the Count die twice now.”

“That’s really quite lovely, Alex.” Wells headbutted Hudson. “Can we kill them all and then discuss it?”

Saxton tried dislodging his weapon once more, but the ghouls surrounded him too quickly. He abandoned it, driving one of the Mounties into the bar instead and slugging him across the jaw before kicking his legs from underneath him. He moved quickly, scooping a stool up and using it like a lion tamer to keep the undead at bay.

A cold, powerful hand clutched the back of his neck and another gripped his belt. Before he could react, he and the stool were airborne and crashing into the mirror behind the bar. Liquors and glass shards assaulted him as the bottles toppled around him like hail stones. The alcohol found its way into all his cuts and set his nerves ablaze.

The titanic form of Johnnie the engineer leaned over the bar and snorted at the fallen professor. Mounties came in around the bar from either side. The two crimson-clad zombies grabbed bottles from the remaining shelves and bashed them together—the jagged points glimmered in the yellow lamp light.

Saxton stood up slowly and felt the pinch of muscle tightening around glass. He grimaced as he drew the four-inch sliver out from along his ribs and let it fall to floor. The fumes of cognacs, vodkas, whiskeys, and other assorted liquors swirled around his nose and stung his eyes. He could feel the fluids soaking into his jacket. He looked at each of the walking corpses to either side of him and then back to Johnnie.

“Now’s hardly the time for propriety.” He waved them to attack. “Let’s get it over with.”

One of the ghouls lunged forward, slashing with both broken bottles. Saxton brought his arms up close to his face. The jagged edges were no match for the soaked tweed and slid across them harmlessly. Saxton kicked him away, sending him tumbling over the barstool. The other man thrusted, and Saxton punched the Mountie in the shoulder. The arm separated from the socket with a wet pop. Saxton slammed the man’s face into the edge of the bar. The bones cracked on the first blow and collapsed on the second, leaving a sticky mess on the polished ebony.

Then Johnnie dragged him over the bar by his lapels. Glass shattered and wind howled, causing the behemoth to pause. Even Saxton instinctively looked up at the commotion. Wells fixed his hair and smiled at the remaining two revenants in front of him. Having presumably thrown another from the window. Hudson was on the floor with a brogue-shaped dent in his forehead.

“Quit dawdling, Alex. You can’t expect me to do all the work.” Wells moved like a man in his twenties as he danced around one of the monstrosities, firing off a series of jabs to the face. He shoved the two creatures together in a jumble.

Saxton kicked both of Johnnie’s knees and sent him toppling over. The Mountie he’d left behind scurried over the bar and pounced on him like a rabid monkey. Saxton seized the man’s wrists, keeping both makeshift weapons at bay, just inches from his face. He used his long legs to roll the snarling ghoul over and headbutted him between the eyes. The Mountie stopped resisting, freezing instantly from the blow. Saxton jumped up and backpedaled away.

“James!” he shouted. “Hit them in the head. It seems to break the connection with the parasite.”

“Obviously.” Wells cracked one in the forehead with a chair leg and it froze in place while he maneuvered around it. “What do you think I’ve been doing over here?”

“And you didn’t think to share this information?” Saxton leaped into the air and came down with both heels on the fallen Mountie’s face. Brain matter gushed around the wood heels of his balmorals.

“The one I shot in the head stayed down. I figured that was a fairly substantial clue, Alex.” Wells beat on one of the fiends. Fluids splattered his face and the walls as he clubbed feverishly.

Johnnie rushed in like a bull, goring Saxton with a broad shoulder and lifting him off his feet. The engineman charged onward, slamming Saxton into the panoramic window with a crash. Saxton felt the glass give and then the frozen teeth of the Canadian winds chewing through his wet clothes. Johnnie toppled past him—the steel wheels gliding through his bulk with ease. Then the world went upside down as Professor Saxton fell from the speeding train.

***

Kazan rubbed his temples and leaned on the engineer’s stool with his elbows while he refocused. The connection with his satellite hosts was completely destroyed. Maintaining all of them was an exacting task anyhow. The two Englishmen were far more formidable than they appeared. Especially the doctor. Not that it mattered. Before the engineman had been cut off, and in half, he watched Saxton fall to his doom.

Kazan took his time dressing in the heavy boiler suit. It was a little long in the sleeves, and tight in crotch, but it provided him with an extra layer of warmth. He pulled his heavy coat back on while he double checked the maps. After the train crashed, he’d be able to climb down the trestlework to the river below. The rescue crews would be working on both sides at first light. He checked a pocket watch dangling from a nail over the stove—slightly more than an hour of darkness remained. He would have to swim across and ape up the other side to find a suitable place for an ambush.

The doctor would be coming soon. Kazan removed the pistol from his holster and aimed the weapon at the only door with cold stillness. He waited forty-thousand years to move once, this wouldn’t even be an inconvenience. He whistled “O’ Canada” as best he could manage with his torn lips. He was so close to getting it right, too. The handle began to turn vertically and he cocked the hammer.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Saxton stretched up for the ad hoc rope of curtains Wells had tossed out to him. He missed, causing him to fall slightly. His shoulder bounced off the ground and nearly broke his grip on the axel box that he so desperately clung to. He swung his arm up quickly and switched his hands. He was losing feeling in his appendages, and the frozen winds blurred his vision.

Two feet overhead, salvation flailed about wildly, popping playfully despite Saxton’s failing hold on the cold iron. His shoulder warmed with spreading blood from its meeting with the gravel. Luckily, there was still enough Heroin in his system to block the pain—most of it, anyhow. He braced his right foot against a thin ledge and pressed himself up.

His fingers hooked the fabric and quickly twisted it around his fist. There was no easy path. Saxton pushed away from the axel box, swinging from the fabric like a circus acrobat. His feet skipped across the ground, and a well-polished shoe flew into the darkness as he kicked against the snow and gravel and braced himself for the short climb into the shattered window. He couldn’t hear the branches scratching along the side of the car until they were whipping across his body. One hand came free and he curled his legs up to his chest to keep from being pulled under the wheels. He regained his position quickly… not that it mattered.

The buffeting winds blew him harder, spinning him around on the drapes, like bait on a hook. Certain death streaked by as he fought to get his footing. He stretched for the sill with muscles pulled to their limits. Ragged bits of glass bit into his palm as he steadied himself. He gritted his teeth and threw his arm inside. Something in the distance forced him to pause his ascent.

The mountains loomed over the track. A thin red line of the coming sunrise burned across their peaks. It seemed a lot longer than a day since he’d seen one. He hung there, gazing at the majesty of the scene, wanting to watch it play out.

Yes, there was still a bit more Heroin in him than he would have liked. He shook his head clear and pulled himself through the window, where he toppled across a bench and landed gracelessly in the floor.

A less-than-heroic shriek escaped his lips as he rolled over and came face to face with the ravaged remains of a ghoul. Wells had thoroughly pulped its skull, to the point that it was unidentifiable as a human. Saxton pushed off the floor and walked unevenly for several feet before kicking off his lonely shoe. He leaned on the bar and examined the corpses. The underfunded Mounted Police didn’t carry sidearms. He was unarmed, out one very comfortable pair of shoes, injured, and alone.

“James, you could have at least pulled me up before running away to get yourself killed.” He looked back at the decimated shelves and mirror.

A gin he was unfamiliar with stood next to a bottle of scotch he was too familiar with. On the opposite side was Kazan’s vodka. Aside from them, nothing remained.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He looked at one of the dead-again Mounties. “I’d say we’ve earned ourselves a drink.”

***

The door eased open and Kazan’s finger took up all the slack in the trigger. The heavy door paused halfway through its arc, but no one entered. His breath rolled in a lazy fog as he waited. Still no one came into the engine. He leaned to the left to see through the gap.

Nothing.

The door moved another two inches and stopped. Kazan crept closer to it, careful not to make too much noise and to stay out of the moonlight. He knelt slightly, then pivoted into the opening with his pistol high. Still nothing. He slammed the door open and stepped fully into the night.

Then the shovel met his face, sending him reeling into the engine and onto his back.

Wells dropped down from the roof. He propped the shovel over his shoulder as he entered the car and adjusted his windblown hair.

“I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“You’re too late.” Kazan climbed to his feet. “You can’t beat me, doctor.”

“I might not be able to defeat you, chap.” Wells gripped the coal shovel like a cricket bat and winked. “But I’m most definitely going to beat you.”

Kazan eyed his pistol across the floor. It might as well have been on another continent. He drew his sword. “No reason to keep the beast at bay. Let me show you what the Captain has taught me. On guard.”

The shovel swung viciously and Kazan parried it away, dodging awkwardly in the confines of the train engine. The weapons clashed again—pieces of wood chipped from the shovel handle. Kazan forced Wells into the boiler. His coat smoldered against the searing iron. Wells struggled to create space.

“You’re far mightier than I ever imagined, doctor. It’s a shame I didn’t find you as a younger man, you would have made a great host.”

“I would sooner die.”

“No, you will die sooner.” Kazan moved a hand to the spine of the sword and pushed hard.

Wells groaned as the edge pressed down, parting the flesh and grating against the bone. He stomped Kazan’s foot and then brought his knee back up hard into the Cossack’s groin. Kazan twisted away, partially fileting Wells’ forehead. The doctor kicked him away and swung the shovel. It clanged off Kazan’s bald head and again across a knee cap, followed by the other, until he was on the floor. He lashed out with the sword, but Wells batted it from his hand and drove the shovelhead down on his wrist. The metal struck the floor with a crunch, Kazan rolled away howling in pain and propped against the wall.

“Oh dear, not again.” Wells scooped the severed hand up in the shovel. “You’re not a very handy fellow, are you?”

“You laugh now.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. He squeezed the stump hard to allay the bleeding. “Pain is an unfortunate consequence of wearing flesh. In my home I never needed it. We are pure there. What your friend Tremblay called atomic power, we call our natural state. We aren’t just powerful. We are power itself! The personification of force. Pietro thought of me as a divine being, and he was right. What else could I be that controls you like puppets?”

“There are plenty of parasites that do just that. You’re a roundworm that talks. And too much, quite frankly.” Wells raised the shovel and lined it up for a kill shot.

The doctor lunged forward and Kazan removed his grip on his own wrist. The arteries spurted across Wells’ face, blinding him while Kazan dodged the blow. The shovel sparked against the metal wall. Kazan slammed Wells’ face into the doorjamb and then threw him against the stove. He calmly picked up the shovel and swatted the doctor across the cheek with it. He pressed the edge down on Wells’ throat and leaned lightly on the handle.

His eyes began to glow. “I guess I’ll be wearing you after all.”

“Or fucking not,” someone said behind him.

Kazan recognized the voice a split second before the Cossack sword burst from his ribcage. He spun, swung the shovel up and knocked Saxton away. The lanky Englishman looked around the room for another weapon, his eyes paused on the pistol and then turned back to Kazan, who smiled brightly—his eyes burning bright red.

“I much prefer you anyway.” Kazan drew the shovel back for a skull-splitting blow but it struck the overhead light instead, shattering the bulbs and casting the car into gloom.

Wells jerked the weapon from his hand, but Kazan responded quickly. He charged into the doctor and wrapped him in a bearhug, driving the sword straight into his chest so that it pinned them together. Kazan lifted him—the creature’s hiss-wheeze laughter filled the engine.

“You can die here, Doctor Wells, but I’ll be taking your mind with me.” The train went black, but his eyes glowed brightly.

***

“No!” Saxton cried out as his only friend was impaled. His eyes flashed to the dropped shovel, a wrench next to the stove, and the pistol under a steam pipe.

Then they reached the tunnel.

He slid across the floor but misjudged his distance in the pitch black. His face pressed against the pipe and he hoped Kazan didn’t hear his cheek sizzling against it. Blood gushed around his teeth as he bit down on his lip to keep from screaming. He found the pistol and rose to a knee, aiming it as best the injuries and painkillers would allow.

“You were right, James. Those eyes do make wonderful targets.” He fired all seven shots at the vermillion orbs. They disappeared in the darkness, and Wells moaned in pain.

When they passed through the other side, pale light returned to the engine, and Saxton could just see the outlines of the bodies. He drew the sword slowly from the two men and rolled Wells over onto his back.

“Are you alright, James?”

Wells gawked up at him. “Are you daft, Alex?”

“Like I thought, just a flesh wound.”

“Quite. Trivial, even,” Wells whispered raggedly.

“Come on, we don’t have time to dawdle.” He hefted Wells from the floor and draped him over his neck.

“Wait, it’s not dead. Not yet.” Wells tried to get his feet under him, stumbling as he was dragged. “Remember Mirov? It’s in the liver, Alex. Not the brain. We have to finish this.”

“We are.” Saxton propped Wells up and then retrieved the scotch bottle from beside the door. “When you want to sterilize something, you use alcohol right?”

He struck his lighter to the piece of cloth shoved in the neck and tossed the bottle next to Kazan’s body. The green Highland Park bottle burst open and splashed across the Cossack just before the fluid ignited. His coat and trousers caught quickly, then the coal-dust saturated boiler suit. His body was a funeral pyre in seconds.

Saxton lifted him up. “See that, old chap. Nothing to worry about.”

Kazan’s corpse sprang up, screeching louder than any train-whistle. Saxton covered his ears against the wailing. The burning body shambled through the darkness. The creature sprang from the blazing corpse and coiled on the floor like a snake, three feet from them. Both men managed a scream before the thing launched itself at them again. Saxton brought his hands up instinctively and it bit into his palm. Tendrils unfurled and ensnared his arm as it surged toward his face and slithered into his mouth.

Wells acted within the limits of his injuries and gave Saxton a hard uppercut to the chin, slamming his teeth together. The body of the vile serpentine thing fell to the floor curling around itself in the knots, writhing as if it didn’t know it was already dead. Saxton doubled over and fell to his knees heaving. The creature’s head bounced across the floor with its tendrils flailing for anything to hold onto. The professor vomited again, wiping an indigo ichor from his lips.

“I think this is our stop, Alex.” Wells helped his friend up and they limped to the edge together.

There was no spectacular jump.

They just stepped off the platform as the train rushed onto the battered bridge—its supports laid in ruins among the roiling waters two hundred feet below. The whole thing collapsed under the weight with a cacophony of snapping timber and rending steel. The train twirled in the air, spiraling like a dart before it hit the rocky river below. The impact and frigid waters worked together, turning the boiler into a bomb. Pieces of it blasted in every direction, falling around them like iron sleet.

Saxton and Wells slid along the snow-covered ground, toppling down an incline. They reached for handholds, for each other, for anything at all, but continued falling. Branches whipped them, rocks bashed against their tumbling bodies. They blasted off the side of the mountain, falling though a frozen sky. Saxton came to a sudden halt, smacking against a stone ledge. He caught Wells’ arm and kept him from falling into the wreckage below.

With a pained groan, he dragged him up to safety. They leaned over the edge and stared at the destruction. Saxton rolled over and stared at the orange-pink sunrise.

“You think it’s dead?” he asked.

“If that didn’t kill it, then I’m all out of ideas.” Wells laid back and sighed, shivering violently. Shrapnel snapped and tinkled softly throughout the woods.

“Hang on, James. I called for help. It won’t be long now. and we’ll be rescued.”

“That’s wonderful, Alex.” Wells nodded slowly. “I think I’ll just have a rest until they get here.”

“Yeah. I’m a bit tired myself.”

He watched his breath steam and dissipate in the early morning air. Ice particles sparkled brightly and danced against the colorful sunrise. He closed his eyes, and the cold didn’t seem to bother him anymore.

“This one was your fault.” Wells coughed hoarsely. “You brought it onboard.”

Saxton groaned and sat up. “You won’t even let me die in peace, will you?”

“Of course not.” Wells managed a weak smile.

Saxton laughed softly and laid back in the snow. “Am I still invited to New Year’s?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It wriggled in the cold air. The skin was ragged, flayed from the blast. The wyrm was almost dead and then it hit the water with a hard slap. It squirmed and twisted what remained of its body. The water was rushing, moving too fast for it to find a host. It bounced off rocks and chunks of ice, fading in and out of consciousness. A blue-black slick followed behind it as the lifeblood oozed from its body. It wondered if it could use the blood as a conduit to infect the microorganisms swimming around it. But it didn’t need to worry, after all. The sturgeon streaked through the water like a ghost and then the wyrm was deep in its belly. There was more than one way to skin a cat, as the humans said.

***

Mountie Earl Hicks watched the bridge collapse through his field glasses. It was the horrible sort of ending she deserved. Though he missed most of the voyage, he had seen more than enough once he boarded the train. Steam and dust rose into the air, and bits of train and ice shimmered in the embryotic rays of the dawn.

The boom of the exploding engine rattled snow from the branches overhead, well after he watched the blast itself. He sucked his teeth as another avalanche blasted down the snow-covered mountaintops and into the river below.

Hicks threw the field glasses as far as he could manage and climbed down from the roof of the compartment car. Dickson, the only other surviving Mountie, tapped his shoulder and offered him a lit cigarette. Hicks accepted and took a thoughtful pull on it, holding the smoke and staring at towering plume of snow and earth rising in the mountains.

“The Countess is awake. She’s asking for that professor fella.” Dickson squinted at the mountains and shook his head. “Do you think they made it?”

Hicks let the smoke roll from his nose. “Doubtful.”

“They’re smart men, those English. Maybe they had a plan.”

“I don’t think that was something either of them did very well.” Hicks took another drag and handed Dickson the cigarette back. “Nothing could have survived that and anything that did, shouldn’t have.”

“Understood.” Dickson nodded at the meandering passengers. “They all seem fine. We did something right in all this. There’s a telegraph in the post. I’ll get word to the next outpost. and then I’ll inform the Countess.”

“No. I’m in charge now. It’s my responsibility.”

Hicks dismissed Dickson with something resembling a salute and wandered to the river, massaging his ears the way his mother would. He plopped down in the snow bank and watched the river run just below his boot heels. Silver flashes of fish scales caught his eye and a squirrelly little laugh escaped him. The action caught him off guard and he looked around to make sure no one heard it. He couldn’t understand how anything lived in such cold.

Hicks threw himself backwards, lying in the snow, thinking about sturgeon, and staring into the pastels of morning. His arms started moving, absentmindedly making angel wings. His thoughts drifting to more pleasant times. He tilted his head back and looked at the train cars. One of the boxcars had lost its door and bodies were strewn about with the luggage.

“Yeppers. Definitely getting all the blame for this one.”

***

Ahanu shook the snow from his black braids and tossed the fish into a basket by the door of his cabin. The traps were mostly empty again. Out of the six crappies, only one was big enough to keep, plus the two sturgeons. It wasn’t a good catch but it was enough. Besides, his wife could make a meal of anything. It was even edible occasionally.

He knocked his boots against the door frame and went inside, where his wife busily worked the mortar and pestle. His seven-year-old son ran in a circle, bare-assed, singing a song he’d made up about a dancing moose. Ahanu kicked the boots off and hung his jacket by the door. He watched his son running a little longer, chuckled at the boy, and then headed to the back room. No one would notice if he took a nap.

He managed to close his eyes before his son leapt onto the bed and grabbed him by the cheeks, pressing their noses together. Ahanu opened his eyes to see his boy’s staring intensely into his.

“I saw a moose, Papa.”

“Did you shoot it?”

The boy leaned back and pursed his lips. “No. Momma wouldn’t let me have the rifle.”

“That’s good. You shouldn’t ever hunt naked.”

The child pondered on that for a moment and then looked down at himself as if it was news. He grinned widely. “I forgot. Momma made akutaq and I didn’t want to mess up my clothes. She said we were going into town tomorrow.”

“Akutaq, huh? Did you save me any?”

He thought about it and then shook his head. “Nope.”

“Nope?” He tickled the boy, who squealed joyously.

His wife leaned on the doorjamb and clapped her hands to get their attention. She smiled brightly at them both and then pointed behind her. “Go get dressed and stop bothering your father. He’s had a busy morning. Bring in the fish and set them in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Momma.” The boy sprang to his feet and ran off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor mid-stride and darting past his mother.

Ahanu patted the bed and waggled his eyebrows at his wife. “Hey, look at this empty space over here. It looks like it’s just the right size for you, Nuttha.”

She giggled softly.

“It was a very busy morning and so cold. I can hardly feel myself.”

“Is that you way of saying I should come feel you?” She sauntered over to the bed and sat on the edge seductively. She placed a hand on his thigh and rubbed her round belly with the other. “Remember what happened last time? You can just wait.”

“It’s two more months,” Ahanu whined and threw his head back into the pillow.

“The mighty bear goes many more than that without sex.”

“I am not a mighty bear. I am a weak man and I need you.” He gave her a pouty face.

She pinched his lips together. “Then I need the laundry washed. It’s much too cold for the baby. Bring in some milk while you’re out there, dear.” She walked out of the room, swaying her hips teasingly. “And make sure you wring them out completely before you bring them in.”

Ahanu huffed and stared at the ceiling. He should have known not to marry an Inuit girl. They were much too stubborn and got pregnant from a stiff breeze. He leaned off the bed to watch her wiggle into the kitchen—there were also good things about Inuit girls. He smiled and slid out of the bed to go do the chores. He walked into the living room and tossed a log onto the fire before going to retrieve his coat and boots.

Nuttha laid one of the sturgeons on the oak cutting board and waved Ahanu over with the knife. He watched as she expertly sliced the scutes off and then the fins. She scraped them into the trash bin with her blade and flipped the fish, repeating the process on the other side before he put his arms around her and rubbed her belly.

“Yes, dear?” He rested his chin on her shoulder as she cut away the back scutes. He watched as she worked the knife around the gill plate.

She pressed her rear against him. “I changed my mind. Hurry up with the chores.”

A smile stretched across his chubby cheeks and he kissed her neck with an exaggerated smack. “Right away, dear.”

The fish twitched and flopped over. They both straightened at stared at it for a moment, but it didn’t move again.

“Muscle spasm,” Ahanu suggested with a shrug.

Nuttha set the sturgeon back up and started her cut on one of the fillets when it twitched again. “Maybe it swallowed something. Another fish that’s still moving.”

Ahanu nodded as he backed away. “Could be. Yes, that’s probably it. I caught another. Let’s just prepare that one instead.”

“You are definitely not a mighty bear, my love.” She blew him a kiss, flipped the fish over and slide her knife calmly along the belly. Nuttha reached in and slid the guts out onto the table.

The stomach twitched and squirmed on its own. The organ tore open and the hideous creature sprang out, lashing at Nuttha with spindly tentacles. Ahanu screamed and stumbled, tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor. The tentacles twisted around his wife’s hand. She stabbed the snake-like monster with her filet blade and pried it away from her arm. It hissed and snapped at her with bizarre fangs. She flung the knife with the thing still impaled on its blade straight into the fireplace.

Nuttha and Ahanu walked across the room tentatively while the thing writhed in the flames and finally withered into a blackening ball. Ahanu gulped hard and looked to his wife with concern, holding her close to him.

“I just remembered.” She sat down on the floor, pulling him down with her. “I don’t really feel like fish after all.”

The End

Bonus Materials

Since getting into writing, I’ve promised myself along the way that I would always put “entertainment first” when writing anything and I hope that I’ve done that throughout the previous 200+ pages of storytelling. I always want to do more as an author, however. It’s a bit of a learning experience, so please bear with me.

I have long been a fan of Charles Band’s Full Moon Features. One of the things that got me hooked on their films as a kid was the Video Zone featurettes at the end of the movies. If you don’t remember these, they were like DVD special features before DVD was even a pipe dream. I’ve wondered for years how I could do something like that for a book. In the next few pages, you’ll find my version of “deleted scenes.” Unfortunately, as a writer, deleting scenes means deleting them for good in most cases.

Overall, I didn’t cut much from the story itself. Chuck’s death was much longer and gorier in the first draft and there’s was some exposition about the relationship between Miss Jones and Wells with some sprinkling of back story. I decided both were too wordy and cut them out. There was also a little bit extra at the end with Mountie Hicks where he finds the iceman’s body and decides to sell it. I had an additional alternate ending that never made it past notes because I felt it demanded a sequel, as well.

In that ending—more of a short epilogue—the wyrm was going to spring from the sturgeon and convert Ahanu’s family. Then we’d have seen Saxton and Irina watching a fire and holding each other, thinking about how far they’d come from that fateful night on the train. Then we’d see the fire was a family being burned by red-eyed people in a ravaged, war-torn London. The mob would spot them and give chase, eventually cornering them in an alley. As the infected aimed their flamethrowers, a group of juvenile delinquents were going to bum rush the killers and hack them to pieces before taking Saxton and Irina back to their hideout. Wells would be waiting for them, looking much the worse-for-wear, and welcome them to the resistance.

That was about it. However, the original trajectory for the book was much different.

There was a wraparound tale about a group of teens going to a secret drive-in to watch the movie and was told in three pieces—the start of the film, the intermission, and the finale. Early readers found it jarring jumping from the different time periods and I ultimately cut those sections. I’ve put them back together here as sort of a bonus short story and, afterwards, you’ll find the alternate ending I did write with a few notes on it.

The Drive-In

Part One

The sun burned away somewhere beyond the peaks of the Ozarks. Little rays of its light slipped between the shedding branches of early fall and glinted off the pickup’s chrome accents as the truck powered around another sharp curve. Deep in the mountain country, buried in a barren holler between the township of Fiddler’s Gap and Lake Pocahontas, was the greatest treasure in the entire state of Arkansas.

Wiley Thomas checked the dashboard clock to make sure he was on schedule. Amber, his girlfriend since fifth grade, slid closer to him and squeezed his knee.

“It’s okay if we’re a few minutes late.”

“Nope.” Wiley shook his head. “Been waiting seven years for this.”

“It’s an old movie anyway. We can probably watch it online.”

“That’s not the point,” Hugh Mandy said from the backseat. He leaned forward and folded his pudgy arms across the gray fabric. “The Deadlight is only open three nights a year. My uncle promised to take us, but he died before he got the chance. No one else knows where it is, at least not if you ask them. They even go so far as to say they’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s impossible, right?” Kara, Amber’s cousin, piped up. She was visiting from Bentonville and got stuck with Hugh as her date for the evening. “There’s no such thing as a secret in a small town.”

“So then, how did you find it tonight?” Amber asked.

A break in the trees allowed one last look at the small town below before they rounded the bend and continued their descent into the valley on the other side of the mountain. Eyes shined in the shadows of the forest as the truck’s lights passed. Nothing jumped out, but Wiley tensed in anticipation of an anxious deer or brave coyote that might dart in front of the steel bumper.

“We got lucky, babe. That whole thing with the alligator in the lake last year really killed the tourism.”

“They ever say how a gator got into a lake way up here?” Hugh scratched at the four curls he called a beard.

“Think it might have been a tornado.”

“Gator-nado.” Hugh nodded sagely. “The most obvious answer is usually the right one.”

Kara sighed and leaned her head against the window. “Can we switch dates?”

“The theater?” Amber reminded them.

“Old Man Garrity and that new deputy were down at the diner the other night and I overheard them talking about drumming up some interest in the Deadlight. Anyway, Old Man Garrity figured since he was a cop he probably needed to know where it was, so he spilled. Warned him about not going up there because of all the horrible things and curses and whatnot.”

“Curses and whatnot?” Kara sat up sharply.

“Yeah, you know like homeless people and the occasional bear.” Hugh made claws with his fingers and snarled. “That kind of whatnot.”

“I was more concerned about the curses.” Kara crossed her arms. “I always get the dumb ones.”

Hugh aimed finger guns at her ironic Nirvana crop top. “Those ain’t exactly brains you got there either, doll face.”

The engine rumbled louder as Wiley eased the accelerator further down. As the needle rose closer to sixty and the throaty V8 echoed through the shadowy forests, he spotted the flickering light ahead. He sped along the road, no longer concerned about the wildlife.

The foxfire was the first marker to the Deadlight.

It didn’t matter how fast he went, though. The light stayed at the same distance and even took a turn or two with him. He tried to convince himself they were reflectors or those little sticky lights they sold at Belcher’s Gas and Grub.

His nerves disagreed with him.

A cold sweat broke out along his spine and he shivered slightly, causing the skin to prickle along his arms. He tapped the brakes, considering calling off the evening plans. He didn’t understand the twisting in his gut but, for whatever reason, he trusted it. The orange-yellow ball blinked in and out of existence just ahead. Wiley watched it for a long moment, taking his foot off the gas and letting the truck coast. He turned the wheel towards the trees and let the headlights shine on the light. It disappeared altogether.

“Shit.” He slowed the truck to a crawl and rolled down Amber’s window to see better. “Babe, grab the spotlight under your seat.”

A favorite Ozark pastime was spotlighting deer before dawn, and before hunting season. The powerful lamp threw a pillar of blazing white along the roadside. Amber pointed excitedly at the hidden road, little more than a wide gap in the trees with beaten down grass.

“There it is, Wiley!”

Wiley hesitated until Hugh punched the back of his shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

“Yeah.” Wiley turned the wheel sharply and gave it some gas. “Hell yeah. Let’s go to the Deadlight Drive-in!” The motor growled as he committed to the turn and rolled onto the beaten path.

The truck rocked lightly as it rolled in and out of the ruts left by cars over the last two days. The Deadlight Drive-in was only open three days a year, near the end of September when the cold started creeping into the darkness and the woods were dense with prey. They’d already missed the first two days. Tonight, was their last chance to go to the drive-in.

That primal shiver hit Wiley again as he watched the forest on either side of the makeshift road. There were no more animals among the trees.

The old mountain folk, the ones that still remembered the traditions of their forefathers knew why the animals had gone—why they never came to this area. They knew it by name. If Wiley and the others had cracked open as many books as beers, then they would know not to go into the holler on Haustblót.

***

The truck puttered up to the temporary gate—a couple of logs with one end of each on a pulley. Two men in hooded, brown robes stood on either side to lift the logs. They awaited their orders, standing perfectly still except for the rise and fall of their shoulders with synchronous, heaving breaths. Another man, robed but not hooded and with a hunched back, practically galloped to the driver’s door. His left eye, seemingly too large for the socket, continued spinning around for a moment until it finally settled on Wiley’s face.

“Welcome, darlings, to the Deadlight Drive-in.”

“Man, you guys really take the theatrics seriously,” Hugh said from the backseat. He leaned out of the window and poked at the hunchback’s right shoulder. “It feels real, Wiley. Give it a poke.”

“No, stop that. Get back in the truck.” Wiley swatted his friend’s hand and chuckled at the man. “I’m sorry, just ignore him. His parents were siblings. Four tickets for tonight’s show.”

“Yes, of course. You’ll pull through the gate and take any of the vacant spots. We are quite busy tonight, given the evening’s importance.” He paused and ran his tongue over his front teeth. “It is our last showing for the year, you know? However, you should find some space towards the rear.”

“Thank you. We’ve never actually been here before.”

“Obviously, my friend.” The hunchback gestured flamboyantly for the two faceless ghouls to raise the logs.

“What’s that mean? Why is it obvious?” Kara asked.

“Who cares?” Hugh reached out to poke the hunchback again, but Kara slapped the back of his head. “Ow! What’s the big deal? They’re just costumes to sell tickets.”

“I don’t think they are.” She squeezed his arm. “Just leave him alone. Please.”

“How much is it, sir?” Wiley asked the hunchback.

“Oh, no worries my friend. The Projectionist prefers to collect personally.”

“Wiley.” Amber tugged the tail of his shirt. “I can see their breath. Look it.” She pointed through the windshield at the gatekeepers.

Walls of fog rolled from under their hoods with each massive, shuddering breath.

“So what, babe?”

“So, it’s sixty-eight degrees. That’s not possible.”

The hunchback eyed her suspiciously and abruptly turned his attention to the backseat, causing his eye to spin wildly again. “Please, enjoy the show and feel free to pile out of the stuffy vehicle. It’s a beautiful night to spend under the stars.”

“Right,” Kara almost whispered it. “Thank you.”

“What is the show anyhow?” Hugh asked.

“Oh, one you’re sure to enjoy. It’s a real masterpiece, my friend. Please, pull through and enjoy. Those logs do get heavy and we wouldn’t want any accidents tonight.”

“Sure thing. Thanks for the help, buddy.” Wiley took his foot off the brake and drove under the logs. “Amber, are you alright?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s weirding me out.”

“God, babe. That’s the point. Like Hugh said, they’re just part of the show. They probably have fog machines in those robes or something. Just relax and have fun.”

Wiley’s motor puttered like a boat as he drove along the back of the theater parking and turned into a wide row. Another dozen vehicles were already parked, including a Dodge conversion van that three young women were dancing on top of. Yellawolf rapped about trailer park life through their blown speakers. The other vehicles were spread out through the lot, pulled up beside the speaker boxes.

“I thought the hunchback said the place was full.”

“I don’t think hunchback is the PC term.” Kara leaned on the seat back.

“You’re right, Kara.” Hugh joined her, leaning his head on her shoulder which she immediately shrugged off. “We should be more considerate. Wiley, the normalcy-challenge man at the gate said they were packed.”

Wiley gave a grunt of agreement and turned the truck around. “I don’t know. It’s not like they advertise, guys. Maybe this is packed for them. If you want, we can go back down to Fiddler’s Gap and steal some beer from my uncle. He’s probably got a case or two and we can use his Netflix.”

“Or we could skip the Netflix and get to the chill,” Hugh said as his hand snaked across the gray upholstery to squeeze Kara’s thigh.

“You need to chill in a cold shower, fuck boy.” Kara grabbed his pinky and folded it back.

Hugh bit his lip and groaned. “Jesus, woman!” He pulled his hand back and rubbed the digit. “You know there’s nicer ways to give me a boner.”

Wiley cast a sideways glance at Amber. He had warned her that Hugh and her cousin weren’t going to hit it off. Hell, except for Wiley, no one liked Hugh. His own mother went so far as to say he was switched in the hospital nursery. Amber sighed softly and laid her head against the cool glass. Wiley slipped the shifter into ‘park’ and turned in his seat.

“Hugh, how about you get the lawn chairs out the back? There’s a cooler too with some pop.”

“Pop?” Hugh’s face stretched in disbelief. “At least one of us thought to bring Rosie along in her fine brown skirt.” With that, he produced the bagged bottle from the inside of his jacket.

Kara snatched it from his hand and slid the bottle out.

“Why am I not surprised?”

She held the bottle up for Wiley and Amber. Wild Irish Rose—the white label.

“Fuck. We’re all going to die.” Wiley opened his door and stepped out.

Kara and Amber piled out of the passenger side, with Kara quick to shut the door in Hugh’s face before passing his bottle to her cousin.

“I should have known better than to come spend a weekend up here.” Kara heaved a lawn chair over the side of the truck bed. “What else could possibly go wrong?”

“Worst case scenario?” Amber unscrewed the bottle cap and took a swig, her face twisting into wretched disgust. “You might actually end up liking him.”

“Aren’t there like mutant hillbillies running around these woods, raping city folk?”

“Yes, but they were all busy tonight, so you have to settle for Hugh.”

“I’ve got a vibrator with more charm.”

“What are you girls talking about?” Wiley asked as he unrolled a blanket in the truck bed.

“Celibacy.” Kara took the wine from Amber and sniffed it with a disappointed sigh.

She tilted the bottle up for a long pull. Hugh opened the other lawn chair with a sharp clack as the metal legs snapped into place. He stared at Kara with his wine and threw his hands up in the air.

“You know what, you guys can keep the booze. I got other party favors.” He took a plastic bag from his pocket and let it unroll to reveal the large marijuana buds inside. “Why hang out with bores when you can party with whores?”

With that, Hugh started skipping merrily across the theater grounds. He broke into a sprint towards the Dodge van and clamored up the ladder to join the women on the roof. No one could hear what he was saying, but a round of cheers when he held up the bag of weed let Wiley and the girls know he wouldn’t be back until intermission. If he came back at all.

Amber climbed into the bed of the truck where Wiley had laid blankets and stacked pillows against the cab. She sat down and crossed her arms across her chest.

“Your friend’s a real piece of shit.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” Wiley snuggled next to her and watched Kara lean on the tailgate. “Hey, why don’t you come up here with us? We got plenty of pillows and it’s probably more comfortable than the chairs.”

“I’m fine here. Thanks though.” Kara took a seat on the gate. “That’s really your best friend, huh? Options that slim up here?”

“He’s got his good qualities.” Wiley made popping sounds with his lips, the way he did when he was nervous. “None of them are coming to mind, though. He’s not always an asshole. His parents are k—”

“What’s that?” Amber pointed at the big screen.

Four floodlights washed the dingy, off-white panels in color. Blue, red, green, and yellow filled the view and then dialed out to circles. Each circle began to dance around the screen, their sizes growing and shrinking as they bounced around randomly and at ever greater speed.

The grand stage, shrouded in a midnight-blue skirt, became hazy with a low fog rising from its planks. The speakers crackled and squealed, shaking off dust.

“Hugh was right about one thing,” Kara said. “They sure take the theatrics seriously.”

The music from the van turned down to a whisper, and one of the girls slammed the driver side door before joining Hugh and her friends to see what was happening. Hugh looked back at Wiley, who just shrugged. People reached out of their cars and pulled the speakers closer, clipping them over their doors. A fanfare purred to life over the antique devices. The notes were strained with age, but soon replaced with a voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, victims of all ages, please give your full attention to the main screen,” the voice said. It sounded suspiciously like the hunchback. “It’s time once again to welcome that dastardly daddy of derangement, that grandiose ghoul of the grandstand. Give a rousing round of applause to your projectionist, Majaris Dantor!”

The fog bank gathered from the edges, coming together, rising into a pillar. It swirled and twisted like a tornado, drawing in the lights, and then exploding outward. In the wake of the fog, a shadowy figure stood centerstage. Lights blazed to life and shined on him.

The brim of a top hat concealed his face and met with the high collar of his riding cape. Gray slacks extended beyond the hem and merged with a fine mist that still hung over the stage. He spread his arms like a cross, revealing the deep red, silk lining of his cape as it floated away from his broad shoulders. A trio of crimson poppies protruded from the dark pocket of his jacket. The double-breasted vest beneath was in the same vermillion as his cape’s interior. He raised his face slowly. A bright ivory smile stretched across his brown face and intersected two vertical scars that occupied the right hemisphere of his face.

“Welcome to the Deadlight Drive-in!”

His voice boomed from somewhere. From everywhere. The speaker boxes were eerily quiet, however. Instead the projectionist’s voice came from the forest, from the shadows. His accent was European, not the usual kind though. He wasn’t British or French or even German. It was something harsher, colder, and more exotic.

Despite that, Majaris spoke English like a native and in a tone that made Amber and Wiley squirm nervously against one another. His voice sounded like fire. Fierce. Passionate. Primordial. He sauntered across the stage and the fog seemed to slither along with him, coiling around his legs like serpents. Kara slid from the tailgate and drifted towards the stage as he spoke.

“Every year we are granted this wondrous opportunity to share with you fortunate souls the joys of fine cinema. This occasion comes for just three nights.” He held up as many fingers theatrically. “This year we have brought out the very best. Opening with the Howard Hawks’ classic, The Thing from Another World. Just last night, we terrified the crowds with Homicidal, from the one and only William Castle. Tonight, shall be no different as we celebrate this final night of the Haustblót.”

“What is that, Wiley?” Amber whispered.

Wiley just shook his head slowly, unsure what to think. The theatrics of the projectionist were amazing, but something about them seemed wrong. Underneath his skin he felt unease turn to dread and rush through his arteries.

Majaris paced the stage, dragging out the suspense. He snapped his fingers flamboyantly, and the projector came to life. It flickered over him and he swept his hands over the crowd.

“Join me as we honor two of the greatest film legends that have ever lived. The incomparable Peter Cushing, together again with the unflappable Christopher Lee. Ladies. Gentlemen. It’s a lovely night… for terror.”

He disappeared.

His personal fogbank swirled in his stead. Majaris Dantor had simply vanished before their very eyes. The stage lighting died and left the screen lit only by the flickering projector. Flocks of night birds exploded into the air as the Projectionist spoke once again.

“All aboard…

A train whistle echoed out of the speakers.

“…the Horror Express.”

Part Two

The screen froze on Inspector Mirov’s dastardly face. The cigarette burn in the corner held its place and then, abruptly as the film’s many murders, the screen went perfectly blank. Amber pressed closer to Wiley, burying herself under his arm, and shivering.

“Geez babe, it’s not even that scary,” Wiley told her as he picked up his soda can. “In fact, it’s kind of cheesy.”

“Yeah,” Kara mumbled. She stood and stretched arching her back as she yawned.

Wiley rose to his feet and helped Amber up. “Let’s go find the porta potties before the next reel starts. The walk will do you some good.”

“Where’s Hugh?” Kara asked. “I didn’t even see that van leave.”

“Me either.” Wiley looked around at the other cars. “I must have been more into the movie than I thought. Maybe they went to get stoned or something.”

“Why bother leaving? Not like the cops could find this place. No one even knows where we are,” Amber reminded him.

“You know,” Kara scrunched her face, “it’s kind of sinister when you say it like that.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Amber took Wiley’s can from him and slugged down the lukewarm Doctor Shasta. “This place is really giving me the heebie jeebies.”

“You sound like my grandmother. Stop being silly, it’s supposed to be a little creepy.” Wiley hopped down from the truck bed and took Amber by the waist, lowering her down beside him. “I’m sure Hugh and those chicks just ran off to smoke a bowl or play spin the bottle. Hell, maybe they decided to go to a party. Who knows with Hugh.”

“I guess that’s true. He is kind of a loser.”

“I just meant he’s not that reliable, but yeah.” He laced his fingers with hers and tugged lightly. “Come on. I need to pee and you need to see that this place is just a typical movie theater.”

The field lit up with flash of lightning. More of it crackled through the low clouds like luminescent spiderwebs. Thunder rolled low and ominous, like the warning of an unseen beast. The other movie goers filed from their vehicles to watch the light show. Some oohed and aahed at the display, others slinked back into safety. A fiery bolt blazed downward, striking the stage before the grand screen. Sparks flew into the air igniting small patches of dried leaves and grass at the base of the structure.

Majaris Dantor stepped, wraithlike, through the smoke. He swung his top hat from his head as he took a bow. Someone whooped and applauded from the hood of a Trans Am.

“Fuckin’ A, you’re killin’ it,” the man shouted. “Greatest show on earth!”

“Thank you, my mulleted friend.” Majaris laughed heartily. “Thank you all for your attention and for the love and appreciation you’ve shown this theater.”

A few more hands clapped in the audience this time—slow, nervous applause made braver by the intrepid cheerleading of Trans Am Man. Wiley raised his hands and moved them to join in, but the moment passed, and he jammed them in his pockets before anyone could notice.

“You’re all much too gracious.” Majaris bowed again. “We have taken great measures to ensure the secrecy of this location for many, many years. In fact, the Deadlight was the first drive-in theater in the Ozarks if you can believe that. That’s right, even older than the one down in Marshall by a full two weeks.”

More applause. Wiley got in on it this time.

“You all worked very hard to be here tonight. You used every resource to find your way to this once in a lifetime event.”

“I thought they came every year?” Kara whispered.

Wiley shrugged. “It’s just part of the show.”

“Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed, my friends.” Majaris raised his hands slowly, and the stray fires before him flared with intensity. The audience ate it up, whooping like they were at a homecoming game. “Yes. We have noticed, and we love you all! Please, enjoy the lovely night laid out before you while I prepare the next reel. Don’t take too long, you’ll not want to miss a single second as the Horror Express picks up speed and careens wildly to its harrowing finale!”

Everyone clapped, even Kara and Amber. Another lightning bolt came crashing down, tearing across the stage like a frenetic dancer. The flash was blinding, leaving everyone blinking the spots away. By the time anyone thought to look up, only a few wisps of smoke still hung over the stage. The hunchback and his hooded servants were pouring bags of sand at the bases of the fires.

“See?” Wiley pointed. “It’s all theatrics, that’s why they were ready to put out the fires.”

“Yeah.” Amber nodded, each bob of her head getting a little more animated. “Yeah, okay. That makes a lot of sense.” She smiled at him and pulled his arm. “I was being silly, I guess.”

“It’s fine, babe. Let’s go hit the head though before the movie starts. Showmanship or not, the Projectionist is right about this being a rare opportunity. I don’t want to miss it.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, I could use a break too.” Kara looked at the row of faded, still-kind-of-blue, porta potties. “Eww, those things are so gross.”

“Probably not much worse than the ones in a regular movie theater,” Wiley said.

“I’m sorry, Wiley. You might be used to outhouses up here in the sticks, but where I’m from we keep toilets indoors.”

“It has doors.”

“Can’t be that bad.” Amber shrugged. “Just hover.”

Amber and Wiley walked off to the toilets with Kara scuffing her feet behind them. Wiley tried a handle, found it locked and moved to the next one. He went in without any hesitation. Kara opened the door to hers and shut it again.

“I swear, if this is gross, I’m never forgiving you, Amber.”

“It won’t be that bad, I’m sure.” She gestured for Kara to open the door again and peeked inside. “Oh my god, is that Fabuloso? I love that smell.”

“Seriously?” Kara leaned in. “Damn. That does smell like Fabuloso. I didn’t think they’d actually clean these things.”

“Why, of course we do,” the hunchback said.

Both girls screamed.

“So sorry, my lovelies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His eyes fought to straighten out and focus on one of them at a time. “I was actually coming to inspect the facilities and make sure they were up to our standards and exceeding your own.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Kara nodded and pointed at the toilet. “I’m going to try them out now. So, you can go inspect elsewhere.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be moving along. Please enjoy the rest of the film.”

The hunchback ambled away, waving at the other guests. His two towering helpers moved between the cars, heads turned down and steam rising from their hoods with every breath. Amber shuddered.

“I really don’t like those guys,” she said.

“Holy shit, they even put those little touch lights from the infomercials in there, so you can see. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.” Kara held the door open. “You know what they called these back in Saxton and Wells’ day right?”

“No. What?”

“Thunder boxes.”

Amber snickered.

“Truth. I saw it on the History Channel.” She gestured for Amber to enter. “Enjoy. I’ll stand guard from those creeps in the robes.”

“Thanks.” Amber slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind her. The lock clanked into place and the green “vacant” tab rotated to a red “occupied” one.

Kara leaned on the door whistling the tune she’d heard in the movie and took in the scene around her.

“You know that whistling isn’t very relaxing,” Amber called out from inside the porta potty.

Kara smiled and started to say something, but when she something caught her eye. She looked back at the cars once more, counting them this time. There were only eight left, including Wiley’s truck. The movie was good, but not good enough that she should have missed that many vehicles leaving. She turned her attention back to the screen.

Or rather behind it.

She took a few steps away from the toilets and squinted in the darkness. Something silver glinted just behind the stage. She jumped as Wiley grabbed her shoulder. She spun and smacked his chest with an open palm.

“If people don’t stop sneaking up on me!”

“Sorry.” Wiley held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The lock snapped back and the door pushed open gently as Amber stepped out. “You need to go, cuz?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, looked back at the screen, then back to them. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, go. Hurry up and we’ll meet you back at the truck.”

Kara stepped into the plastic outhouse as her cousin and Wiley abandoned her to the rusted passion pit that was his truck bed. She wiggled her skirt up and inched her panties down, hovering over the contoured seat, then realized Amber’s ass would have absorbed any horrible bacteria already. She eased herself down. Between the movie and the theater staff, her bladder was stressed to its upper limits and she let it go with an enthusiastic sigh.

“Take the blessings you get,” she told herself.

She found herself whistling the killer’s theme song again. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it seemed way too jovial for a murderous parasite from another world. Someone bumped against the door.

“Occupied.”

Bump.

“And I’m still in here.”

Bump. Bang.

“Read the red sign. Ocupado, fucktard-o. Jesus.”

The next bump shook the entire porta potty. More frantic blows landed against the back of the plastic shell. Kara screamed. Then she heard another sound over the battering at the door. Some jackass turned his music up to eleven. She screamed louder but knew Kid Rock was drowning her out. It had to be Trans Am Man.

She fixed her clothes as another series of hammerlike blows struck the door. Each one hit hard enough to flex the frame and let a bit of light shine through. The plastic lights fell from their double-sided tape and struck the floor in staccato cracks that left Kara shrieking in the dark. She heard the batteries rolling across the black floor, knocking against the collection tank and walls. Kara kicked the door and shouted at whoever was outside to leave her alone.

And it worked.

The assault stopped as quickly as it began. She shakily reached for the lock. Lightning surged overhead, letting a bit of its illumination in through the foggy, distorted plastic skylight. It glimmered on the metal hasp, just like the glimmer she’d seen behind the screen. It didn’t register at the moment, but she understood. She saw the outline in the lightning, that’s what got her attention, and then she saw the shimmer of the chrome—the highly polished bumper of the Dodge conversion van, tucked away where no one could see it.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“That sonofabitch. I know it’s you out there, Hugh.”

She turned the lock and threw the door open. Everyone was back at their vehicles, awaiting the final bit of the film. No one was outside the toilet waiting for her. Not Hugh or anyone else. She looked behind the screen and saw the nose of the van still there. Hugh wasn’t really the athletic type and she didn’t figure he could make it that far, that fast. She steeled herself to tell him off and jogged across the field to the van.

To her surprise there was more than just one vehicle. Three other cars and one small pickup were parked around it. Kara squinted through the windshield of a Bonneville, but didn’t see anyone inside. She turned her attention back to the van. Its horrid music was silent and no other noise came from inside. The metal was cold against her ear as she strained to listen for Hugh and the three girls.

Nothing.

Then something moved across her sandaled toes. She looked down in the darkness but couldn’t make out the offender. She tried to convince herself it was a cricket or some other harmless thing. The van’s door slid open suddenly—her scream froze in her throat as the cab light revealed a lone occupant. Her hands fluttered, and she clutched her chest, breathing deeply to calm down. Sitting in one of the plush, burgundy seats was her date, Hugh Mandy, with a bong clutched between his knees.

“Goddamn you! You nearly gave me a heart attack with that crap at the bathroom and now you pull this?” The van rocked as she climbed in.

Hugh moved slightly with the disturbance. The bong tipped, spilling its water on the upholstery. Hugh nodded along stupidly but didn’t try to correct the problem. Couldn’t, as Kara soon realized. His skin was pale blue, a yellow-brown bruise encircled a ragged hole in the side of his neck. Kara looked around the van and noticed the crème-colored seats. She looked back at Hugh’s and poked its cushion with a shaky finger. The blood squished from the fabric, oozing around her finger.

Wide-eyed, she fell backwards and crawled on her haunches to the sliding door. Fingers curled in her hair and then she was outside, on a bed of leaves that crunched under her thrashing. Razors found her throat. Her body convulsed with pain and then she lay still. Tranquility swept in like a tide and washed the pain away. She didn’t even scream as she was dragged under the van. She just listened to the Projectionist carrying on unseen.

The crowd loved him and the show was starting…

Part Three

The camera pulled away from the terrified couple, holding each other as the alien entity burned to oblivion. It backed out the front door and floated into the air, focusing on their small Canadian home and the snowy tranquility around it. A train whistle blew for one last jump scare. Yellow letters materialized on the screen—Horror Express. The screen faded to black and the garish title scroll began.

“Wow! What a great flick.” Wiley sat up from the pillows clapping. “I didn’t see that one coming. Did you?”

Amber was already leaning forward, hugging her knees as she had through the entire harrowing finale. She pushed her hair back and sighed.

“No, that was crazy. Don’t you think so, Kara?” She looked at the end of the tailgate. The folding chair sat vacant. Amber leapt up in a panic. “Where the hell is Kara?”

“I… I don’t really know. Last time I saw her was at the porta-potties.” Wiley pointed over his shoulder absently. His face contorted with obvious confusion. “She came back right after us. Didn’t she?”

Amber was staring in the direction of the toilets, shaking her head. She turned slowly, scanning the field with her eyes. Only the Trans Am remained. All the other vehicles were gone. She tugged at Wiley’s collar until he stood next to her.

“What’s going on around here, Wiley?”

“I guess everyone left when the train crashed. I mean, maybe they figured it was all over with and just took out early to avoid waiting at the gate.” Wiley rubbed the back of his neck. “I have a really bad feeling about this place.”

“I told you so.” Amber slapped his chest. “Grr! Damn it, Wiley. Where is everyone?”

He hopped over the side of the truck and offered her his hand. “Come on.”

“Come on, where?”

“There’s still one guy here. Maybe he saw who Kara left with.” He threw his hands up. “I don’t know, babe. I mean that’s got to be what happened.”

The film’s score ended a moment before the reel did. The projector’s light flickered over the screen and then shut off. The four colored floodlights came on and began their dance across the screen again. Amber ignored Wiley’s hand and jumped down beside him, heading straight for the Trans Am.

“Let’s get this over with. I want to get the hell out of here.”

Wiley hustled after her.

Trans Am Man’s arm hung out the window with a cigarette still burning between his fingers. The motor wasn’t running and the man appeared in no hurry to leave, despite the film being over. A fat raindrop exploded on the back window a half-second before two smaller ones joined it. Amber looked up at the thick clouds. The moon barely managed a glint or glimmer between the rolling waves of darkness.

“Never mind, Wiley. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. Now.”

“I’ve got this. Excuse me, sir.” Wiley approached the driver’s door and called out again without response. “Sir?”

He tapped the man’s elbow and the cigarette fell to the ground. Wiley bent over to look inside. He ran backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling. Amber rushed to his side, kneeling to check on him gave her a view inside the car as well. Acidic fumes crawled along her taste buds as she fought back the urge to vomit.

The man’s head hung forward, almost completely removed from the rest of his body. Blood ran down the windshield like a macabre waterfall. Trans Am Man’s neck was a ruined stump, with bits of flesh clinging to his exposed spine. His arm jerked back inside the car as his body was snatched away by something in the backseat.

“We need to be running.” Amber clutched desperately onto Wiley’s t-shirt and heaved.

He slipped from her grasp and she stumbled but caught herself and turned the momentum into a dead sprint. She heard him calling for her to wait, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Wiley was supposed to save her. That’s how that worked. She threw the passenger side door open and clamored in, slamming and locking it behind her.

Wiley ran across the field when he stopped suddenly, wide-eyed and stark white. The four dancing lights turned from the screen and shined their colors on him. Even from twenty feet away, she could see he was shaking. She looked in the side mirror and saw nothing. She adjusted the rearview next and still couldn’t see what was terrifying him. The truck rocked lightly, like someone getting out.

Or off, Amber realized too late.

The face burst through the window in a spray of glass. It spread its mouth wide and gnashed the air with mangled fangs. Amber scooted across the bench, kicking at it. Her boot heel smashed against the thing’s nose-less face. Empty eye sockets stared through her as it wrestled the door open and tore it from the hinges. She fumbled for the door handle and toppled out of the truck as the beast worked its way inside.

She jumped up in time to see the other hulking, robed man dragging Wiley away by his hair. The man’s hood was flipped back, revealing the same unholy face as the thing coming after her. She slammed the driver’s door on its outstretched hand and ran for the projection booth.

The two-story building was little more than a cinderblock square. A single, blue door sat in the front between two windows—one completely opaque with dust and the other missing entirely. Amber focused on the beating of her boots as she ran, on her heaving breaths, and pounding heart as Wiley screamed somewhere behind her. She didn’t want to slow down until she had no choice and met the door with a little more speed than she meant. Her hand slipped form the knob as she bounced against the peeling portal.

The rain started in the woods and rushed toward the theater in an animalistic roar. A wall of water moved across the field, completely obscuring the jumbo screen they were just watching. Thunder boomed overhead and she threw herself inside, chancing one last look out at the Deadlight. She could barely hear her boyfriend’s cries over the deluge and couldn’t see him at all. She slammed the door and felt along the ancient paint for a lock. No one bothered locking their doors in the Ozarks, and the theater apparently felt the same way.

Amber leaned on the door and checked her pockets for her phone before remembering she left it in the glovebox. Wiley’s stupid rule about no phones on dates was going to get them both killed. She banged her fists on the door and sniffled. Little squeaking noises made it past her attempts to hold back the crying she so desperately wanted to do. Through tear-filled eyes, she noticed the dim light tracing the outline of a staircase.

She clasped her hands over her mouth so no one would hear her. But there were monsters outside. Whatever was up the stairs couldn’t be as bad as that. A long, roiling fog oozed through the broken window. Amber held her breath. Long, clawed fingers curled around the pane from outside and one of the beasts stuck its face in.

Amber could just barely see it. Rows of tiny nubs lined its molted olive skin. The thing was mostly featureless, like a leather-bound skeleton with a mouth full of snake fangs that all pointed and curved in different directions. It hovered in the window for a moment, another steaming breath poured from its disfigured mouth. Then it spun away and disappeared into the storm with a high-pitch call that reminded Amber of whale song.

She counted to ten and when the thing didn’t come back to the window she sprinted to and up the stairs. A flimsy door with a barely lit light over it waited at the top. She paused and stared down at the knob. The brass-toned plastic finish was flaking off the cheap aluminum beneath was showing.

“It’s like pulling off a Band-aid.”

She held her breath, turned the knob, and threw herself inside. She slammed the door and spun to see a projector. The tiny room smelled like dust and cardboard. Towers of boxes were marked with the names of old movies, most of which Amber never heard of, and loose film cans stood in leaning piles. An office chair with its wheels missing sat near the equipment, spinning around lazily.

“It’s an illusion,” someone said, softly.

Amber screamed at the sudden voice beside her. She whirled around and there was Majaris Dantor leaning in the corner.

His cape was hanging from a hook on the wall and his vest hung open. He ran a hand over his short, coarse hair and smiled softly. He pointed to the chair.

“It’s an illusion. The floor is sunken in just a bit. If I give the chair a little spin, gravity keeps it in motion for a few minutes.” Majaris watched her for a reaction and then shrugged. “It amuses me.”

“Where the hell is everyone?”

He pursed his lips, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “How should I put this?”

“You killed them!”

“I assure you I have not.” He gestured to the windows and moved, graceful as an ocean wave to the small opening. “Look out there and you’ll see.”

Amber took a tentative step and stopped. She sighed and stepped forward, looking out into the downpour. The two hulking figures were barely visible. They were tugging at something like dogs with a rope. Majaris waved his hand, and the four lights moved to illuminate the scene.

Amber sobbed as the things tore chunks of meat from Wiley’s body, greedily shoving the bits into their mouths.

“They killed many of tonight’s patrons. Payment for all their hard work around here.” Majaris pointed out to the field. Wiley’s truck roared to life and puttered around the field. “The hunchbacked fellow you met at the gate—Fergus is his name—he oversees the twins.”

“Fergus. Twins,” Amber’s voice broke and sobs escaped. “I don’t want to die.”

“Well, that is unfortunate.” Majaris rubbed the back of her neck. “There is no way around that, I’m afraid. Even I will face that certainty eventually. I am truly sorry about this evening.”

“Sorry?” She spun and slapped his arm away from her, punching her bony fists into his chest over and over again. “You’re sorry? You’re fucking monsters! You killed all those people. Kara and Wiley and now you’re going to kill me! You sonofabitch!”

Majaris seized her wrists and pulled her against his tightly muscled body, embracing her in a tight hug. “I did not kill them. I simply facilitate the deaths. I don’t carry them out.”

Amber wiggled in his arms, kicking his shins to no effect.

“I truly am sorry. We were beyond capacity tonight. The films are meant to hold your attention, captivate your mind so that you’re completely unaware when your time comes.” Majaris sighed, sadly. “We overreached this year, I’m afraid. I usually run a much tighter ship than this. I must be getting old.”

Amber’s kicks became less forceful and she buried her face into Majaris’ silk shirt, crying uncontrollably. The projectionist stroked her hair and made shushing sounds.

“There, there child. You don’t need to worry. The twins and Fergus have had more than their fill, and the Haustblót is over. The storm is thanks from those we aim to appease with this sacrifice. You will not die this night,” Majaris reassured her.

“You…” Amber tried to control her breathing enough to speak. “You’re letting me go?”

“Well, of course, my dear.” Majaris framed her ivory face between his powerful hands, clearing away tears with his thumbs. “I wouldn’t harm you. You’re much too precious for that.”

Amber’s mascara formed midnight-blue lightning bolts down her flushed cheeks. She tried to smile, to speak, but she couldn’t manage any response. She didn’t understand, so she just cried harder.

“There, there. You’re going to live tonight, my dear.” Majaris kissed her forehead and guided her to the door. He placed a hand on the small of her back. His face stretched into a brilliant smile.

“After all, someone has to bring in next year’s viewers.”

***

So, it was a pretty cool piece of fiction I think, but I have to agree with my beta readers—it was way too different in setting and tone to work with the book as a whole and I’m ultimately glad that I decided to cut it out. I am even happier that I managed to not delete it, however because I do really like the story and some of the images in it and will hopefully do something with it in the years to come. If you’ve read Babysitter Massacre: Daddy’s Little Killer, you’ll catch a reference to several real films, but also a few fictional ones that play a role in other stories I’ve done. Maybe The Deadlight will show one in the future.

Now for that alternate ending. I wrote this because I was afraid people wouldn’t get the irony of ending I did use. I loved the idea that everyone in the story wanted to be a hero and, after all the death and sacrifice, the wyrm survived and escaped them… only to be killed by a pregnant housewife just trying to cook dinner. It took all these men, most of them with combat experience, and their combined machismo to almost accomplish what a mom did as part of her routine day. I wrote this alternative ending where Hicks watches the sturgeon swim past and we see Ahanu pulling one out of the water and heading home before this final chapter…

Alternate Ending

Alexander Saxton sat in his university office and folded the newspaper delicately, taking great care not to crease the photo buried on the bottom corner of page fourteen. It was understandable that the rising tensions in Europe made the front page. Some even predicted that the England would be entering the conflict if something wasn’t done to quell the violence. Germany’s chest pounding filled the next three pages of the paper and a couple more focused on the Russian mobilization. Adventure no longer interested him, however. He’d had enough of that on that dreadful train some seven months prior.

It was that picture and the accompanying article that consisted of no more than four paragraphs—neatly aligned with the manure ad adjacent—that delighted him. There, surrounded by the president and fellows of the Royal Society, was James Wells receiving the Copley Medal for his studies on the pathology of early man. Even splayed out on an operating table, the man still had the wherewithal to pay an orderly to go get the Neanderthal specimen from the train. Saxton didn’t blame him for stealing his find. He took his own trophy from the train, after all.

He laid the newspaper beside the pewter framed photograph of Irina in her wedding gown. Saxton may not have been a count, but the wife of a Harvard professor had its perks as well. He stroked the glass over her face with his thumb and sat back, propping his foot on the desk—his other having been amputated for frostbite. He didn’t mind so much since it was the one James shot a hole in anyhow. He closed his eyes and smiled at nothing in particular until someone decided to knock on his door.

“I’m not here.” He sighed and waited for the person on the other side to realize that he was, in fact, there.

“Are you sure?” they asked.

There it was. He put his leg down and straightened his jacket. Academia was full of few certainties, but there were two he could count on. The first being that for every bright shining mind in the university there were three dim bulbs. The second was that all three would be assigned to him. He called for the student to enter, but he couldn’t identify the particular gentleman standing in front of him.

“What can I help you with?” he asked as tried to place the young man. His beard and mustache were scraggly, new growth, and in poor taste for a Massachusetts youth. Likewise, his hair was too long to belong to any of the usual campus crowds. He was also a bit darker than the average student—a plains Indian Saxton guessed, based off his facial features.

“Well, Professor Saxton, I’ve come a really long way to see you. It’s been quite the endeavor, in fact.” The kid pulled out the chair opposite the Professor and then paused as if he realized the faux pas.

Saxton waved for him to sit anyhow. “You’re not an early enrollment then?”

The boy nodded and took a seat. “Oh no. Though I am eager to learn as much as I can, however. Especially from you. I hear that this institution and the technical school are both full of wonderful minds. I look forward to spending much time in both places, learning all that I can.” He scratched at his upper lip and slouched comfortably, like an old acquaintance.

Saxton noticed the pale vertical lines, scars barely hidden by the rough mustache. He glanced at the photo of Irina and then at the newspaper and smiled softly. He rolled his drawer open while he talked.

“Honestly, there’s a number of great institutes in and around Bean Town. None with a professor quite as talented as myself, if I do say so.” He laughed at his own joke and twisted an end of his mustache.

Saxton started to whistle a tune. The kid smiled back and whistled along with him. They both continued their duet of “O’ Canada” as Saxton’s hand wrapped around the revolver handle. He laughed as the youth’s eyes began to glow.

***

I felt that version was much more classical and I loved it. I think it had a very Hammer Horror sort of vibe to it and left the reader with questions. The more I slept on it, the more I felt it left too many questions and that it would eventually lead me to doing another story. At the time that I wrote this, I wanted it to be a one-off. The longer I sit with it and the more times I read it trying to get it all lined out, the more I want to spend time with Wells and Saxton again. So, who knows? Maybe there will be a sequel to the Horror Express someday.

That’s all I’ve got this time. On the next few pages you’ll find a sample from Babysitter Massacre: Daddy’s Little Killer to whet your appetite for more terror. The slasher series created by filmmaker Henrique Couto and written by myself, is available now on Amazon.

I hope you’ll all join me for the next nightmare!

David O’Hanlon

A Taste of Babysitter Massacre: Daddy’s Little Killer

“You snore like a fucking motorboat so I know you’re not asleep.” She climbed onto the bed, prowling across it to him. “Is this some sick kink? Being a naughty boy for the hot babysitter?”

Her hand squished on the bedspread and she sat up on her knees. “What the hell did you get on my bed, asshole?” She rubbed her fingers and squinted in the darkness at the warm, black goo oozing across them. The bitter aroma of pennies challenged her stomach’s hold on her dinner.

The figure rose from the other side of the bed and Piper fell backwards, knocking her head against the floor. She rolled and scurried away as the killer slashed at her legs, scoring the carpet behind her. Piper got her feet under her and shot forward like a sprinter straight into the living room. She unlocked the deadbolt and threw the door open.

The chain-lock caught and the knob slipped out of her hand. She pulled again to the same result. She screamed in frustrated panic. The knife swiped at her again. Her back burned as the skin parted from shoulder to shoulder. Piper turned and begged feebly before the emotionless, plastic mask. The curved blade of the butcher’s knife clanked against the metal door as the fiend lowered the length of the weapon like a paper cutter toward her throat.

Bio

David O’Hanlon lives in Arkansas with his two children. His fiction has been printed in numerous anthologies and magazines, both print and digital. He dabbles in multiple genres, but David is best known for his horror stories. Often featuring morally-challenge protagonists and tongue-in-cheek violence, David’s writing style is based on his belief that horror should be entertaining first and give readers a place to hide from the monsters that haunt them in their real lives.

He can be found on social media at:

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