The Black Train Read online

  The figures still weren’t adding up. He’d built railroads all over the country, and he knew full well what a certain number of men could lay in a certain period of time. He knew that the marker for the beginning of the week must be coming up soon…

  The horse shimmied; Poltrock looked up at the sudden tremble. A distant, rising roar; then the tracks began to vibrate, and at last, the sound of a steam whistle.

  Poltrock knew a train was coming. He guided his horse off the track bed, then steadied it at the tree line. “Easy, easy now.” He tried to calm the animal, all the while thinking, The pallet train’s still at the end of the line. What’s THIS train coming?

  The ground shook; it was all Poltrock could do to keep his horse from bucking. In moments, a very fast train tore by. It was back-riding; in other words, the engine was pushing the cars rather than pulling them. Poltrock had only a few seconds to count one coal hopper, five passenger cars, and a guide car up front. It was gone moments later in a great wake of dust and concussion, and in another minute he could hear its whistle blowing again as it slowed to stop at the work site.

  What the hell’s goin’ on? He couldn’t imagine why Gast would bring up another train when their own supply haul was still parked at the site.

  He supposed he’d find out in due time. He let his horse calm down a few minutes more, then continued to count the last rails of their week of work.

  The sun had just sunk behind the mountain when Poltrock got to the red-flagged stake he’d sunk exactly one week ago. He had to focus on his figures now, so he dismounted and tied his horse off. He lit an oil lantern he’d brought along, then sat down on the very first piece of rail that had been spiked last Friday.

  Jesus Lord, he thought, staring at his notebook.

  It was just simple math, and by now he’d gone over the week’s numbers at least five times. Every single piece of rail was exactly twenty-two feet and six inches long. There could be no irregularities.

  He was never aware of the figure looming over him.

  “Working by lamplight,” the voice intoned. “A sign of diligence, I must say.”

  Poltrock’s heart jolted. He looked up in shock.

  It was Mr. Gast looking down at him from his great white steed.

  “The rest of the men are preparing for revel, but you, Mr. Poltrock, are here working the numbers past dusk. I do not forget the men who give me their very best work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gast,” Poltrock uttered.

  “I feel great things, wonderful things tonight.” The low moon was rising just behind Gast’s head, cutting his features in blade-sharp blackness. The steed stood still as a statue. “Do you have the week’s account for me yet, or have I interrupted you?”

  Poltrock stood up and dusted himself off. “No, sir, in fact you’ve arrived at the perfect time. I have indeed finished my account of this week’s work, and…”

  “And?”

  Poltrock sighed. “I don’t know how to say this, Mr. Gast, but unless the rail you’re buyin’ is shorter than it’s supposed to be, we done laid 3.1 miles of track this week.”

  A pause. Gast’s high silhouette didn’t move. “That’s outstanding.”

  It’s either outstanding or just plain impossible, Poltrock thought to himself. “For the past two years, in fact, the crew’s been layin’ a minimum of a quarter mile extra per week, and some weeks more, like a half mile or sixtenths. Last week we laid a full mile more than quota, and now this week…” Poltrock stared at the numbers in his book. “An extra 1.2 miles. Just in one week.”

  Gast’s voice was like a low throb. “What does this mean, Mr. Poltrock?”

  “It means several things, sir. For one, it means that each man workin’ for you is doin’ the job of two. And when you add it all up, since we started, we’re fifty or sixty miles ahead of schedule.”

  More silence. Silence was how Harwood Gast showed his jubilation. All he said was: “Thank you, sir.”

  Poltrock stowed his book back in the saddlebag. “Mr. Gast, what was that train I just saw flyin’ by here a little while ago? We ain’t scheduled for no deliveries anytime soon, and, besides, it looked like a passenger train.”

  “It is. I just bought it from the yards in Pittsburgh. It’ll move thirty miles an hour, they say.”

  “I believe it, sir. So you’ll be going back home tonight for a visit?”

  “Yes, and so will we all. I’ve decided to give the men another respite. The men deserve it…as you’ve just verified with your spectacular account of their progress.”

  Well…Poltrock could use some rest. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Gast. We was all wonderin’ why the usual Friday night cookout’n all was canceled.”

  “The train boards in a hour, Mr. Poltrock, and it will be takin’ us all back to Gast for a week of relaxation. Why, I haven’t even seen my own wife and children in several months. And as fast as that new steam car goes? We’ll be back home before noon tomorrow.”

  “That’s great news, Mr. Gast. The men will be beside themselves.”

  “So you best get back to the site soon, Mr. Poltrock. Oh, and here…A token of my appreciation for your work thus far.”

  Poltrock took a small leather case from him. “Why, uh, thank you, sir.”

  Gast looked to the stars. “Good things will continue to befall us, Mr. Poltrock. I can feel it down to the roots of my very soul. I can see it in the stars…”

  Maybe he’s been drinkin’, Poltrock mused. The man sounded wild, loony even. But now that he thought of it, Poltrock had never once seen Mr. Gast take a drink.

  “It’s the night for it, I can tell,” Gast went on with his obtuse talk. He looked once more down at Poltrock. “Yes!” he whispered. “Tonight!”

  Gast turned his horse and trotted off.

  Poltrock shook his head after the man. Well ain’t that the damnedest…He hefted the leather case.

  When he looked inside, he couldn’t even speak.

  The case contained five stout cigars, an ink pen studded with diamonds, and $500 in cash.

  My God…

  It was a fortune, added to the lofty salary he was already being paid. When this is over, I’m going to be a very rich man, and I owe it all to…Mr. Gast.

  He climbed back on his horse and headed back to the site.

  It’s the night for it, I can tell, Gast’s words came back to him.

  A mile or so down, the horse stopped for no reason. “What’s the matter? Come on, I got a train to catch.” he said. But then he realized exactly where he was.

  He was looking to the left, into a little clearing in the side brush.

  That’s where Morris took the Injun girl…

  Something compelled him to dismount, and he never even considered what it might be. Next, he was walking into the clearing, his oil lamp raised.

  Morris must have already left; Poltrock could hear nothing within. When he entered farther, he stopped and stared.

  He wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first. It was the girl, he could tell, but…

  Something didn’t seem right.

  The girl lay naked. He could see the backs of her legs, the bottoms of her bare feet, as well as her buttocks, which Morris had fussed about so.

  But…Poltrock could also see her breasts…

  He stepped closer. His cognizant mind shut off when he leaned over to see what had been done. Indeed, the well-endowed Indian girl lay on her belly. He need only lift her shoulder to realize exactly what Morris had used that fancy bayonet for.

  She’d been skinned from collarbones to pubis, and it was an intricate job. Morris had managed to slough off her breasts and belly skin in one clean sheet, after which he’d flipped her over and laid the sheet across her back.

  So he could sodomize her and look at her bosom at the same time…

  Poltrock stared at the strange corpse for untold minutes, and as he held the lamp higher, he noticed several more dead Indian women deeper in the clearing.

  He co
uldn’t think for the loud drone in his head that suddenly threatened to push his skull apart from the inside out. My God…

  He was staring at the dead girl…

  My God, he thought again. What am I…

  The roar in Poltrock’s head began to abate when he realized he was unfastening his belt and lowering his trousers.

  As Poltrock was stepping onto the train car, he noticed Morris sitting in the very first seat, the long brass-handled knife and scabbard hanging off his belt. “Mr. Poltrock! Now we know why no whiskey was delivered tonight!”

  “Yes…”

  “They say we’ll be back to town by noon tomorrow.” Morris winked as Poltrock passed.

  He mentioned nothing of what he’d found in the clearing, nor what he’d done afterward. He preferred to fantasize that it was all a bad dream—of course it was. Since the moment he’d signed on with Mr. Gast, in fact, his life was a bad dream.

  He followed the aisle down to the last block of seats, which were reserved for Mr. Gast and himself.

  Bones creaked when he sat. Yes, it had been a hard week; moreover, it had been a hard four years. Poltrock suspected that once they got back to Gast, he’d spend most of the respite sleeping, while everyone else made revel. He sighed at the fancily cushioned seat and footrest, let himself sink.

  Bad dream…

  Through the window, he could see strong-armers with lanterns walking along the cars; only a few would stay behind to guard the work site and its heaps of construction materials. The lanterns cast misshaped yellow circles to and fro in the darkness. Poltrock squinted. When one of the strong-armers glanced up at him, his eyes looked a sickly yellow.

  Poltrock pulled down the curtain.

  Next, he looked across the aisle and saw Mr. Gast fast asleep in his seat. Minutes later, the whistle blew, and the train chugged off. Far enough away now, he reopened the curtain and stared into the nightscape sliding by. An oblong moon followed him, tingeing the countryside. When he found himself scrutinizing his reflection in the glass…

  Did his own eyes look yellow?

  The train clattered gently over the newly lain track; Poltrock could feel their speed. He could hear the Negroes singing from the last car, while the white men in the remaining cars sat in edgy silence. Poltrock slept in jags and fits, each time wakened by an impossibly sharp image: his own lips desperately sucking the nipples of a pair of severed breasts. Each time his eyes snapped open, he was terrified to look to his side, expecting to find the skinned Indian sitting next to him, holding his hand like a lover.

  Later, he dreamed inexplicably of a great blast furnace…

  The train chugged on, deep into the night. Many behind him were asleep now, too. Maybe I’m the only one awake, he considered.

  “Yes!”

  Poltrock’s eyes darted right.

  It was Mr. Gast. He’d remained asleep as well, and had sleep-whispered the word.

  “Yes!” Mr. Gast muttered again. “Tonight!”

  When Poltrock got off the train the next day at noon—that’s when they all learned that Fort Sumter had been besieged two days ago by Confederate forces in South Carolina. The fort’s commander had surrendered last night.

  At last, the war had begun.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  Collier had passed out in his bed the minute he’d returned to the inn, and when his alarm went off at six o’clock, his brain felt like a lump of garbage. Shiiiiiiiiit, he thought. Bad judgment was one thing, but now he was truly beginning to suspect he might be a serious alcoholic. I got trashed in a gay bar, he remembered. And I have a date tonight…

  The shower shocked him awake. He was still half drunk and half hungover when he struggled into his clothes. The memories crept back…

  Jiff turning tricks at the bar, and…

  Those two little girls with the dog…

  Mary and Cricket; he remembered their names. As he brushed his teeth and gargled he tried to convince himself it was all a dream he’d had when he’d passed out but he knew he’d only be lying to himself. No doubt they were two sisters from a poor family.

  They had to be.

  Collier spat foam into the toilet; several more gargles couldn’t dispel the hangover taste. Next he stuck his mouth directly under the faucet and filled his belly with water.

  Then he remembered that little dog—the feisty mutt—and what he thought he’d seen it doing as he left…

  Collier shoved it from his head and left his room but before he could take his first step down the hall, he stopped.

  Sniffed the air…

  Is it my imagination, he wondered sourly, or do I smell urine? He frowned and walked away.

  Sluggish steps took him down. No sign of anyone in the lobby, but then he recalled that Jiff and the rest of his family lived in the rear wing.

  Where am I going?

  Two hallways branched off the east side of the lobby but both appeared to be rental rooms. Instead he slipped out an exit door into the backyard. He looked down a line of sliding-glass doors, hoping for a clue. If he saw guests, then he’d know it was the wrong wing. He took an adjacent footpath that allowed him to get a look through each glass door without appearing conspicuous. A large spiny bush sat at the end of the wing, and as he was about to pass it, to the next wing, he heard:

  “Shit! Come on, girl!”

  Jiff’s voice, for sure, but where was it coming from?

  “Hold still, Lottie—Jesus!”

  Collier turned back and noticed the last unit’s door was opened all the way, while the screen door was closed, and a quick glance into the room showed him…

  A face. A big face.

  Collier rubbed his eyes. It looks like…George Clooney. He frowned till his vision sharpened and then realized it was indeed the face of the Hollywood star. A poster, he realized. It was tacked to the wall. Clooney’s big smile and big white teeth shot through the screen door larger than life. What the hell’s a poster of George Clooney doing in there?

  “Tighter…” Jiff’s voice again. It was coming from the room.

  This must be the family’s wing after all. At first he thought that he was likely looking into Lottie’s room, and that she was a Clooney fan but if so, why Jiff’s voice?

  Collier took one step to the side, which increased his vantage point. The shock of what he saw so suddenly almost knocked him into the bush.

  No, no, no, no, no, he thought.

  Lottie had her shorts off, her bare legs spread in a V as she stood bent over at the waist. Was she wearing a man’s shirt? Jiff, also nude from the waist down, stood right behind her, his hands on her hips. His tight, muscled buttocks slowly pumped.

  “Shit, Lottie, you could at least have some hair on your ass—”

  Collier thought he’d seen everything when he’d witnessed one of Jiff’s tricks at the bar. He was wrong.

  “Damn, cain’t you make your butthole tighter?”

  No, no, no, no, no, Collier thought again. More than the jolt of incest was the mere ludicrousness of the scene. Now he understood that it was Jiff’s room, and he’d positioned his sister quite deliberately: so that he could gaze at the Clooney poster while he sodomized her.

  Next, Jiff muttered, “Yeah…”

  Collier’s brain told him to walk quietly away, but how could he? He’d been quite the Peeping Tom of late. He continued to watch, peering just around the bush.

  “Tighter—yeah…”

  Jiff’s stokes slowed, then stopped.

  “Thanks, Lottie. Shit, I needed that. Them johns at the bar got me all gunned up. Turned me three tricks today.”

  The outrageous scene was over quite nonchalantly. I do not believe it, Collier thought. Jiff perfunctorily pulled his pants back on, then got to tying up his bootlaces, while Lottie threw the shirt into a laundry hamper and redonned her shorts. Collier saw now that she wore a tight, nipple-revealing Tennessee Titans T-shirt. She sat down on the bed, brushing her hair back.

  Jiff disappeared for
a few moments, apparently to wash his hands, then strutted back into view. “Aw, dang, that’s right, I forget to tell ya. After I got done doin’ Richard in the lounge, I come out to get myself a beer, and guess who I see sittin’ right up at the bar? Mr. Collier hisself.”

  Lottie’s eyes shot wide, and she mouthed No!

  “Ain’t kiddin’. Like ta shit my pants when I saw that. The Prince’a Beer throwin’ ’em back with Buster, Barry, Donny, and the rest of ’em. I snuck out the back so’s he wouldn’t see. But I never would’a thunk in a coon’s age that he was gay.”

  Lottie burst into a round of silent giggles, all the while shaking her head.

  “What? You sayin’ he ain’t? Then what’s he doin’ drinkin’ at the Spike? He’s gotta be queer.”

  Lottie just kept shaking her head, mouthing No he’s not, no he’s not!

  Jiff gave her a stern look. “Don’t tell me you got it on with him!”

  Lottie kept smiling, then grabbed a piece of candy off Jiff’s dresser and began to unwrap it.

  “Hey! That’s my Chunky!”

  Lottie gave him the finger, then opened her hand.

  “Oh, right. Here.” Jiff gave her a five-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

  Five bucks! Collier outraged. What a rip-off!

  It just kept getting nuttier. This really is a different world. Collier slipped away and went back into the inn. His watch told him he only had fifteen minutes. I can’t ask Jiff to borrow his car when he just got done having anal sex with his SISTER, he lamented. Back in the lobby, Mrs. Butler’s old face beamed up.

  “Got’cher self a hot date, huh, Mr. Collier?”

  Unbelievable. “Actually, yes.”

  “Well I hope ya have a wonderful time.” Mrs. Butler was clearly braless again, this time beneath a sleeveless snap-front blouse that shined iridescent pink.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Butler.”

  Her pose at the desk proffered a wedge of creamy cleavage. Unbidden, Collier’s brain put a younger woman’s head on her shoulders. “Oh, I did want to ask. Are there any other towns nearby?”

  “Oh, sure. Roan’s not ten miles west, and they got some nice restaurants there—”

  “No, I meant—well, are there any poor towns nearby. Run-down, low-income areas? The reason I ask is because when I was coming back earlier, I saw these two young girls in the woods, and they simply struck me as not from around here. Like girls from a ghetto or something.”