Authors: Better Hero Army
Thirty-Seven
Penelope tried to eat when everyone else did
, but her stomach protested. She only managed half of her sandwich before the dizziness that had been with her since her fall from the terminal building began to make her stomach swim as much as her head. Making matters worse, the jerkiness of the train as it dug its way through the snow-covered tracks back toward the EPS gave her a constant sense of tipping, what Tom said was motion sickness.
With everyone working to clear the snow, they
carved out the third track and were underway in only two hours. The Senator even went out to lend a hand for a little while, leaving Penelope alone with O’Farrell.
“I don’t have the answers for you,” O’Farrell had said after bringing up the vaccine study again. “I’m sorry.”
O’Farrell tried to be conciliatory, talking about other possibilities for curing Penelope and some of the things she could do with natural supplements and over the counter medications, but it didn’t matter. All those things only masked who and what she was. They wouldn’t cure her. Not in the long run, and it made her wonder if, without those things, would she become more and more savage, like her half-breed counterparts in Midamerica.
Everyone settled into separate berths with the exception of Jones, who went to the engine to keep watch with Houston.
Even Tom tried to sleep, and Penelope sat again with Larissa instead of him, watching over the girl and doing her best to keep her calm and comfortable so that O’Farrell could get some sleep as well. Penelope used a damp cloth over Larissa’s forehead, cooing and singing as often as she could, staring out the window as the snowscape passed them by.
Maybe that was what triggered her stomach
upset.
She crawled for the door, using it to stand up, then used the wall
outside to prop herself up as she staggered to the fore bathroom. As soon as the door shut behind her, she lifted the seat and purged her belly with several sour convulsions, heaving the acid and bile along with the small undigested clumps of whatever she ate. It made her sicker just looking at it. She flushed, but heaved again, and flushed that away as well. She sat on the toilet seat and rinsed her mouth in the sink, feeling both weaker and stronger at the same time.
She sat with her head on her arms for what felt like minutes, waiting, trying to decide if her sour stomach was done. She heard one of the cabin doors to th
e berths open in the hall outside, and for a moment felt self-conscious about being in the bathroom. Then she thought maybe it was O’Farrell looking in on Larissa again. Penelope stood slowly and let her vision settle. The main coach door just outside the bathroom opened as someone switched cars. She opened the bathroom door and looked out just as the coach door closed behind someone leaving.
She hoped it wasn’t Tom or O’Farrell looking for her. She slid along the wall until she reached the door. Pressing herself against the door’s window,
she was relieved to see it was only Carl. He moved through the front coach toward the engine. She took a deep breath to steady herself for the walk back to Larissa’s berth, but before she moved, Carl stopped at the other door. He drew his pistol, checking it while pulling back the slide, then he pushed the other door open. In a second, he was gone, heading for the engine.
Penelope’s heart raced.
She fell back to the opposite wall of the hallway, putting her hands on it to guide her as she slid the length of berths to her own room. She rattled the door knob until she managed to turn it. She pushed herself inside, flopping forward to the ground beside the bed. Tom lurched up, startled.
“Penny,” he gasped, rolling to the floor next to her.
He helped her to her hands and knees, but she pushed his hands away when he tried to lift her to the bed.
“Go,” she said, waving frantically.
“What? Where?”
Penelope saw Tom’s holster hanging next to the bed and she reached for it, yanking it down.
“Hang on,” he said, trying to stop her from prying the gun free. She ripped the Velcro, turning her shoulder to keep Tom’s hands away. She pulled out the pistol and turned it so the handle faced him. Waving urgently again, she backed toward the door, hoping to draw him out with her.
“What’s going on?” he asked gravely, taking the pistol from her hand.
He crouched down and helped her to her feet. She put an arm around his neck and pointed toward the front of the coach. He took the lead, side-stepping to the first door, pointing the pistol at it.
Penelope groaned, waving his pistol aside, then pointed urgently toward the end of the hall.
Tom obliged, dragging her as he moved quickly to the other end of the coach. He rounded the turn at the bathroom and stared through the coach doors. Penelope pointed again, waving for him to keep going. He pushed through between the coaches, sweeping his pistol through the empty car even as Penelope insisted he keep going forward.
“Go,” she wheezed, pointing again to the next door.
“The engine? What is it?”
“Go,” she said, then held her hand like a gun and pretended to shoot over and over again.
“What’s out there? Zombies?”
Penelope shook her head.
“Go!”
Tom dragged her flimsy legs even as she tried to walk to help him.
He opened the coach door and the cold night air rushed at them. Flurries of snow swept up from the gap between the coach and the engine. Tom handed Penelope the pistol before he reached across to the railing of the engine, then swung them both across the gap.
The engine room door was wide open so Tom brought her in and took the pistol back.
Penelope pointed forward.
“What were you doing up here?” Tom whispered.
He side-stepped, edging them along the warm engine room which hummed and chirped in cadence with the clacking and rattling of the tracks echoing through the compartment. The cockpit was just ahead, the waning light of day making it a dull gray. Penelope gasped and pointed. A leg lay sprawled across the floor inside the compartment.
Tom eased Penelope down and took several steps toward the
open cockpit door, staying low and leading with his gun. Penelope could hardly breathe against her anxiety. She wanted to scream. She wished she had the strength to fight beside him, to protect him from Carl or whatever else was in there.
“No,” she groaned, but Tom couldn’t hear her over the growling engine.
Penelope dragged herself forward.
Tom
leapt into the cockpit and spun in a wide half-circle, leading with his pistol. Nothing happened. Tom relaxed, letting his arms slump. Penelope pulled herself through the door and felt the same, overwhelming shock.
A strange whistling noise filled the
cockpit, caused by the wind pressing against a bullet hole in the windshield. Jones lay on the ground under the passenger chair, his left knee up, propping him half-up against the console. His arms hung loose beside him, his pistol weighing down his right hand. Beside him, laying on his back with his head turned slightly against the base of the driver’s chair, was M.B Houston. His chest rose and fell quickly as he labored to breathe against a bloody stain on his chest. Carl’s body lay slumped over itself, curled up on the ground by the door, his pistol lying beside his empty hand. Part of his nose was caved in. A huge spatter of blood coated the wall and side door where most of his life had been blown out the back of his head through a hole that still trickled blood.
Tom lunged forward and slid to his knees next to Jones.
Penelope recoiled from Carl’s body, afraid of it even in death, backing all the way to the opposite wall where she leaned herself against it firmly, needing its steel for support.
Tom shook the soldier. “Jones!” he shouted, slappi
ng him in the face, then felt his neck for a pulse. “Shit.” He crawled the few feet to Houston’s side and put a hand over the engineer’s chest where a wet, red stain grew on the front of his overalls.
“Hold on,” Tom said
, quickly looking back at Penelope, his disappointment over her condition evident. She knew he wanted to tell her to run back for the others, but she could hardly stand on her own.
“I have to go get the doctor,” Tom said as he put Houston’s own hands over the wound on his chest
. “Keep pressure,” he said and leapt to his feet. “Penny,” he said as he moved past her. “Stay here.”
Penelope didn’t have much choice in the matter. She watched
Houston breathe. He took quick, deep breaths, puffing up his chest as he gasped for air. He stared at her with despair and dread emanating from his overlarge pupils.
“Here,” Houston
rasped. “Come here, honey.” He coughed and blood spurted from his mouth. “I’m dead. Aw, fuck, I’m dead. Tell them. Tell them he shot Jones in the back.”
Penelope’s eyes widened at the revelation.
“Fucker,” he spat. “Come here.” He pointed at Jones. Penelope crawled toward him. “Get the cure. In his jacket. Cure my models. Don’t forget the kids under—”
His back arched and he groaned,
grinding his teeth in agony.
Penelope crawled beside him and put a hand on his chest
the way Tom had, trying to push him back down. His hands covered hers in a fierce grip, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at her. She could feel his heart beating, faltering, then stopping. His body sagged and his grip slackened.
M.B. Houston was dead
, but the train still moved.
Thirty-Eight
Penelope unzipped Jones’ jacket and removed the box containing the bottles of curative. She turned it over in her hands and realized it was too big to hide in her own clothes. She wasn’t even wearing a jacket. She opened the box and took the small vials out of their velvet impressions. She backed away from Jones’ body, dragging herself across the floor to where Carl’s body lay between her and the open window of the side door.
She rose to her knees and flung the box out the window, needles and all, then sank back down onto her empty hand, hovering over Carl’s lifeless form. His face didn’t show any expression of pain or anguish like she expected of someone who had been shot, but his frown and mistrusting eyes remained even in death.
She pushed herself upright on
to her knees again and stuffed one bottle into each of her front pants pockets, and one into each cargo pocket. She didn’t want to put two bottles in the same pocket for fear the glass might break. She sat down and dragged herself backwards, away from Carl’s body, and back to the far wall. Once there, she took several deep breaths to calm her dizziness. She was afraid she would faint so she hastily stuffed the last vial into her sock, right above the tattooed numbers “22.” The vial looked like an enormous notch, so she pushed it until it was behind her heel.
“Oh, dear God!” O’Farrell gasped
as Tom led her into the cockpit. She pushed Tom out of the way and dove onto Jones’ body. “Mason!” she shrieked. She put her ear to his chest, ripping open his jacket to reveal his wet, black shirt tight against his skin. He wasn’t wearing the vest that saved him in Midamerica. Tears dropped from O’Farrell’s eyes onto his face as she pried open his mouth by his cheeks. She pinched his nose and blew air into his mouth. His chest rose and the black shirt bubbled, hissing and sputtering until O’Farrell quit blowing. His chest sank slowly and O’Farrell collapsed over him, crying in sobbing fits.
Tom knelt beside her.
He looked over at Houston and shook his head, knowing the man was dead.
Hank stepped through
the doorway and stopped, surveying everything until his eyes landed on Penelope. He stepped aside and crouched down beside her. Hank’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed at the sight of his dead friend.
The Senator stood at the doorway, leaning his head in, his eyes fixed on Carl’s body.
Penelope saw the remorse and pity struggling to break through his icy continence. His chin quivered a moment and he straightened, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge his emotions.
“Does,” the Senator said, his voice breaking. He coughed into his hand. Hank and Tom turned to regard him, but O’Farrell didn’t move. “Does anyone know how to st
op the train?”
No one answered. Hank and Tom turned their heads away.
“We need to stop—”
“I know, Dad,” Tom shouted, his sudden outburst startling everyone. Tom leapt to his feet, turning to face the Senator. “What the fuck was Carl doing up here, Dad?”
“I don’t like your tone, son,” the Senator replied hotly. “Why don’t you calm down—?”
“Don’t play politics here, Dad. Hank had the next shift. Why did Carl come up here?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know he was gone until you woke us all up.”
“I heard him
—your father,” Hank said begrudgingly. “When you ran through,” Hank said to Tom. “He called out for Carl before following us up here.”
Tom didn’t say anything. He stepped closer to his father, his face flush
ed with anger. He took deep breaths that washed the color away. He shook his head in disgust and pushed past the Senator as he marched into the engine room.
“Where are you going, Tom?”
“To get my phone.”
“I didn’t know—” the Senator began, and hesitated. He looked at O’Farrell, who remained slumped over Jones’ body.
“He’s so cold,” O’Farrell said, holding Jones’ face in her hands. She stared longingly at his closed eyes, turning his limp head to let it rest on its side again.
“He must have—” The Senator sighed rather than finish his thought. “I’m very sorry.”