Authors: Jeff Provine
He stepped forward and gradually pressed his boot onto the pedal to open the gate.
The screams grew louder. Dark yellow flames leaped out, the color of vomit when the only thing left in a sick belly was bile. A wave of hot, stinking air rolled out.
“Whew!” Jones shouted and clamped his glove over his nose and mouth.
Nate ignored the smell. He leaned closer and squinted through the dark glass of his helmet.
It was difficult to see anything in the overwhelming brightness of the firebox, but, in the middle, somehow, there was a shadow. It wafted from one side to the other, speeding up to slam into the iron sides of the box with a bang that sounded over the wailing roar of the flames. It wasn’t a broken piece of the ashpan or anything else. It almost seemed alive.
“What on God’s green earth?” Nate mumbled. He bit his tongue. The Lord’s name didn’t seem right for whatever the thing was.
The shadow turned among the flames again. It stared right at him.
Chapter Two
Even with the gushing hot wind from the furnace, Nate shivered. He lifted his boot from the pedal and let the doors swing shut again.
“Everything all right?” Jones called.
Nate shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not right. There’s something in the fire.”
“Can you dump it with the ashpan?”
Nate kept shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
A jarring bang rang from the firebox doors. Nate jumped back and held up his shovel like a weapon.
The doors rattled again, and then the one on the right shifted open just a crack. A fresh sound of wailing poured into the cab. Something not quite black and not quite gray slithered out like a headless snake.
“What is that?” Jones screamed.
Nate swung at it with the shovel, whacking it with the dull side. A roar like the wind out of a cave came from the firebox.
Jones screamed louder, “What was that?”
The tendril grew longer and pushed back the firebox door. Steadily, fighting the weight of the heavy door, the thing climbed out of the firebox. The tendril was like a tail reaching from a shoulder. Its five other legs were segmented like a spider’s, but its body was fat and grotesque like nothing Nate had ever seen. It had eyes, shining, black eyes that blinked all over its bulbous body.
It cleared the door and fell to the metal plate floor of the cab. Sounds came off it: gurgling, whining, and guttural spitting. Nate stood frozen, watching the horror as it squirmed.
Jones jumped forward and stomped it with his boot.
The thing squealed and wrapped its legs around Jones’s boot, somehow bending them backward by twisting its own knees out of socket. Jones gave a horrified shriek. He stomped again and again, but the thing didn’t seem to get hurt.
Nate shot forward with his shovel. “Hold still!”
Jones froze with his leg in midair. The thing held tight around his boot.
Nate whacked it with his shovel again. It gave another unholy rumbling scream. Several of its legs came loose and wagged in the air.
Nate lifted his shovel and stabbed downward with the blade, running it just underneath Jones’s sole. It caught the thing on its belly or back, Nate didn’t know if he could call it either of those, and the force was enough to shove it off.
The thing fell to the floor again and writhed.
“Throw it back in!” Jones shouted. He had pushed himself against the side of the cab as far as he could.
Nate whacked it again with his shovel and then scooped it up. Its legs wriggled, but they didn’t seem able to grab hold of the blade. He stomped on the pedal to open the firebox.
The heat and wailing of the flames leaped out at him. Nate fought past and shoved the thing back inside. He stomped the release and sealed the doors again with a clang.
The two men stood in the cab panting the hot, acrid air. The only sounds were the chugging of the engine and the gentle breeze.
Glass suddenly shattered around one of the gauges. Jones gave a shout and pulled the lever for the pressure valve. Hot steam sailed out from the overheating boiler.
The roars and bangs from the firebox started up again.
Nate dropped his shovel and pulled on his gloves. His hands were shaking so hard he had to brace them against his thigh to pull the leather into place. He took three breaths to calm himself and then peeked inside the firebox door. The heat pouring out slammed into his helmet, wanting to push him off balance. He forced himself to lean forward.
Inside, the thing rammed itself from side to side. It almost swam in the flames on its spindly legs, picking up sudden speed and attacking the metal walls.
Nate gritted his teeth. It was only a matter of time before the thing rammed a weak rivet in the boiler and blew the whole thing up. “We have to stop the train!”
Jones spun away from the broken gauges and stared at him. Then he looked down at the open firebox. His blue eyes were wide. “No, I don’t think so,” Jones said. His eyebrows clenched. “I think we should take it in to Lake Providence, see what the mechanics can do.”
Nate glared up at him. “What good would mechanics be?”
“It…,” Jones began, but his voice became slow and soft. His gaze never broke from the firebox. Gradually, his hand lifted toward the valve release that kept the engine from bursting.
Nate slammed the door shut. “Jones! Get a hold of yourself, man! Don’t listen to the voices! They’ll give you the Madness!”
Jones lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain.
“Jones!” Nate stood.
He held up a glove. “I’m all right.” He kept his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s just… It spoke to me. I’ve never heard the fire that clearly before.”
Nate shook his head without a word. He reached past Jones and grabbed the braking lever.
A loud squeal rang as the engine’s shoes pressed into the sides of the spinning wheels. Jones fell forward. Nate caught him with his elbow, still pulling on the lever with his other arm. Jones settled down to the floor of the cab.
A fresh roar broke out from the firebox, its dull voice ringing out even over the sound of the brakes. The firebox doors rattled.
Nate held the brake tight.
The doors burst open. One bent on its hinge, and the other fell completely off, barely missing Jones where he sat in his daze. Another tendril poured out, this one thick as cable and tipped with a pincer claw. It swung around the cab, snipping at the air.
Nate screamed. He let go of the brake and dove for his shovel.
The claw grabbed the brake lever. It bit into the iron as it pulled, sliding the lever back into its impotent position. The engine swam under Nate’s feet as it sped up.
Nate swung at the tendril with shovel. Its blade bit deep into the inky flesh.
The thing gave an unholy shriek and twisted in the heat. It let go of the brake and spun around toward him.
Nate blocked the claw’s strike with his shovel blade, but the force was enough to knock him down to the iron floor of the engine. The thing was strong, much too strong for him to fight for long.
There, beside his head, was the paper bag still half-f with the rest of the Newton’s Catalyst for the week.
“You like fire, huh?” Nate asked it as he fought with the tendril, pushing the pincer away with the shovel blade. “I’ll give you fire!”
He threw himself forward, pushing up with his legs against the inhuman strength of the tendril. With repeated whacks, he drove it back toward the gaping hole where the doors to the firebox had been. The air stank of sulfur and what smelled like rotten meat. It was hazy with smoke.
“Jones!” Nate shouted.
The engineer looked up. His blue eyes seemed dark.
“Onto the tender!” Nate ordered. “Go, man! Move!”
Jones sat frozen.
Nate spat out disgusting grit from the smoke. Wet spit clung to his dark visor. With a series of chopping swings, he pushed the tendril back far enough to get to Jones.
Nate grabbed him by the collar and yanked Jones to his feet. Jones stumbled dumbly toward the rear of the cab.
“Go!” Nate shouted.
Jones seemed to understand now and climbed up the short ladder beside the coal box.
Nate held his shovel in one hand and pushed, keeping the tendril at bay. Its pincer snapped. It seemed larger now, and it had grown spikes.
With his other hand, he untied his leather apron from the back. It went loose, and he bent over to let it fall off his neck. He scooped up the paper bag and apron in one swift stroke and ducked.
The tendril came after him. Its claw caught him on the shoulder, biting deep.
Nate shrieked and dropped his shovel. He made himself stop screaming by gritting his teeth and pulled his shoulder out of the claw’s grip. Hot pain stabbed through his body.
He didn’t have time to cry about it. He climbed up the tender ladder one-handed, dragging the leather and catalyst with him.
Jones sat on the roof, holding his head.
“Don’t listen to it!” Nate shouted. “I’m going to end this!”
He threw down the apron and placed the catalyst in the middle. Blood streamed down his right arm, and his right hand didn’t want to work properly. Nate forced his dull fingers to help wrap the bag tight in the thick leather, the brown paper becoming stained with bright red blood.
When he had it ready, he turned back to the cab. The giant tendril swung blindly, tearing off gauges and slamming into the wall. Beneath it, several other tendrils writhed.
Nate took in a deep breath from the clearer air near the tender and leaped back into the cab. His boots landed with a heavy clunk. Tendrils twisted up at him.
He didn’t give them a chance to move. Nate charged toward the firebox and shoved the leather package inside. The bundle’s weight overwhelmed the small tendrils, pushing them back inside the furnace with it.
The big tendril came down on Nate hard, knocking him to the floor of the cab. All the air fled out of his chest. The tendril pressed down on him, as if it wanted to crush the life out of him.
Nate tried to gasp. His lungs stung in the hot sulfurous gas.
The leather inside the furnace lit up. Nate squinted up at the flames. He didn’t exactly know what would happen when the fire reached the catalyst inside the apron, but he knew he did not want to be inside the cab when it did.
Nate pulled against the metal grate on the floor with his hands, crawling under the heavy tendril. It ground on him, but its claw couldn’t reach him without letting him up.
There was another thud, and suddenly the tendril let him up. Nate rolled clear. Jones stood above him, holding the shovel.
“Jones!” Nate called happily.
“Hurry!” Jones yelled back.
The tendril swung toward him, and Jones caught it with the shovel’s blade. Nate scurried on his hands and knees up the tender’s ladder. Once on top, he turned back.
Jones was spitting swears and swinging at the tendril. It cowered from the blade, but always found another angle to strike.
“Come on, Jones!” Nate shouted. “We’ve got to move!”
Jones made a final swing with the shovel, throwing it fully at the tendril. It knocked the inky black thing backward, and Jones turned and rushed up the ladder. Nate caught him by the collar and pulled him on top. Jones panted feverishly.
Nate held his hurt shoulder. It felt cold and hot at once. “Let’s—”
Jones interrupted him with a loud yelp. His body slid off the tender roof. Nate dove after him, but Jones’s hands slipped through his grip.
The tendril had Jones by the boot, wrapped around with its claw biting into the leather. His body flailed.
“Jones!” Nate cried.
There was a flash like lightning. The locomotive seemed to bend and warp as if Nate was seeing it through a pane of glass. The tendril stood out straight and stark. Jones’s body was limp.
The screaming whistle went strangely quiet, and then it was replaced with the wailing and hateful cries of the catalyst fire. Bolts popped from the engine casing, bleeding out jets of yellow and blue flames. Bits of iron broke loose and flew into the trees. Shadows flickered in the fire with wings, claws, and eyes. Sounds of bellowing and nails on chalkboard rolled among thunder.
Nate dove off the tender roof toward the mail cars beyond.
Chapter Three
The tender hung from the top of the wrecked locomotive. The slight breeze made it swing, iron groaning as it moved slowly to the side. Sheriff Clancy Blake wondered how much longer it would hang up there.
Even in the dwindling light of the sunset, the locomotive was clearly a total loss. Holes were ripped along its sides. Loose rivets still dangled in the shredded iron. The entire cab was in shambles: glass and iron shards everywhere, the doors to the furnace broken off. It must have been a firebox explosion, probably some pent-up gas that blew when…
Blake shook his head. He didn’t know much about how fireboxes worked, but he did know that it wouldn’t have given the fireman enough warning to jump away. Blake knew one other thing: he had a blown up locomotive on his hands and only moments before people started asking questions.
“Sheriff!”
Blake rolled his eyes. Already Thomas Husk from the newspaper was there. He’d practically beaten Blake to the scene.
“Sheriff!” Husk called again.
Blake turned away from the crashed locomotive. “What is it, Tom?”
The newspaperman sloshed through the low water at the edge of Bayou Bartholomew. He was tall and filled out like a scarecrow.
“Sheriff,” he said a final time, “I’d like to interview the man responsible for all this now.”
Blake crossed his arms. “I don’t know that he’s ready to talk yet.”
“He ought to,” Husk said. “First Amendment gives folks the right to talk, and it’s important the press gets out the truth.” He arched an eyebrow. “Before folks start spreading rumors.”
Blake set his jaw. Husk would print just about anything, and the juicer and sweeter the gossip, the more papers he’d sell. The only defense was getting the truth out there.
Blake sighed and shook his head. “All right, let’s go talk to him.”
Husk led the way, stomping his crane’s legs and making splashes in the water. Blake followed more carefully, letting the murky bayou slip around his oilskin boots.
On shore, Husk’s horse stood tied to a tree, munching on some tall grass. Blake’s two deputies stood by the wagon they’d rode out here after word about the crash came into the office. A short, crimson-haired man, broad-shouldered and stained from head to foot with soot sat in the back of the wagon. The only place clean on him was his left shoulder which was wrapped in bandages. Red splotches of blood showed through.
He didn’t look up as Blake and Husk approached. “You all right?” Blake asked.
The man sighed so long and hard that Blake couldn’t imagine any air being left in him.
“Mr. Kemp, tell us what happened,” Husk piped up.
The man shook his head without raising it off his arms.
Blake elbowed Husk. The newspaperman nearly fell over.
“We know what happened,” Blake said while Husk picked himself up. “We just need Mr. Kemp’s side of the story.”
The man didn’t move.
Blake went ahead. “The locomotive went out of control. You had the good sense to uncouple the cars, and then the firebox blew, knocking the train off the track before your engineer could stop it. They heard the crash as far back as Bastrop. Is that right?”
Husk was scribbling on a pad of paper with a pencil.
“No,” Kemp said.
“Then tell us what did happen.”
Kemp looked up, peeking over his sleeveless arm. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Yes, we do,” Husk said eagerly.
“Maybe I don’t want to say it,” Kemp said. “Maybe it’d make you think I’d lost my mind.”
Blake pursed his lips. Stoker’s Madness hadn’t been far from his thoughts as he came upon the wreck. People who kept near furnaces turned violent. It was an occupational hazard, just like hatters with their cackling or matchstick girls with their cancerous mouths. There was something about hearing voices out of the flames, voices that wore away everything good and decent inside a man.
Usually firemen who had gone mad would destroy everything in sight until someone brought them down. Here, the rest of the train was fine, sitting on the rails several miles back and blocking traffic until a new locomotive could rescue them. The fireman, Kemp, had somehow gotten away from the blast, disconnected the cars, and turned the brakes. The engineer was nowhere to be found.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Blake said.
Kemp settled back into his arms. “Glad to hear it… Though I’m not quite sure myself.”
Blake propped one of his muddy boots onto the wagon’s ledge. “Tell us what happened as you saw it. Then we’ll decide one way or the other.”
Kemp sat silent for a moment. Finally, he sat upward and leaned back. Husk jumped. Blake stood quietly.
Kemp shifted his lips around as if he were talking without opening them. He looked away and then back. “It was horrible.”
“I know,” Blake told him. He didn’t, but camaraderie always seemed to help. “Share the burden.”
“Some…thing.” Kemp looked away again.
“Yes?” Husk asked.
Blake shot him a glare.
Kemp seemed to not even notice. His brown eyes were foggy. “I don’t even know. It was some kind of monster, something I’d never seen before, and I don’t ever want to see again. It was in the fire.”
“A monster,” Husk repeated, his voice sing-song with disbelief.
Kemp squeezed his mouth shut again.
“A monster,” Blake said in as firm of a voice as he could. “Go on.”
Kemp looked up at him. Blake nodded.
“It crawled out of the fire,” Kemp explained. “Jones and I threw it back in. I tried to kill it. Then all hell broke loose.”
“How?” Blake asked.
“I threw in all the Newton’s Catalyst we had. That should’ve burned it up, but it only seemed to make things worse. Everything turned… weird.”
“Weird?” Blake repeated.
“What do you mean weird?” Husk asked.
Kemp shoved his face into his hands. “I don’t know how else to explain it. Everything was… wrong. I’m not sure how I know it, but, deep down, I just knew was evil. There were creatures dancing like a witch’s Sabbath and the colors… they weren’t colors I’d ever seen.”
Blake set a hand on the fireman’s left shoulder. “What happened to the engineer?”
Kemp looked up at him from his hands.
“The engineer? Cecil Jones, according to the roster.”
“Jones,” Kemp said firmly. “Just Jones. He hated being called Cecil.”
“Jones, then. Where is Jones?”
Kemp shook his head. “The thing got him.”
Blake stepped back from the wagon. He looked at Husk, who stared at Kemp and write without looking at the pad.
“Is Jones alive?” Blake asked.
Kemp squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know.”
Blake looked back at Husk. The newspaperman said nothing, only scribbled.
“What about you? How’d you escape?”
“I slid down the roof of the tender toward the mail cars,” Kemp said. His voice was flat, almost like the regular chugging of an engine. “I tried to climb, but my arm…”
He tried to raise his right arm, but he stopped and hissed in pain.
“So you got off the tender. Then what?”
Kemp shrugged his good shoulder. “I pulled the pin from the couple and put on the brakes. It wasn’t easy, just with one arm. I had to lean to get the brake to turn. The cars stopped, but the locomotive…”
“What about the locomotive?”
“It went faster,” Kemp told him, squinting. He shook his head. “It couldn’t have been going faster. The firebox was bleeding heat, and we… Jones and I had left the valve wide open. The boiler should’ve gone dry in no time, and then the pistons would’ve run down. But the engine went faster!”
Husk nodded and pointed a thumb back toward the tracks. “It must’ve been going pretty fast to jump the tracks here. The curve’s not that bad before the bridge.”
“I couldn’t see it by then,” Kemp confessed.
“No, you stayed with the mail cars,” Husk confirmed. He flipped back several pages on his pad. “You stayed there until one Craig MacArthur, local farmer, found you and had his wife patch you up. They turned you over to Sheriff Blake, and—”
“Sheriff!” Deputy Carmichael called.
Blake turned. The younger man pointed into the eastern sky.
Out of the twilight, a shining ball hung sheathed in a haze of smoke. It was one of the Rail Agency’s airships.
“Fantastic,” Blake muttered.
A lot of things had changed in Blake’s fifty-three years on the earth. He was born back before Gloriana was even Louisiana Territory, and the most newfangled thing anybody had around was a Franklin stove. Since then, steam power had become everything anyone talked about. Steam-powered locomotives rolled across the land while steamboats chugged up and down the Mississippi, trading crops harvested by steam-powered tractors for goods from steam-powered factories. Blake hocked some phlegm and spat. Airships were just about too much.
Kemp swallowed visibly.
Blake patted Kemp on the good shoulder. The fireman’s job was on the line, perhaps even his life if the rumors about the Rail Agency were true. “I’ll talk to them.”
Kemp didn’t reply. Blake walked past him toward the open ground nearer to the river. Husk trotted after him.
Blake said in a hushed voice, “Don’t write anything about the engineer.”
Husk blinked. “Why not?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Blake said. “He’s only missing.”
“In an explosion like that,” Husk jerked a thumb back toward the wrecked locomotive, “clearly he’s no longer with us.”
“Maybe so, but we don’t know for certain until we find a body.”
Husk made a single grunt of a laugh. “It’s pretty obvious what happened to him. The man talked about a monster getting him. Sound like the Madness to you?”
Blake glared. “Don’t write anything until we know for sure.”
“The First Amendment—”
“I could close off this whole area as judicial business. Quarantine it for potential danger.”
Husk made a disgusted sigh and then cleared his throat. “Right, just what we know for sure.”
Rhythmic pounding like thunder rang as the airship came close enough for its engines to drown out any chance of conversation.