Mr. Shivers (12 page)

“Don’t know. Probably empty. Check it to be sure.”

They looked at one another. Pike leapt to his feet as silently as he could and grabbed the handle of the trapdoor in the roof
and held on. There were more footfalls from above, and then grunts as someone pulled.

“It’s locked.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause it ain’t coming up. Must be full, then.”

“That don’t mean… Wait.”

“What?”

“Shh!” said the other voice.

Drops of sweat ran down Pike’s face as he hung from the ceiling. Connelly moved to look through the cracks in the ceiling
and he saw something iron black and shining, something in a man’s hand.

He waved frantically at Pike. Pike looked at him, confused, and Connelly made the motion of cocking a gun and waved again.

Pike’s eyes shot wide and he dove away, crashing into the corner.

“Bastards!” shouted one of the voices. “They’re in there!”

For a moment there was nothing. Then the boom of a shotgun crashed through the car and a shaft of sunlight ripped into the
dark, a gaping hole right where Pike had been hanging. Splinters of wood flew like chaff and Connelly saw Monk roll away,
his head dotted with blood. Roosevelt dove for cover as well, his pack falling to the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Monk.

Connelly staggered to the door and began trying to undo the wire they had used to shut it. Harsh pistol snaps rang out and
more holes began appearing in the ceiling. Something cracked by Connelly’s head. Roonie cried out, clutching his forearm.

“Out of the way!” Pike roared. “Out of the fucking way!”

“Shoot!” Connelly heard himself say. “For God’s sake, someone shoot back!”

The shotgun roared again, this time clearly aimed at Connelly’s voice. He felt splinters fly and a rush of air behind his
back as slugs and buckshot bit through wood. It was like a hot tidal wave had passed him by.

“The gun!” shouted Hammond. “Rosie, your gun!”

Roosevelt came to life, crawling forward on the floor and grabbing his satchel, trembling hands digging through it. Someone
laughed harshly above. There was a click as some deadly piece of machinery slid home, then a new wave of gunfire. Everyone
sought cover again as the shots rent holes in the boxcar and the air. Roosevelt tumbled to the corner again and the gun slipped
out and spun across the floor.

Connelly looked back up and saw the pistol beside Lottie. She gaped at it in terror, uncomprehending.

“Lottie!” he screamed. “For God’s sake, Lottie, do something!”

She looked at him, then again at the pistol. She fumbled forward and grabbed it. Connelly’s fingers sought the tangle of wire
again.

“Motherfuckers,” muttered one of the men above. There were so many holes in the roof Connelly could see them clearly now. Pistol round casings
rained through the ceiling, twinkling and golden. Lottie stared at the pistol in her hands, then looked up uncertainly.

“Fuck’s sake, Lottie, shoot! Shoot!” shouted Hammond.

She shuddered, then lifted the pistol and began firing through the roof, careful, measured shots in spite of her fear, one,
two, three. Someone bellowed in pain up above and there was a crash as the men tried to move out of the way and still stay
on top.

The last bit of wire came undone and the car door slid open. Connelly recoiled from the sting of the smoke, then braced himself
and vaulted up and out, looking over the top of the car.

Two men were lying on the roof of the car, one injured and holding the inside of his leg, near the crotch. The injured one
held a .38 in his free hand, the other clamped over the spreading stain on his leg. The other man had a shotgun and was trying
to load another two shells. He looked up and saw Connelly and tried to snap the shotgun shut and butt him in the face. Connelly
reacted faster, reaching forward and grabbing the man’s ankle to throw him from the train. He pulled and felt the man slide
forward, the man’s face changing from snarling rage to shock. Connelly’s shoulder strained to the point of popping and he
felt Hammond grab his waist to brace him against the door. The corner of the boxcar dug into his belly as he dangled on the
side of the car and someone somewhere screamed.

Connelly gritted his teeth and pulled again, harder. The gunman slid forward more and he shouted, “No! No!” as his fingers
tried to find purchase somewhere, the nails digging into the splintered wood as the other hand stupidly held on to the shotgun.
The corner of the boxcar bit into Connelly’s ribs, creaking and cracking. The man with the .38 looked at Connelly, his eyes
woozy. His hand shook but he lifted the big pistol and waved it at Connelly’s face. Connelly kept pulling, not thinking, and
when the gunshots cracked through the sound of the train he was sure he was dead.

He opened his eyes and saw the side of the man’s belly erupt. Red shining ropes of blood leapt up in the air like fireworks
and arced back down. More holes punched up through the roof and Connelly heard Lottie cry out from below. The wounded man
shivered and rolled as though trying to hold his entrails in and when his weight changed he tumbled off the roof of the car
and out of sight.

Connelly pulled the remaining gunman toward the edge of the train. His shoulder screamed in raw pain and his teeth hurt from
gritting them so hard but still he pulled. The man shrieked, his free foot kicking out at Connelly’s face and striking him
once, twice about the ear, opening up the rim of his eye, but Connelly barely felt it and instead waited for the moment when
the man’s center of gravity would reach its tipping point and then, and then…

The man’s mouth opened in dull surprise. The shotgun clattered from his grip and was devoured by the wheels below. Connelly’s
arm was made of broken glass and barbed wire but the man was slipping over, screaming madly and slapping at Connelly, but
Hammond held fast. The man’s body began to move, pulled by wind and momentum and gravity. Connelly let go and saw the man
twist as he dropped. He was struck by the next car and he flipped and tumbled and then there was a hideous flash of bright
red blood as the wheels found something finally worth eating.

Someone screamed. Connelly did not know if it was his own voice or the train’s. Hammond pulled him in and he saw Lottie kneeling
on the floor of the car, face to the sky and hands together almost in prayer. The sinister black gun was clutched in her fingers.
Drizzled blood ran across one of her cheeks and she was saying, “Blood… There’s blood on me. I think I hit him, Roonie, I
think I… I think I…”

Roonie did not answer. He was squealing and trying to stop the flow from his arm. Monk was holding his face, picking out splinters
of shrapnel and wood, wiping away the blood that welled up in his forehead like water from underground springs. Pike stood
to his feet and the overwhelming violence of the train car seemed to focus around him.

“We need to get off!” he shouted. “We have to get off! The train’s already slowing. Whoever sent them knows something’s wrong
or is coming to check. We have to get off!”

Connelly was trying to listen but everything was still screaming. He was, his attacker was, the guns were still going off
and the train was still screeching, fingers still clawing over gray wood and the wheels churning below…

Pain again. His cheek. He looked up and saw Pike had slapped him.

“We need to get off,” shouted Pike again.

Connelly nodded. “We need to get off,” he mumbled.

“Come on.”

They got to their feet, Hammond and Pike rounding them up. When they judged the train was slow enough they leapt onto the
dry ground below, their bags falling around them. It was dangerous, still too fast, but they were forced to risk it. Monk
sprained his ankle and Connelly knew he hurt himself falling but he couldn’t tell where because everything hurt, all of him,
face and arm and waist and knees.

“This way,” said Pike’s voice. “This way.”

The sun was fading. They sped into the forest, limping underneath the leafless trees. Behind them the train was slowing to
a stop and men were shouting to one another. The musk of dead leaves and old earth filled Connelly’s nostrils. He wiped at
his nose and found half his face was slick with blood.

“Come on,” murmured Hammond. “Come on, Con. Come on.”

They ran as far in as they could. Soon the sky overhead was choked out by trees and they could see only by the blades of dusklight
that rained through the branches. Hammond said something about hearing dogs and Pike rebuked him harshly and dragged Lottie
forward.

“We need to go as far as we can,” he said as they ran. “We have to get away from the rail. There’s bodies back there and they
cause a fuss, yes sir, they do. I don’t like it but I like not being one of them even more, and I don’t plan to join them,
so come on.”

Hours passed. Maybe days. Connelly lurched from tree to tree. Soon he saw the shattered moon glaring through the woven branches.
Hidden watchers observed their ragtag procession from the dead canopy above and made comment or warning. Soon the forest was
alive with hoots and calls, snaps and whistles. The song spread through the treetops like wildfire. The sounds mixed together
in Connelly’s head and he turned aside to vomit beside a tree. The others watched him retch with worried faces. He said nothing
as he rejoined them.

“… concussion, probably,” said Lottie. “The guy nearly kicked his head off.”

“What?” said Connelly, slurred. “What was… What was that?”

“Hush,” said Lottie. “Just hush.”

They found an old stream in the woods, no more than a trickle, but it had eroded through enough soil that they could use it
as shelter. They camped on its banks and drank their fill but they had no food to eat and Pike would not risk a fire.

“The woods may be crawling with men for all we know,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll give them any signals we’re over here,
no thanks.”

“What in the hell makes you say that?” said Monk.

“Because that, back there, was a trap. Pure and simple,” said Pike, slapping his arms to stay warm.

They looked at each other.

“Set by who?” said Hammond.

Pike thought, then looked at Connelly, lying barely conscious on the riverbank.

“We’ll discuss this when… Well. We’ll discuss this when we can all discuss this,” he said. “Get some rest.”

Things swam together for Connelly and thankfully went black.

Mr. Shivers

Connelly awoke to a sharp, stabbing pain in his forehead and a rumbling ache everywhere else. He opened his eyes and saw Lottie
was daubing his forehead.

“Mmm? What?” he said, still slurred.

“Just trying to clean you up,” she said. “You need stitches. Probably. Hell, I don’t know. Your forehead is a mess. Half your
face is unrecognizable.”

He felt his cheek. It was stiff and swollen and felt like rubber. Speaking was difficult. He lay back down and saw Pike standing
on the ridge of the stream, leaning into his staff and staring out at the woods.

“He hasn’t slept yet,” said Lottie. “It’s been almost a day. Everyone’s slept but him. He hasn’t even moved. You saved his
life, you know.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Didn’t know or didn’t save his life?”

Connelly waved his hand, sick of conversation that wasn’t yes or no.

Lottie gave him a brittle smile. “Sleep more,” she said. “You got to.”

“Fine,” said Connelly, and then again, a whisper: “Fine.”

They used cool mud and dry moss to stop their bleeding. In the wan starlight they looked medieval, wandering partisans wearing
some diseased warpaint. Lottie bound Roonie’s arm in a piece of Hammond’s coat lining and he whimpered as she drew it tight.
Connelly allowed her to do the same to him, bandaging the gash on his face. His arm was still useless and they made a sling
of his coat but it pained him when they walked.

When they came under the cover of a passing cloud Pike judged they were ready and they ventured downstream in the inky night
with hands held out like blind men. They stopped to rest in a nest formed of fallen trees and Pike and Hammond peered out
through the cage of boughs around them. They saw nothing and went from one person to the next, silently touching them to tell
them they were ready to continue on.

In this fashion they walked for nearly three miles, injured and starving in the blind night. Connelly wondered if it was possible
to fall asleep in one world and wake up in another. He had slept on the train so perhaps this was some feverish nightmare,
a dream-place where men killed and died for no reason he could see and each minute was spent in a starved, sightless silence,
like animals far under the earth. Perhaps the moment of change had happened before then. Some other occasion when he fell
asleep. Waking to the crimson sky of the drought. Waking to his new, hellish Memphis, ruined and gutted by a grief caused
in the space of a day, an hour, a second. It seemed then that the world was a terrible, wounded place whose revolutions were
driven by panic and madness more than love or reason. A directionless freefall toward something, maybe toward nothing. He
no longer knew.

That night as Connelly lay on the damp ground he wondered for the first time if there could ever be any return from this.
He had considered the futility of it. Had considered wandering out and searching and never finding. And he had considered
the law, the chance that his future might be confined to cement walls and damp stone floors and colorless monotony, should
his quest succeed. Neither of those seemed very different than any alternative. To live with such a violation was the same
in many ways.

But there was always a chance he could succeed, and go back. That things might return to what they were before, at least a
little. Before his daughter was taken. He could go home, and though it would be a home without Molly it would be one he could
live with. One that made sense.

Now a sliver of doubt worked its way into his mind. That life seemed very far away now. The farther he traveled the less he
could recall what he hoped to return to.

He remembered what his wife had said before he left. Remembered sitting on the front porch, looking through the fog of the
screen windows and watching tree limbs dance in the night wind, the streetlamps turning them into wicked fingers on the grass
below. The warmth of a cup of coffee clutched to his belly. The gentle sigh of a placid evening in a city that was content.
His mind was already slowed with whisky, his thoughts turgid and wordless. He did not know how long he had been sitting there.

He heard her walk down behind him but did not turn. Neither of them did anything for a long while.

Then, “I’m going to my mother’s.”

He turned to her. She was dressed nice. A yellow dress with white trim, full of springtime. Hair brushed and neat. But in
her eyes there was a place where a fire had long gone out, and when she looked at him he felt the emptiness behind them. The
empty place where yesterday had been.

“All right,” he said.

“I’ll be staying for a while.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Long enough. Maybe longer.”

He nodded and turned back to the street.

“Don’t you want to know why?” she asked

“Why what?”

“Why I’m leaving.”

“All right. Why are you leaving?”

“Jesus, Marcus,” she said, and leaned her head up against the glass of the front door.

“What?”

She shook her head. Grinding the veins of her forehead up against the door. “Do you know this is the first time we’ve talked
in four days?”

“Four days?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“I’ve said things. I’ve said good night.”

“No. You’re always asleep before me. You’ve slept in the chair downstairs. Or out here. After drinking. I’ve slept in our
bed, sometimes. But not usually. I sleep in the tub mostly.”

“Why?”

“The smell. Of the bed. I can’t stand it. I don’t know why.” She turned to face him, her back now up against the jamb. Her
eyes trailed up to look into the ceiling. “It’s all right.”

“What is?”

“This. Mrs. Echols said they usually don’t last.”

“What don’t last?”

“Marriages that lose a child.”

Connelly stood up. He put down the coffee and walked to the screen door and crossed his arms and stood there.

“She didn’t say it to me,” she said. “I overheard. Overheard her at church.”

“She’s full of shit.”

“Marcus.”

“We’ll be all right.”

“Marcus. Marcus, we’re not all right now. I don’t see why we would get better anytime soon.”

They were both quiet then. A truck came up the road and puttered by, its one-eyed headlight roving through the brush. They
watched it leave and as the mutter of its tires died away the silence became more unbearable.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked. “I can tell. You want to go out. To go after that man.”

Connelly nodded.

“I know. I can see it. I can see it in you. It’s eating you alive. That part. That part he took away from you, that part that
was her. That empty part is just getting bigger. Eating you up.”

“It isn’t right,” he said.

She shook her head. She moved to wipe away her tears but there were none.

“I can make it right,” he said.

“How? By going out and killing him?”

“Yes.”

“How will that make it right?”

“It’ll make things make sense. I have to make them make sense. That shouldn’t happen. If I fix that then I can come home again.”

“You’re home right now.”

“No. I’m not. You know that.” He turned to look at her. “Would you take me back?”

“What?”

“If I went out there and killed that man and came back, would you take me back?”

“Marcus…”

“I have to do it. I have to. I just want to know if there’ll be anything left for me once it’s done. If it ever gets done.”

“I don’t know. You can’t make things right. This will never be right. Not really.”

“It’ll make things quiet. Make them bearable, then. Would you take me back then?”

“I don’t know. I might. But, Marcus, if you go out there, if you leave your home and this place and me and take to the road
like God knows many others have done now, I don’t know who’ll come back.”

“I will.”

“No. The man who goes out there and the man who comes back won’t be the same. I don’t think so. It depends on who comes back,
Marcus.”

“I will. The way I was before.”

“You won’t ever be the man from before. And I won’t ever be the same, either. But I do know that there isn’t anything here
for us anymore, either. Every day we’re here we bleed a little more. On the inside, in places we can’t see. If you think that
will stop that for you, stop whatever it is from dying inside you, then… then I can’t hold it against you. I don’t know if
I can take you back after, but I can’t hold it against you.”

He bowed his head. “But there is a chance.”

“Yes. There’s a chance. There’s always a chance.”

“I hope things will be better,” he said softly. “I hope I can love you again.”

She looked away. “I hope so, too.”

He shut his eyes. He heard her walking away and he began to say something after her but could not think of anything. Then
he sat and thought.

Hours later he realized she was gone. He had not even seen her head toward the street. Had not even heard the car start. He
imagined her fading into the night like some ghost, her dress a warm honey flame swallowed by the dusky shadows, traveling
forward into the darkness with a hat on her head and her suitcase in her hand. Movements slow and dignified and normal. Like
she was expecting something. Waiting for something to appear before her on the road.

Then he had walked back into the house. Every inch of it had been soaked in silence. He had stood there in the living room
and known he stood in the belly of something once pregnant and full of promise. A future and a life violently aborted without
even a cry to mark its passing from the world.

*   *   *

Dawn climbed in the distance and gave the gray land texture. They stopped again to scout. Hammond saw no pursuers but then
he did not see much of anything; whatever forest they were in was a deep one. Roosevelt and Lottie foraged for food but Pike
whispered an order not to use the gun. He would also not bother to set traps for they would not be staying long.

They returned later with mushrooms and roots they figured were good enough to eat. Pike inspected them, having some rudimentary
knowledge of this, and they muddled a thin, watery broth of the ones he approved and sipped it gratefully, trying to ignore
its gritty texture. They continued on until the trees came to an end and the stream turned into a river. They bathed and washed
their wounds and their clothing, Lottie going downstream for decency’s sake but not all that far as decency didn’t have much
to do with anything right now, she said. Connelly and Hammond watched her walk away, undoing her shawl and letting her hair
spill out. They shared a look but said nothing.

Roosevelt had woven fishhooks into his coat lapel, each sharp prong carefully wrapped in paper to protect him. They made makeshift
poles out of string and reeds and Monk managed to catch three of some kind of small trout. They gutted them and cooked them
over an open fire and they had stew once more, but this time their bellies awoke to the fat and meat and for a while they
were sated.

Lottie undid Roonie’s bandage. It was ugly but she said it was healthy enough. Pike agreed. They both undid Connelly’s and
winced at the gash running down his eyebrow and temple.

“It’ll scar,” said Lottie.

“He still has the eye,” said Pike. “You do, don’t you?”

Connelly turned to look at the glimmering surface of the river, and though the specks of light came through somewhat smeary
he said he could still see fine.

“Good,” said Pike. “Now we’ll risk a fire. A real one, for warmth. And we’ll talk.”

“Back there,” said Monk softly, “back there in the woods… You said that was a trap.”

Pike nodded. “I did indeed.”

“What’d you mean by that?”

He hesitated, idly drawing in the mud with a finger. “Well, you heard them back there, didn’t you? Just a snatch of conversation,
but it was enough. They had been sent. Sent by someone who we were following and didn’t want us following anymore. Someone
who knew we had to be on that train and that we’d be traveling illegally.”

There was no sound but the running water. No one looked at one another.

“He’s covering his trail,” said Pike finally.

“Who?” asked Roonie.

“The shiver-man. The gray man, of course. They were helping him.”

“Why would anyone agree to that?” asked Monk. “I-I can’t imagine him… imagine him…”

“What?” Pike said. “Buying thugs?”

“No. I can’t.”

“It’s a challenging thought, that I admit. We think of him as a monster. But others may just see a scarred man. We know what
he is, they do not. They would just listen to the money in his pocket.”

“Could be more to him,” said Connelly, looking keenly at Pike. “Could be he’s used to being chased. Used to tricking the folks
who chase him.”

Pike returned his gaze, his face fierce and furious. “Yes. It could be. But there also could be countless stories he’s told himself. It’d be wise to think before giving them credence. I hardly think clumsy men with
shotguns are in league with all the terrors of the supernatural.”

“So what does this mean?” said Lottie. “What does this have to do with us?”

“It means we can no longer use the rails,” he said.

“That will cripple us,” said Monk.

“Yes. Yes, it will,” said Pike. “But it’s better to be crippled than dead. We’ve killed two men on the railroad—”

“But they were trying to kill us!” Lottie said.

“That’s true. We know that. We know that well and good. But will a lawman? Will the railroad man? For all we know the railroad
man was in on it. And besides, who are we to trust? Who are we to be believed?”

“Americans,” said Roonie defiantly. “American citizens.”

“We are hobos,” Pike said harshly. “Beggars. Vagrants. We have no town or state and we barely have a country. We operate outside
of the law and the law knows that.”

“I don’t,” said Hammond.

“Yes you do,” Pike said. “You travel illegally on trains. You have intimidated men for help. And don’t forget why all of us
started this journey in the first place. Murder is usually illegal no matter where you go.” He surveyed their faces in the
firelight. “That’s what we wish to do, isn’t it? To murder?”