I wasn’t sure the staples would have the necessary “oomph,”, but they punched nice holes into the skull of the night runner, sending jets of blood and gore in a three hundred and sixty degree arc. I lifted my leg and kicked him backward. I was surprised at how easily he moved, until I realized he’d been yanked free. Didn’t know what did the yanking, didn’t care. I flipped back over and was low-crawling as fast as I could. The beauty of being chased for your very life is that you can’t stop and ponder just how terrified you are of tight spaces. Somewhere in some deep dark recess of my mind, there was a little claustrophobic dude screaming his lungs out, petrified at what I had gotten him into. At this very moment, I couldn’t listen to his bellyaching, the phagophobia dude had my full attention. I won’t have you try and find a dusty dictionary in some burned out house, that’s the fear of being eaten. So now you’re wondering why I would know that. Long story; trust me though, you should be afraid of that one. I mean really, is that even considered a phobia? There’s a phobia about pickles, but ultimately, what the fuck are pickles going to do to you? Being eaten alive, well, that’s a pretty reasonable fear.
I couldn’t hear much, except for my heavy breathing and grunts, and sometimes a curse as I banged my elbow, knee, or head. That is, when there wasn’t the occasional terrifying shriek echoing down the tunnel. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew there was more than one night runner in this tube with me. And there we were, like the world’s largest caterpillar, not centipede, definitely not human centipede like, pulsing our locomotion through the pipe. Just like I knew multiple runners were pursuing me, I was fairly certain that I would eventually come across Trip leisurely eating a croissant or possibly taking a nap; at that point, things were going to get dicey. The continued pressure on my elbows was causing them to blister and break open as I forced my way along. More than once, I thought that maybe I was trapped in some perpetually dark enclosure where I would be chased for all time. A purgatory from which there was no escape, where fear was throttled to full at all times. And then I launched, like that worm from Tremors that burrowed through the canyon wall to find himself flying not so aerodynamically through open air.
I’d come out into another junction point and my flight was short lived, two feet, maybe three at the most, but I came out awkwardly and in no position to defend myself from the runner on my ass. I scraped the living crap out of my face, but that was the least of my worries. I was spinning over to make an attempt when a leg stepped over me. It was Trip; he was straddling me and I could just barely make out something in his hands; it was only once I heard the stretching of rubber that I realized it was his slingshot. To me, I thought that thing was like bringing a fork to a soup-eating competition. He released his missile and it must have struck true because there was a solid wet thunk.
“Ponch, that you?” I hoped he was asking about the body at his feet and not the person he’d just made a third eye for.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me.”
“Whoa, I didn’t know you were down there. You should get up, there are more of them coming.”
I was scrabbling to get up.
“You should stop them, I have to get my pants back on.”
Before I could ask him why he didn’t have pants on, he answered.
“I was taking a piss.”
Asking why he needed to take his pants off to pee was like asking a toddler why they thought eating chalk while simultaneously finger-painting your walls with mustard was a good idea. There’s no rational explanation. Not one you want to hear, anyhow. I was up, and I cautiously moved him to the side. I couldn’t see more than a foot into the hole, but I laid down enough staples to put Humpty Dumpty back together. I’d bought us some time, but the runners would figure out there was another way to get to us soon enough. We needed to either go up and out or find another tube to crawl through.
“There another hole?”
I was keeping an eye on our egress, nothing from Trip.
“Trip man, is there another tunnel out?” Again nothing. I could hear his pants being pulled up, so I figured he was all right; it was quite possible he couldn’t answer and clothe himself at the same time.
“Trip!”
“Ponch, I’m shaking my head.”
It wasn’t quite pitch dark, but I wasn’t even looking at him, so how he thought I was going to know……forget it, not even worth climbing in that rabbit hole. It was up, we had to go up. There was major shuffling going on as the runners were clearing their dead or possibly backing out to find another way in. We’d never be able to stop them from our disadvantageous position. There was a lot of tearing and snarling coming from the hole; they desperately wanted in.
“Up, up man.”
I ushered Trip to this new manhole cover. I heard him hefting his snacks. I could argue with him about his choice to bring them in this savagely hostile situation, but time was too valuable. I stayed to watch for runners down below as Trip somehow noiselessly moved the cover. Like he’d levitated the thing out of the hole. Light didn’t flood in, but it did fill in some of the dark spots, and for that I was thankful. I could hear fighting still going on, but we had some room, they weren’t right on top of us.
Then the light was gone. I spun my head up thinking we’d been spotted.
“Oh no!” Trip exclaimed. I was about to run to his aid when I heard him smashing his snacks; heard it and felt them raining down on me. “Brag ron’t frit.”
He was shoveling them into his face so it would.
“Push it through!” I hissed.
“They’ll break!”
“Just think of all the corn dust you can snort.”
That was the ticket. The smashing treats were as loud as popcorn popping in a morgue. It was deafening and I figured every enemy within a hundred-yard radius was going to investigate. The light came back and I hopped onto the ladder, just as a night runner’s arm poked out of the hole. I popped a few staples his way until he was still; we were going to need whatever head start we could manage. I had to pull Trip to the ground; he was standing there like MacArthur returning all triumphant to the battlefield.
“How the fuck are you not dead?”
“Angels are tough to kill.”
At the time, I thought he was referring to guardian angels. Maybe he was or maybe he wasn’t. Would be my fucking luck, though, to get a guardian angel who couldn’t even remember my name. What could I have possibly done in any life to deserve that? I realize you’re not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what if it’s not a horse but a crack-addled tiger instead? Then what? I mean, at that point you really need to pay attention to that saber-toothed mouth.
The whistlers and the night runners were enmeshed in a battle. The conclusion was foregone, the night runners’ superior numbers had completely caught the whistlers off guard. They were being hacked up and ripped into pieces. The battle was decided, but it wasn’t over; surrendering wasn’t an option, the only choice was to go out fighting, and that they were, reforming into smaller and smaller protective groups in a vain attempt to guard their exposed flanks. The night runners were literally hurling themselves into the mass of bodies, completely oblivious to the rounds being fired at them. The clacking, whistling, and screaming made this alien world that much more foreign.
Two whistlers had seen us leaving, and if they cared they didn’t say—oh, but the fucking night runners, never one to let a meal go. There they were, sitting at an all-you-can-eat gelatin fest, and still shitloads of them peeled off to pursue some more substantive offerings. We had five hundred yards on them, but unless Trip sprouted wings and got us the hell out of there, they were going to catch us in the next couple of miles. The only thing we had going for us was the lightening of the sky. Amazing how fast the sun begins its climb when you have to get up for a shitty day of work; oh, but when you want, really need, that giant gaseous ball of flame to show itself, it’s too busy wiping its eyes and yawning. Trip was having a tough time wielding his bags; more than once
he stumbled on them or kicked them to the point that I was caught smack in the face and nearly knocked off course as they flew away from his knee strike.
“Drop the fucking bags, Trip.”
I had grabbed his shoulder and was pulling him along. Tough to say just how old the Jerry Garcia-lover was, but he was pretty spry. We were making good time; I just wasn’t sure if it was good enough. As fate would have it, the sun was behind a small range of rolling hills. It could be those precious minutes that cost us our lives.
“Stupid continental drift,” Trip said, looking at the same thing I was. It was enough for him to let one of the bags go, though. We’d only gone maybe fifty yards when I heard that bag get completely trampled over. I turned in horror to watch as it exploded outward in a spray of corn snacks and night runners.
“Oh, the humanity!” Trip cried out.
He sounded much like that tinny radio voice from sometime back at the Hindenburg disaster. We were losing ground at a much faster pace than I’d been aware.
“Keep running!” I lightly shoved Trip, who was full on crying.
Our only chance was for me to delay the runners with some stapling persuasion. Maybe Trip could make it—a part of me thought that was like letting a child loose in a dangerous city at night, but another part realized that he of us all was probably the best suited to survive this situation. I’m not going to say he could jump into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses, but maybe he’d come out with some awesome cow manure to grow some chronic in. Chronic is apparently the new name for weed; I remember when weed was just weed, and yeah, we did have to travel uphill both ways during a snowstorm to get to our dealer. Yeah, because somehow that’s relevant in this life or death situation. I quickly turned and just started firing a stream of staples; aim was not a necessary requirement at this moment. There was not the satisfying explosion of a bullet being expelled at high velocity from a barrel or the sickening crunch of bone and spray of blood as the projectile did its worst.
But it was effective—those staples were not to be trifled with. I started high, blasting the closest runner in the eye, the orb blowing out in a gob of gel and viscera, the runner spinning off to the side and falling, shaking violently as he did so, the one behind fell over him and broke something. I heard the snap of bone. Hard to tell if it was the ribs of the one I’d blinded or the ankle of the one that toppled—hopefully, both. Amazing the amount of information you can process during battle. I saw all of that going down even as my next barrage hit home. I was in a downward arc; two staples ripped into the throat of the next, tearing large chunks of muscle and tendons free, the latter curling up and giving the runner a strange-looking type of bob haircut. Three staples blew into the chest of the next; they weren’t as visually stimulating but they did their job—the runner was halted before he could bring his next foot down. The damage continued as I hit the thighs and knees of the next two. The one I knee-capped, his leg bent backward at a severe angle, and when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he brought that leg down and it just snapped to the left of his body.
I’ve been witness to some violent destruction of legs on the football field, and all of them combined lacked the volume of what I saw happen to this runner. Still, though, I felt no pity.
“Twenty yards,” I said grimly.
Yeah, I was inflicting grievous injuries and death, but still they came. You’d think at this point, how could it get any worse? You were about to die a rather violent death, but at least you could go knowing your sacrifice allowed another to live. That was right up until I got an overwhelming scent of wet corn.
“Oh Trip,” I lamented as the sound of his crunching mouth assailed my ears.
“They need to pay.”
He was, of course, referring to the loss of his Phritos—nothing else mattered to him. I could berate him and try to send him away again, but that particular door was closed now. Not sure if you’ve ever read or watched the Lord of the Rings: there was a character named Legolas, he was an elf, famed with his bow. He pulled them from his quiver, notched them in his bow, and had pinpoint precision, arrow after arrow at a pace that nearly defied logic. Yeah, that was Trip with the slingshot. There was a set in his stance and a look in his eye I can’t say I’d ever seen before. Most things he tended to do were lucky happenstance. Like he was guided by a wily but mirthful hand. Not this fucking time: he was out for blood, and lots of it. The face and mouth were seemingly his favorite bull’s-eye, as he blew out teeth, shattered noses, and ruptured eyeballs. And all with a weapon that, until very recently, I thought was no more than an inaccurate toy.
We were somehow keeping them at bay, somewhat. They were gaining a yard or two, but it came at an extreme price, and the sun—the glorious sun—decided he wanted in on the action. We were down to spitting distance when the night runners began to weigh the desire to kill us against saving themselves. With one final snarl and scream, they turned and left. We’d easily killed thirty or more, fuck knows I wasn’t counting, but there was at least that number streaming away from us. Occasionally one or more would turn around; at first, I thought it was to mark our mugs in their minds so they could hunt us down the next night, but I think it had more to do with the sun that was just poking its first rays over the horizon. I went to a knee, then onto my ass to catch my breath and just to regain myself. That had been close, too fucking close. Yes, we’d fought, and we’d fought hard, but it was still blind, dumb fucking luck that saved us; sure, it was awesome that we were still kicking, but at some point, luck just shits out on you. Just the nature of it. There is no replacement for proper planning and hard work. I could do the hard work—that was not the problem. Now, if I could just get on the planning wagon, maybe I could find Jack and we could all get out of this hell.
Chapter 2 - Jack Walker
I’m awakened by the sound of motorcycles, their deep-throated rumbles growing louder. Reaching for the carbine at my side, I rise and press against the metal interior near the rolling door facing the main line of tracks. The sides vibrate as the whistlers near. It sounds as if they’re coming from the direction of the swamp; perhaps the group that passed over the bridge are returning.
My grip tightens as they draw closer, the thunderous noise so intense that I feel my heart trying to change its beat in response. The roar draws adjacent the row of rail cars and stops, and I hear the deep rumble of idling bikes along with some revving. I quickly analyze my situation, a thousand ideas crossing synapses in the blink of an eye.
Is it coincidence that they halted at the very car I’m holed up in? Do I cut the cord holding the door closed and slip out the other way, hoping to make it to the trees undetected?
Above the idling and revving bikes, I hear the slam of a metallic door. They must have just checked one of the boxcars. They’re searching for something, and my chances of slipping away are close to nil. Another clang tells me they’re moving up the line and it’ll soon be my turn.
If they are unable to open the doors without a lock on the outside, it won’t take a rocket scientist’s IQ to figure out that someone is inside. Anyone with a fifth grade education would know. Sliding the calf knife from its sheath, I quickly cut each of the cords from the doors and stuff them in my pack. Tightening the straps of my pack and cinching my carbine to my front, I grab my knife and jump to grab one of the metal beams that run along the top length of the car. As quietly as possible, I pull myself up so that each of my legs and arms are pressed against the interior beams that run along the ceiling, and inch forward until I’m almost over the doorway.
Below me, the door rolls open with a protesting squeal of rusted metal. I concentrate on keeping enough pressure to remain still, but without applying so much that I strain my muscles. A deeply wrinkled white head pokes in and looks to the front and back, peering upward into the far corners.
My shoulders and hips begin aching from the pressure of holding my weight aloft. Rock climbers might laugh at me, but a horizontal chimney hold isn’t easy.
Outside, bikes idle in deep-throated roars. The whistler issues a series of clicks, grunts, and a kind of warbling as it spots the wrappers strewn across the floor. With its elbows and knees bending in grotesque angles, it climbs inside, its head just a few feet below my trembling body.
It picks up one of the wrappers, turning it this way and that. My shoulders begin to quiver from the strain, but I force myself to remain steady. I’ll stay where I’m at until I literally drop. If that happens, or if I’m spotted, I’ll take care of the one inside and scamper out the other door, hopefully not into the arms of some waiting whistler.
The creature steps forward and picks up another wrapper, studying it as if there’s a winning number printed somewhere on it.
Come on…fucking move! I think, my shoulders fiercely aching.
Another whistler peeks inside.
Oh great, they’re probably going to make out.
With a couple of clicking sounds and a snort, the first one drops the wrapper and turns. It pauses to gaze left and right, then again into each corner. With a lanky step to the entrance, it then hops down, and both of the whistlers vanish from sight.
My shoulders are shuddering, but I don’t dare let go until they are well away. I hear nothing except the idling machines and can only imagine that they’re searching the area, now that they’ve found the fresh wrappers. If they don’t leave soon, those nearby are going to be awfully surprised by the body dropping in the doorway from the ceiling of the boxcar.