Author / Artist

That was the day an angry, rampaging sun visited Earth, and it was just

outside the farmhouse. Jason had rushed both of us into the basement. He said

he knew it to be multiple surface detonations. Back from retrieving something from upstairs, it was wrapped in an old, oily hand towel and held tight to his chest.

Rachel was sitting in an old wooden chair, the blue paint of which barely

clung to it. She was wrapped in the green wool of the old Army blanket from

Jason’s job box. She watched us with a faint look of concern, patiently waiting for

us to devise a course of action.

The jars of jam and preserved eggs chimed together in an incongruous

concerto, being swayed by the distant explosions. 

"Who do you think it was?" 

"Don’t know, could be the Russians or the Chinese."

He looked up at the exposed rafters as all manner of particulates were

jostled down from their place of rest.

Jason waved me over to a workbench, clearing off some of the dusty tools.

He hurriedly unwound the towel, and the weight of the revolver fell into his hand.

Light came in from the steel window frames and touched what bluing was left.

The towel had guarded the pistol from rust. He reached into his pocket for a box of .38 caliber ammunition. The corners of the carton were dog-eared, and the ink that denoted manufacturer and quantity was badly faded.

“What’s that for?”

“I told you it was a surface detonation. It’ll eject radioactive dust and debris

into the air. It’ll cover everything.”

“Can’t we stay down here?”

“We’d be down here for a month. We’d run out of food.”

“What about all this?”

I motioned to all the jarred goods.

“There’s only a few weeks if we ration it, plus we don’t have any water.

Where are we going to use the bathroom?”

“There’s water in - "

“Look. We’re downwind from the explosion. There’ll be radioactive isotopes in the water and the food. We're going to get really sick soon. All Rachel ever wanted was to be a mother. We just got dosed with enough rads to kill our child in the womb. When she finds out, it'll devastate her."

"What're you saying?"

"If we die, at least we die as a family."

What he was suggesting flew in the face of our family's Christian sensibilities.

"Don't worry, alright. You gotta be tough now. You gotta be a tough guy for

Rachel and me."

I had never seen my brother cry before now.

"You don't have to do it. I'll do it for Rachel, then you, then myself. I'll

answer for it in front of the throne of judgment. I love you guys. I love you more

than my own salvation."

I could've stayed in his hug forever. No radiation or starvation could get to

me under its protection. My tears seeped into the flannel that covered his broad

chest.

"We'll be a family again, even if it's in the next life."

My soul was adhered to his, and as we separated, I was filled with the

lifeless batting of a rag doll. 

"Remember, you gotta be tough now."

He thumbed each cast lead bullet into the charge holes of the cylinder. He

only loaded three, indexing the cylinder so that they would fire in sequence. After

some hesitancy, he raised the revolver and pointed it squarely at Rachel’s head.

Over the last hour, she had become immersed in a world of troubled

thoughts. She trusted us to work out a way to save us. In a perverse way, Jason

had. She was so sad wrapped in her blanket, so engrossed in thought that she took no note of the greasy clickings from the revolver’s lock work as Jason pulled back on the trigger.

I waited for the report, and the gap between the forcing cone and cylinder

flashed. 

I woke to Maria shaking me.

"Jordan."

I was sweating under the flannel sleeping bag. In a feverish delusion, I felt

that I was still pressed against the flannel of Jason’s shirt. So textured was the simulacrum of the dream, it took time to realize I was back in the camper with

Maria and Chris.

She was leaning over me with a concerned look on her face. 

"Are you ok"

"Yea."

My throat was dry.

I looked for anyone policing the track or cars. There were employees present to prevent the very thing I was trying to do; of that fact, I had no doubt. I watched for what seemed like hours. There was some foot traffic around the engine, but the train never moved. Maybe my brain was measuring the cold, not the time. 

The constantly dropping temperatures could make a minute feel like ten. With the cold now intolerable, I had to hazard movement.

With an overpass not far up the road, I knew it’d be harder to see me with it as a backdrop. Making my way alongside the road, I discovered I wasn't the only one using the overpass as camouflage. A handful of darkly clad figures passed under the street lights. I was stupid to think there wouldn’t be others that would find the stationary train inviting, but it complicated the equation. I would now have to avoid the bulls in addition to these fellow transients.

Nearing the overpass, an eye was kept out for the group, but there was no sign. I moved slowly, giving each bridge column a wide berth, traveling too far and being far too close to my goal to walk into an unpleasant surprise. I frequently stopped to listen. During one of these stops, I heard a cry of pain. Nearing one of the cars, I could hear many feet shuffling in gravel. 

I pushed my body against the car, crouching low when I reached its end. I used the two rusty knuckles of the train coupling to conceal myself. I didn't have to expose much of myself before a group teeming with activity came into view.

It was the shadowy group I saw under the overpass. They used their heavy combat boots to kick the balled-up mass on the ground. One of the bulls had the misfortune of running into them. Affixed to his hip was a thermoform, plastic holster, its retaining bale in the down position, and a black nothing in place of his side arm. He was being utterly savaged. In addition to kicks, one of the larger, more aggressive members brought down his right fist repeatedly, and the bull’s only answer was to cover his head.

Even if I had the inclination, there was nothing I could do to help. Call out, but to whom? After that, there would be no chance to board the train, and there would be my subsequent return to the quarantine camp. That was not an option. So, I watched.

Why had they not yet dispatched him with his own pistol? It didn't take a genius to surmise that they intended to board the train. A gunshot would draw in more bulls. 

The man had long since involuntarily given up, but they didn’t stop the kicking. I felt sick to my stomach as they repeatedly kicked his unguarded head. All muscular tension had left his body, and he was reduced to a bloody heap. It was hard to tell in the poor lighting if he was breathing or not, but considering the thrashing, it seemed unlikely that he was still alive.

Some of them, especially the big one that had supplied the right hands, stopped to inspect their work. It was offensive to something deep inside me that five men could stick their chests out so far for participating in an attack on one man. They reminded me of some of the petty, thuggish children at the center—scared little boys made dangerous by their bodies reaching maturation before their intellect. They joked and smiled, but were interrupted by the sound we had all been waiting for.

It was the sound of the conductor initiating the cold start of the massive diesel engines. My head came up just long enough to see gray smoke coming from the engine in the distance.

The group now scrambled to find an appropriate car. I had to do the same or get left behind. They raced along the two parallel tracks. I let them get quite a distance away before revealing myself.

The bulls would be on high alert, with the train’s disembarkation being the most likely point at which the train would be boarded. If the body was discovered, they would be especially vigilant.

In a sick sort of curiosity, my legs almost reflexively propelled me toward the man on the ground. A slightly overweight man in his fifties, his appearance was ghastly. His mouth was open in a gaping yawn. The new blood around his mouth and nose glimmered in the moonlight. I took note of the moisture vapor that left my mouth and the ominous absence of the vapor leaving his. He stared into nothing. And I had to shake myself out of my fixation with the body.

I was naked on the tracks. I had to board, and by doing so, get out of sight. There was no shortage of flatbed cars, but they were to be avoided for obvious reasons. Only slightly preferable were cars enclosed with thin perforated sides, but they seemed to have no external openings to allow boarding. There were metal decks on the back of grain cars, but with scarcely enough room to lay lengthwise, they were also open to the elements. Top-loading cars could be a ride if I didn't mind riding on a mountain of sharp-looking metal scrap—no, it would clearly have to be a box car.

Not thinking my plan to its logical conclusion was now beginning to manifest itself in the real world. My options would begin to narrow if the cars started to move. I would have to board anywhere, while in motion. I could be spotted by either staff or the gang of thugs. Then there was the weather. The temperature was still dropping. The air temperature was in the single digits now. The effects of the cold would be magnified as the wind tore past the train at fifty miles per hour. I could freeze to death or wish I had. It was a prospect so spine-chilling I only spent a few seconds contemplating it. I had to find an open box car.

There was the distant sound of the powerful V16 engine being disturbed from its long slumber. Thousands of horsepower roared in an accusatory exchange with the conductor as he throttled up. The sound of the train approaching max throttle was tremendous. There was the banging of the slack being taken out of the car couplings. The track whined, metal groaned, and popped as the arthritic metal beast began to come alive with much-resisted movement. Frost popped out of the wood, and the creosote of the three ties nearest me.

My search for an open box car was now feverish. I started to move against the direction of the train, my rationale being that I could view the condition of more cars that way, but as the train increased in speed, that would become increasingly unwise. Boxcar after boxcar passed me with the doors securely shut, and the train was getting faster. While I was in no danger of running out of cars, as they still stretched on to the extent of sight, each minute that went by was one closer to the train reaching a speed that would make it impossible to board.

On the cue of prayerful supplication, I caught sight of a box car in the distance. The badly weathered maroon paint did very little to inhibit the rust that covered the parts of its exterior that were not covered in graffiti. The door on the side was in its rearmost position, revealing an intimidating black hole on its side.

In the time allotted for it, which was almost none, I considered that it might be occupied by the murderous gang I had so narrowly escaped. The options had been sufficiently narrowed so as to render the thought academic. I was getting on the train. Anything that happened after that was incidental.

The train cars had increased in speed to the point that I had to reverse direction or miss the car. I had to be up to speed by the time the car reached me, so I began a mad dash.

I constantly looked over at the passing cars as I ran. I was looking for the open box car door, but more for the handle on the outside. If I could just put my hand to it, I knew I could get on. The big black opening came up alongside me, followed by the handle. I fixated on a portion devoid of any corrosion. The loose rocks on the side of the track were extremely difficult to run through, and the train was getting faster all the time. In a desperate bid, I pulsed forward, lunged out, and grabbed the handle, nearly losing my footing in the rocks. My shoes were being dragged. With strength I didn't know I had, I pulled myself up with the handle. The thin rope used to suspend my wool blanket from my back sawed into my shoulders. My free hand clawed for any hold. My brain screamed that it was all or nothing, and my body obeyed as its subordinate. My left hand, in its blind search, found a handhold and I hoisted myself up. My shoe found some faded cardboard. I cussed it with every explicative I had collected while running the streets. It made a sure footing nearly impossible. I hugged the cold sheet metal door as the wind threatened to tear me off the side of the train. My hands ached from the icy wind and contact with the cold metal handle. I pushed myself away from the door and further into the abysmal black of the car. I slipped on the cardboard and fell back. I watched through the open car door as a few warehouses went past, then finally nude black trees. I rammed my numb hands down into the pass-through pocket and, when that wasn't enough, down the front of my pants. They were freezing, and I would need them if I was sharing the black digestive tract of the train with someone.

The relief provided by the image of the interior side of the open train door was fleeting. My mind referenced the location of my Swiss Army knife before engaging with the task of searching the car. Not much moonlight made it through the car door. If I were in the car with the gang, they would've made their presence known. I had to walk deeper into the car to get a better look. I had the presence of mind to also look for things I could use on my journey. There were some old crates and a good supply of the same dirty cardboard that had so complicated my boarding. There was the smell of wet wood, mold, and machine oil.

"You're going to freeze to death, kid." 

I heard a deep masculine voice from the darkest, dankest corners of the car. 

I froze. There was my brother’s goodbye gift in my pocket. That card wouldn’t be played until I knew who I was dealing with.

I knew I had to answer the man, but with no idea what to say.

"I don't care. One way or another, I'm going to Free America." 

"That's a long ride," he spoke, back from his place of concealment.

I made my feet move toward the origin of the voice, and a bundle of material covered in a soiled canvas tarp came into view. Under the tarp could be items used to secure a load or service the car. The tarp was tossed back, and under it was a face. The portions not covered by a beard received the milky moonlight.

The face wore a warm-looking wool watch cap that sat too low to see his eyes. He smoothly but quickly got up from laying on his side. Just under the tarp was a bedroll consisting of a sleeping bag and a cover that likely protected it from the elements.

We were both assessing each other, but by the calmness of his voice he had divined that I was no threat. Was the reverse true? 

He was tightly bundled with a gauze-like scarf like a gasket around his neck, leaving no chance for the cold to get in. The collar on his woolen peacoat was flipped up, adding additional protection, and at the end of its woolen sleeves were leather-palmed, lightly insulated gloves. His stout-looking legs were covered by worn but serviceable canvas dungarees. Well established on the deck of the car were black leather hiking boots. The clothing was various earth tones, and looked rugged, practical, and perfectly suited for the environment, which was more than I could say for mine. My brain took it all in, the data being plugged into a quickly materializing matrix of potential ideas about who he was, where he had come from, and his purpose for being here. The information increased in abundance, but so did my distance from any clear conclusions. He wasn't a vagrant. His clothing was clean and pressed. I was close enough to have been privy to the smell of alcohol. His speech was clearly enunciated, with no indication of drugs or mental derangement. He hadn't stumbled when getting up. He possessed a level of physical fitness. His figure was trim. Even the smallest detail didn't make sense.

"It's ten hours to the nearest stop. You're not gonna make it three in the clothes you're wearing." And he looked to be an authority on the subject.

I took the wool blanket satchel off my back.

I would use the wool blanket for warmth. The cardboard would insulate me from the rough-hewn slats of the floor. I would use every resource available to me, and I would make it to the next stop, no matter the conditions.

"Who taught you how to do that?" he asked with what seemed like real interest in the ornately folded parcel.

"My brother." 

"And where is he?" 

Now he feigned genuine concern.

"In Free America."

We kept our replies short as they shared the air with the roar of the train.

I began gathering up some of the errant cardboard, being careful not to get too close to the man.

He disengaged for a moment to retrieve something from under the canvas tarp. When he turned away, and with hands still aching from the cold, I hurriedly retrieved the Swiss Army knife from my pocket. My rigid thumb clumsily found the nail nick in the blade and swung it out until it locked. I reversed the blade in my hand, establishing an icepick grip, but I changed the attitude of the blade until it was in line with my forearm and therefore hidden. If he was getting a weapon, I would be ready.

He offered me his bed roll. It swayed with the motion of the train for eons before I spoke.

"I have my blanket."

Holding up the sad little bundle that was all I owned.

"You'll never make it to the next stop with just a blanket."

We both knew it to be fact. I had very little food, no water, and my clothing was not adequate for the steadily falling temperatures. The blanket presented a very poor mitigating factor.

"What are you gonna use?" was my first question.

"I'll figure it out. Take it."

He thrust the bag and cover at me.

"Had the misfortune of bringing fourteen men to their end, but I've managed not to kill any boys—not today anyway. You don't have to be scared of me, kid. I'm not gonna hurt ya."