End of the Line, page 11
He held her eyes then, the Necromist and the Historian. For a moment they could have been two students in a dark study room of the University Library. Comparing notes on some ancient document they had uncovered. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone.
Emilio leaned back and then resumed examining his map. “Now, Ms. Wax you should probably get up and walk away from me before Cortez decides I am trying to corrupt your soul by breathing the same air.”
Lyric allowed the edges of her lips to tug upward slightly at the remark. She stood. “It’s Lyric.”
Emilio turned his face to look up at the young woman, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.
“I think we’ve been through enough that you can use my given name, Doctor.”
Emilio nodded in appreciation.
She looked over to Esperanza and Jalin as they talked to the Assistant Conductor “Though you should mind who is within earshot when you do.”
“Oh, I quite understand,” he said.
As Lyric stepped away, she glanced back at Emilio poring over the map spread out before him. The gaslight’s glow cast fleeting shadows across his furrowed brow, a silent reminder of the burdens they both carried.
Bonilla's frustration seethed. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and unleashed his anger on the stack of blankets. Whispers among the staffers dubbed this a runaway ghost train—no communication, no brakes, and a complete lack of understanding on how to halt it.
In another lifetime, this might have been their golden ticket. But Guild procedures—oh, those wretched, binding procedures—were nooses fashioned from red tape, threatening to choke the very life from their mission.
Bonilla was not a man given to hatred. Hate was a luxury that devoured time and energy, leaving precious little room in one's mind for the truly important things. Like survival.
But in this case, he made an exception. He despised Procedure with every fiber of his being. Procedure was a relentless taskmaster, a demon that wore a suit and tie, stamping out the twin virtues of laziness and procrastination—the very qualities that allowed an assassin to blend into the shadows of normality before striking.
This damnable train, this iron beast of constancy, had become his nemesis. It should have been a proud symbol of punctuality and order. Instead, it refused to stop, barreling through stations and expectations alike with gleeful abandon.
It was… inconsistent.
Normally, Bonilla danced with inconsistency like an old lover. It was a human foible that often played into his hands, leaving cracks in the facade of normality through which he could slip unnoticed. But this particular brand of chaos was a wild card he hadn't anticipated, a joker laughing in the face of his carefully laid plans.
He had hoped the train's erratic behavior would create fissures in the rigid procedures, allowing him to inch closer to his quarry. But the staff, bless their mortal hearts, clung to their routines like drowning men to driftwood. Their eyes might betray quiet panic, but their actions remained as predictable as the ticking of a clock in a nightmare.
Each passing moment felt like a tightrope walk over an abyss of failure. Yet Bonilla's mind, honed by years of deception, kept him balanced, a master acrobat in the circus of subterfuge.
Their mission, on its surface as simple as a child's puzzle, was in truth a labyrinth of deadly intricacy. Arrive at the station (check), procure the camouflage of staff uniforms (check), and locate the target (in progress). Then would come the holy trinity of their craft: distract, dispatch, depart. The fly in the ointment was the valise, a seemingly ordinary bag that held secrets worth killing for. Bonilla didn't know what lay within, nor did he care to. Curiosity, after all, was a luxury afforded to cats and the soon-to-be-dead.
As the hands of time spun their relentless dance, the carefully woven tapestry of their plan began to fray. Herrera and Tita had vanished into the ether, their fates unknown. Had they sent the Inquisitors to meet their makers, or had they themselves been ushered into the afterlife? Their reputations suggested they'd choose a warrior's death over capture, so at least their secrets were safe, locked behind lips stilled by death or stubbornness.
Alvarez, ever the patient spider, waited in the dining car. All that remained was for Bonilla to spy their prey, to confirm that the lamb had indeed wandered into their slaughterhouse on wheels.
Timing, that fickle mistress, now danced just out of Bonilla's reach. The plan, once a beautifully crafted timepiece, now ticked with the erratic rhythm of a broken clock. He had envisioned their macabre ballet reaching its crescendo at Truitt Lake. Deeno Flats was to have been their dress rehearsal, a chance to ensure all the players knew their parts. From there, it would have been a simple matter of orchestrating their grim performance – the cleansing, the departure, all choreographed to the train's final whistle at Truitt station.
But Truitt had come and gone like so many forgotten dreams. They were now hurtling towards an uncertain future, the landscape outside a blur of possibilities. Bonilla could still salvage this with Alvarez's help, but the final notes had to be played before they reached the Northern Gate.
Guarded by the watchful eyes of uniformed men, who saw too much and understood too little, that portal offered slim hope of escape. Their only chance now lay in a daring leap before the train could reach that destination. The route ahead whispered promises of opportunity… small lakes like black mirrors reflecting the stars, rolling hills that could cradle secrets in their folds. But each option came with its own pitfalls.
A strange popping sound interrupted Bonilla's reverie. He gazed at his fist, half-expecting to see the bones of his hand rearranged into some eldritch sign. But no, his knuckles were merely reddened. Lifting the blankets revealed a ruined landscape of flesh that had once been a face painted now in shades of crimson and purple.
With delicate fingers that belied their recent savagery, Bonilla unpinned the golden scorpion pin from the corpse's collar. The tiny arachnid gleamed in the dim light, its metallic legs seeming to twitch with phantom life as he affixed it to his own uniform. This golden seal was more than mere decoration; it was a key to unlocking doors both literal and metaphorical in the rarified air of the First-Class car. Only those who had weathered the storms of service were granted this talisman.
As he gazed down at the crumpled form of the staffer, Bonilla felt no stirring of pity. The man had been a prick, the kind of petty tyrant who derived joy from wielding the smallest morsels of power. He had taken it upon himself to escort Bonilla back to the Sleeper car, like a parent dragging a misbehaving child. The sharp chop to the throat left the man gasping. The subsequent pummeling with blankets had been... less artistic, perhaps, but satisfying.
With practiced ease, he folded the body into the cabinet. The blankets followed, covering sins both fresh and premeditated. As he closed the door, Bonilla mused that cabinets on trains were rather like secrets – best left shut, lest their contents spill out at inopportune moments.
Bonilla straightened his jacket, each movement a brushstroke in completing his disguise.
It was time to dance.
Failsafe
Esteban urged his horse forward, each gallop bringing him closer to the station looming ahead. Behind him, the 505 had vanished into the distance. Time was running short, and he knew it.
The station buzzed with activity. Angry voices filled the air, their owners united in their frustration at a train that had failed to arrive. Amid the human chaos, large steers swayed on their tethers, adding their low bellows to the cacophony of discontent.
Esteban ignored the commotion, his eyes fixed on the stables. Two women emerged from the shadows, their riding gear marking them as fellow travelers of long roads. The Guild's sigil adorned their saddlebags, a silent marker of their allegiance.
"You the messenger from Deeno Flats?" one asked, her tone heavy with expectation.
Esteban replied cautiously, "Quick is the secret..."
The women's eyes lit up, and they finished the phrase in unison:
"To find its home, but..."
"...only by those that refuse to speak it."
The tension eased, identities confirmed. Esteban dismounted, his legs adjusting to solid ground.
"I'm Esteban Marquez," he said. "The Station Director's expecting these." He patted his satchel meaningfully.
"Emma Durango," said one sister, her voice dry. "And Mona," she added, nodding to her twin. "We'll escort you to North Gate Archive once you're done here."
Esteban raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He strode into the station, leaving the sisters to wait.
Inside, the station was a testament to Mechanist ingenuity. Whirling fans kept the air moving, their constant motion almost hypnotic. A well-stocked commissary lined one wall, its shelves filled with food and other necessities. Clocks of various sizes dotted the walls, each displaying the time in different parts of the Imperium. Pipes ran along the ceiling and baseboards, disappearing into unknown recesses of the building.
The Director's office sat at the heart of this mechanical wonder. Esteban entered to find three men absorbed in comparing notes and numbers, their murmured calculations creating a soft backdrop of sound.
"Director," Esteban said, his voice cutting through their concentration. "I bring this from Deeno Flats." He held out the leather folder, suddenly aware of its potential importance.
The youngest of the three men accepted the folder with visible reluctance. He opened it on a nearby rolling tray and pushed it towards the others. "Sir," he said, his tone laden with unspoken implications.
The eldest leaned over the open folder, his eyes narrowing as he examined the contents. "This penmanship is atrocious. Is that Olivares? By the gods, you'd think she'd have learned to write properly by now."
The three men studied the notes intently, the silence in the office broken only by the soft ticking of numerous clocks. Finally, they looked up at Esteban, acknowledging his presence with a slight nod.
"You may pass these on to your associates," the eldest said, his voice dry and disinterested. "They've been instructed to take them to the Northern Gate for archiving."
Esteban blinked, confusion evident on his face. "Is that all? Aren't you going to do anything about the situation?"
The eldest raised an eyebrow. "Do what, young man? The 505 will arrive here shortly and be assessed for repairs. Our calculations indicate it will stop in the next five minutes. You are dismissed."
"How?" Marquez asked, rooted to the spot.
"I beg your pardon?" the eldest replied, his words clipped.
"I asked how you plan to stop the train," Marquez persisted.
The youngest of the three stepped forward, his face a mask of polite disdain. "I fail to see how that's any of your concern, sir," he said, the last word tinged with false politeness. "This isn't some outdated Messenger relic. This is a Mechanist train, equipped with technological fail-safes beyond your understanding. We have the situation under control. As Director Cole has said, you are dismissed."
"That may be a Mechanist train," Esteban said firmly, "but Messenger Guild members are staffing it. That makes it my concern." He stood his ground, eyes locked with the youngest man, his thumb hooked on his belt. The gesture was clear, and the three men understood its implication without words.
"Perhaps some clarification is in order, along with introductions," the second man said smoothly. He gestured to Esteban.
"Marquez. Esteban Marquez," he offered.
"Assistant Director Lopez, at your service," the man replied with a slight nod. "This is Station Director Cole," he continued, indicating the older man. "And our colleague here is Mr. Perry, our Personnel Manager. Mr. Perry, you should get going now."
Perry bowed his head formally to Lopez and Cole, then turned to Esteban. "Happy learning, sir," he said, his tone barely concealing his disdain.
Before Esteban could respond, Lopez spoke. "Tell me, Mr. Marquez, what do you know of electro charges?"
"Next to nothing," Esteban admitted, "but you have my curiosity."
"Curiosity!" Lopez exclaimed, his face brightening. "Curiosity is essential for all Mechanists! It's what led to our early warning system for trains." His words came quickly, full of enthusiasm. "The 505 has no front windows for the engineer. That space is dedicated to a specialized engine. No need for coal, water, or steam. We've removed all unnecessary elements, leaving only power."
Director Cole interjected, his voice calmer than Lopez's. "The 505 missed two stations, likely due to faulty connection points. We can't reach the engineer or crew, but one thing remains reliable - the electro charges."
"Imagine a constant static charge running ahead of the train," Lopez continued, "about 30 yards in advance. If anything blocks the track - a tree, cattle - the charges are disrupted. This triggers a fail-safe, stopping the engine's power immediately."
"Outside," Cole added, his tone suggesting finality, "Mr. Perry is leading some borrowed cattle onto the track. In two minutes, the 505 will encounter this barrier, and Mechanist innovation will demonstrate its effectiveness."
Perry and a group of pale-faced cattlehands led the massive animals onto the track. Perry sat on his horse in the middle, clearly visible from the Station Director's window.
Esteban glanced at one of the many clocks in the room. Each second seemed to pass slowly. The rumble of the approaching train grew louder, maintaining its speed.
"Directors," Marquez said urgently, "you need to tell him to clear the track. The 505 will not stop."
"Nonsense, sir," Lopez replied, his voice strained. "This is all under control!"
But the train did not stop.
What followed was horrific. The train plowed through the animals without slowing. Screams filled the air as the 505 continued its relentless journey.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the train was gone, leaving behind a scene of devastation.
Cole and Lopez stood motionless, their faces ashen. Esteban forced himself to look away from the carnage.
"Director," he said, his voice sounding odd in the sudden quiet, "you need to send a message to the Northern Gate."
"It... it should have stopped," Cole muttered. "The science... the science..."
Esteban grabbed Lopez's shoulder, turning him around. "Lopez! Look at me," he said firmly. The sudden movement seemed to bring Lopez back to awareness.
"What... what do we do?" Lopez asked, his eyes focusing on Esteban.
Esteban looked at the map on the wall. "Send a message to your Mechanists who know about your trains," he said. "The rail goes through the valley wetlands in Carolina, then climbs to reach the Northern Gate, right?"
"Yes... that's correct," Lopez replied. "Why? Is that important?"
"Does the train slow down when it goes uphill here?" Marquez asked, his finger tracing the steep terrain on the map as if it might come to life under his touch.
Lopez blinked, his mind visibly refocusing, like a camera lens adjusting to a new, harsh reality. "Yes... yes, it does. To save fuel and avoid overheating, if the instruments detect a significant elevation change, the engineer reduces the engine's speed."
"And if the engineer is... unable to do so?" Marquez asked carefully, each word weighted with unspoken possibilities. "Or if the instruments aren't working?"
Lopez swallowed, his eyes drifting upward as if searching the ceiling for answers hidden in the plaster. "If the engineer can't manually lessen the power, the engine will automatically shut down if it nears overheating. However, there needs to be a constant release of the pressure or..." His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence dangling like a man at the end of a rope.
"Or what?" Marquez demanded, his words sharp enough to cut through the silence.
"Or the engine will superheat and explode," Lopez replied, his voice barely above a whisper, "more than likely derailing the train."
Marquez sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of lives hanging in the balance. "And the instruments?"
"They're internally built into the engine's design. The engine wouldn't work if they weren't functional and vice versa."
"Then we need to act fast." Marquez's pen scratched across paper, the sound like a mouse trying to gnaw its way out of a trap. "Tell your people to get to Plaza de Piedra as soon as possible. It's a Guild Outpost. Tell them everything and that they need to work with my Guild to find a way to stop it before that engine blows."
"Mr. Marquez, where are you going?" Lopez asked, his voice tinged with the desperation of a man watching his world unravel.
Esteban grabbed the leather folder, a talisman against the chaos unfolding around them. "There are outposts along the way. Everyone needs to know, and if we're lucky, we might find another way to slow it down. I don't have to go through the valley. I can beat the train to Piedra if I take a fresh horse."
As Marquez nudged Lopez towards the telegraph, a final, chilling thought occurred to the Assistant Director. "We thought Olivares was overreacting... but she said there was a possible ghoul infestation aboard. Do you... do you think…?"
"Type the message," Marquez cut him off, his words sharp as a knife's edge. "Alert the Outpost, Gate, and every other stop. Tell them everything."
As Marquez turned away, the air in the room grew thick, as if reality itself was condensing around the weight of their knowledge. A train full of ghouls, an overheating engine, countless lives balanced on a razor's edge – it was a nightmare conjured from the unholy union of progress and hubris, careening towards an uncertain future. And Marquez, armed with nothing but a leather folder and his wits, was about to race against the clock, the train, and perhaps fate itself.
Stepping out of the station office, Marquez found himself in a world transformed. The Durango sisters stood frozen, their faces mirrors of shock, while the remaining cattlemen scrambled among the dead and dying beasts. Perry and his horse had vanished.
A sharp whistle cut through the air, snapping the sisters to attention. Marquez's words tumbled out, urgent and heavy with purpose. "Our job's not done. Hit every post towards the Northern Gate. Any building with a telegraph, relay the message. That iron monster isn't stopping the Mechanist way, so we need another solution. We're meeting at Plaza de Piedra. Lopez is sending word, but it won't be enough. If anyone has ideas, tell them to act now, ask forgiveness later. Safety of those on board is paramount – derailing is not an option. Understood?"
