End of the Line, page 7
“A warding circle,” Esperanza replied. She shifted to interpose herself in between Emilio and Jalin. “He was bound and unconscious, Cortez. Someone else did this.”
“More than one of you.” Jalin smiled at Emilio. “I can’t wait to meet them.” His menacing smile faltered as the color drained from his face. His knees buckled slightly.
“Cortez!” Lyric called and reached to brace him, only to find Kane’s quick hands already there.
“You’ve lost too much blood for this bravado, Inquisitor. We need to get some liquids into you.” He looked at Lyric. “You said the dining car should be coming up soon?”
Lyric nodded. “Based on the shape of the cars, I think there may be two more ahead of us before then.”
Emilio cocked his head to the side. “Are you a fan of the rail, Miss?” he asked.
“My younger brother studied them when we were children. Our home was littered with toy rail cars growing up.”
Emilio nodded appreciatively.
Jalin struggled weakly against Emilio. He relinquished the brace of Jalin to the Inquisitor’s retinue.
“Inquisitor, I know you couldn’t care less what I say, but I am telling you as a doctor - if a fight is coming, you need to take your time and save your strength."
Jalin’s response made it clear that he did not appreciate medical advice from a monster. He mumbled something unintelligible before forcing himself to stand on his own feet.
“Voca, take the lead.” He nodded at Esperanza.
“Very good,” Esperanza replied politely. “Doctor, you will be behind me, then Miss Wax. Cortez, please guard the rear. We will advance into the next car, check for a functioning means of communication or additional staff, and see if we can locate the Conductor. If this is the Cult of Bone, they will not hesitate to make a second attempt on us. If we are not the targets of this plan, we need to discover who is. Above all else we must do one thing.”
“Stop this train.”
Tita felt like a fly caught in molasses.
The doctor's medicine dulled the edges of the pain but refused to fully claim her. A lifetime spent flirting with poisons made her well-acquainted with wooziness, a dance she could manage. Strangulations, a messy but necessary tactic to preserve uniforms, now offered a morbid advantage. Mimicking a victim required only a visit to familiar scars, etched from years-old performances.
Herrera had sacrificed himself, but not in vain. She'd learned much: four hostiles with their best fighter down as a result of Herrera’s actions. The brake stick remained tantalizingly close in the cattle car. The opposition consisted of a Manos, a Voca, an Escritora, and a white-haired Doctor with strange green eyes, all under the Inquisition's banner.
Tita feigned unconsciousness as their physician went about his gruesome work. They spoke in hushed tones, a charade for "Ms. Reina's" benefit. Serena Reina, a name she borrowed for Eater's business, belonged to her father's long-forgotten mistress. A woman, hopefully still alive, who Tita cursed with every borrowed breath.
The conversation was a maddening stream of half-caught words: tools, the cars behind... then a chilling mention of spirits, some Inquisitorial nonsense no doubt. But the next thing she knew, the doctor was wielding the train's safety axe like a butcher, and cleaving the heads off of the deceased staff members.
A man who could sever heads with such ease couldn't be a simple doctor. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been swayed by the truth of the Bone Eater, but that bridge had long since burned.
Silence from the next car finally settled, lending a balm to her tense muscles. With the stealth of a wraith, she unlocked the door, peering into the empty sitting room. Back to the rear of the car, then to fetch the brake stick from the cattle car and search the forward cars for assistance.
The stench of death, familiar yet strangely different, rolled in as she opened the rear door to the platform. A flicker of hope, maybe Herrera had survived the Manos. With a practiced hop, she landed on the platform and yanked the lock free. The smell intensified, a cloying sweetness that clawed at her throat. Ignoring it, she wrenched open the heavy door.
Gone was the wounded Herrera. In his place, a nightmare. Pale eyes, dozens of them, stared back from emaciated faces. Hands, a writhing mass of them, reached out. The sedative's haze, combined with the horrific scene, rendered her slow. Pain, a searing inferno, erupted as countless mouths tore into her flesh.
In that final, agonizing moment, the Voca's words echoed in her mind, no longer garbled. Not "tools," but "ghouls." What madness had brought them onto this train?
A single, toothy maw filled her vision, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of pain as the undead claimed their prize.
Deeno Flats
The waiting room thrummed with energy. A man's voice squealed like a rusty hinge. A woman's outrage echoed through the cavernous space. Somewhere, a baby wailed, an omen of warning hidden among the children's laughter bouncing off the grimy walls.
Christina Olivares, Station Director, hunkered down in her office. She ignored the primal urge to bellow back at the yellers… they didn't see the bigger picture scrawled across her desk in frantic scribbles. A train that wouldn't stop wasn't just a missed visit to Grandma's; it was a runaway iron beast, a potential harbinger of doom.
While the rabble outside raged, Christina issued orders with brisk efficiency. The leather folder, fat with instructions, felt heavy in her hand. Esteban Marquez, the Guild Messenger assigned to this dust bowl of a station, scowled at her from the doorway. A shotgun rested in its leather hand-tooled scabbard across his back, a constant companion in this ghoul-infested land.
"Director? Can't you see I'm busy?" He rasped, his voice rough as desert sand.
Christina caught a whiff of something foul, a fleeting but potent odor of decay. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her with a prickling unease. "Esteban," she said, urgency lacing her voice, "grab your fastest horse and get this to Sandoval Pass."
Estaban frowned and accepted the folder.
"At its current rate, the train will pass you by the time it hits the stop in Truitt Lake, but you should be able to make up time if you cut through DeMarlo Woods. Your priority is to beat the 505 to the Sandoval Pass."
He flinched at the name of the next station, a place notorious for bandit raids and worse. "You can't be serious, woman! Did you not smell that?"
"It doesn't matter," Christina pressed, shoving the folder into his reluctant hand. "The 505 is a ghost train, Esteban. No brakes, no signal… a two-hundred-twenty ton nightmare barreling down the tracks. We need to warn everyone!"
Marquez's face contorted in a mix of annoyance and grim acceptance. "Why not your fancy telegraph machine?" he spat, bitterness clinging to his words. "They promised it was faster than us Guild Messengers, didn't they?"
Christina swallowed the retort. Now wasn't the time for petty squabbles. "Look, Esteban," she said, her voice low, "we can't take chances. Lives are at stake. I'll get the footmen to scout for ghouls, but those people on the 505 need you to be their guardian angel. Now get moving!"
The defiance in his eyes flickered, replaced by the gleam of duty. "The Guild will do its part," he muttered, snatching the folder and striding out.
Usually, she would have warned the Guildsman for the insult, but now was not the time for admonishments. There were too many lives at stake. Clutching the drawing compass that hung from her belt, she ran her thumb across its frame. She hoped the Mechanists were not to blame as she made a silent prayer to Geekind, the Child God of Creation.
Back inside, she sat at the telegraph, the rhythm of her tapping a counterpoint to the pounding of her heart. The Guildsman was a backup, a redundancy. The telegraph was supposed to be the swift answer. But the 505 had failed to trigger the "handshake," a ten-minute courtesy call from the Mechanists. It worked for their steam engines and their newfangled Railed Gear Cars. When the ever-reliable 505 didn't ping, she sent a footman to investigate. He returned pale-faced, the spotter confirming the train had passed the marker showing no signs of slowing. No way to know if it was the marker or the train itself. Then, silence from the telegraph connector. That's when Christina truly panicked. A simple glitch, or a cascading system failure?
Better safe than sorry. She composed a stark message, fingers flying over the keys.
ST27-TO-ST29_STOP_505-DIRE-MAL_STOP_SIDELINE-ALL-ACTIVE-RAILS_STOP_INFO-IN-ROUTE_STOP
A sliver of fear pricked her heart. No sign of ghoul rot now, but what if...? Sending another message, she prayed it wasn't too late.
ST27-TO-ST29_STOP_505-POSS-G-INFECT_STOP_REC-FULL-SAFE-PCAUTION_STOP
“Who the hell are you and why are you on my train?!” The old man shouted. The name tag on his uniform screamed CONDUCTOR. Lyric was grateful for Esperanza’s silver tongue in that moment. Jalin's diplomacy usually involved a well-oiled pistol, but the Voca could talk a troll out of a bridge toll.
The Conductor was all sharp angles and controlled tension. His uniform, though worn, held itself together with an air of quiet pride. It sat on him like a second skin, bespoke for a life spent barking orders and wrangling chaos. An assassin? Maybe. But Lyric's gut sang a different tune. This man's body language spoke of rheumatism and a lifetime spent hauling, not skulking in the shadows.
"Apologies, Conductor," Voca's voice cut through the air. "Voca Esperanza Boyorquez, Inquisition of Hil, at your service. We were... misplaced in your rearmost car."
The Conductor narrowed his eyes. "Impossible. The caboose is for the cattlemen and their beasts. There’s no Inquisition on my manifest."
Lyric and Esperanza exchanged a worried glance, but before either could speak, Jalin stepped forward. "Seems there's a lot you don't know, old man. Now move aside before we make you move."
The Conductor's spine stiffened. "I won't be bullied, boy! You lot are going nowhere near the engine car." As if on cue, four porters stood from their seats in the baggage car. They weren't in staffer uniforms – these were utilitarian clothes, built for a purpose. Not assassins, then. But loyal, that much was clear from the way they bristled at the Conductor's command.
Just then, the unmistakable click of a pistol being drawn shattered the tense calm. Lyric whirled around to see Jalin, face thunderous, his gun glinting in the dim light. This wouldn't end well.
"Gods' teeth, Cortez, put that away!" Emilio hissed. "We've got enough trouble without turning this into a shooting gallery."
Jalin sneered. "Shut your trap, Kane."
The Conductor's voice cut through the bickering. "Trouble? What trouble?"
Lyric met his gaze. "We believe the train's been sabotaged."
"And why, pray tell, would you believe that?"
"Because, sir," Lyric began, "we weren't on the manifest. Yet, here we are, writs and vouchers declaring the caboose as our quarters until the Northern Gate. The problem is, the doors were sealed shut from the outside, and the brake lines were limp. We tried to alert the engine car – nothing. Electrovox dead, brake lines useless. Top that off with the fact you're not hauling cattle, but a good score of ghouls, and you've got yourself a situation, wouldn't you say?"
The pistol did little to faze the Conductor or his men. But Lyric's words hung heavy in the air. The Conductor licked his lips, his composure cracking. "Ghouls? Why haven't they attacked, then?"
"Let me answer that," Emilio piped up, stepping forward.
All eyes turned to the disheveled doctor. "And why would you know, sir?" the Conductor rumbled.
"Doctor Emilio Kane, at your service." he bowed, a touch too deeply. "Authorized Necromist for The Reach."
The bravado drained from the porters' faces, replaced by a primal fear. Even the Conductor seemed to shrink a little. Lyric stole a glance at Emilio, who appeared unfazed, as if this little dance of terror was a daily routine.
"They haven't attacked," Emilio continued, "because they are bound. I was able to glance into the cattle cars… they were all standing in a binding circle. Someone knew what they were doing."
Jalin muttered something under his breath about dropping Emilio in for a closer look.
Ignoring him, Lyric pressed on. "We have one of your people in the staff car. Unconscious, but maybe one of your men could fetch her? She might know more about what happened."
A burly porter named Ryan shook his head violently. "No way in hell I'm going near those forsaken things."
The Conductor turned and snapped at the man. "Silence, Ryan! Are you a Guild man or no?"
"Why can't they bring her here?" Ryan shot back, gesturing at the group. "There's enough of you lot."
"Well," Lyric said, her voice dropping to a low murmur, "Inquisitor Cortez here" – she flicked a glance at Jalin, who scowled back – "had a bit of a disagreement with an assassin on the way to the staff car. Seems the fellow decided to take a rather permanent…nap … courtesy of Jalin's pistol. Our Physician,” she nodded toward Emilio, who nodded politely back, “...is needed here to tend to his wounds. Our Voca was able to stabilize your crew member’s injuries.” She focused her gaze on the Porter, her green eyes hardening, “And more importantly, the four of us just finished climbing across the top of two cattle cars, narrowly avoiding falling through the ceiling of one, battling an assassin, and discovering that this whole train may be compromised. I believe my team has done their fair share of both protection and discovery at this juncture… is it too much to ask you to recover your wounded teammate?”
The Conductor's face had gone the color of a poorly cured ham. He ran a hand over his bald head, sweat beading on his brow. With a sigh that rattled his chest, he said, "Ryan, Marcos, get the emergency gurney from my office. Double-time it back to the staff car and bring that woman here, wounded or not. We may be a Mechanist train, but we are still true Guild men and don't leave our own behind. You lot," he gestured towards Lyric and her companions, his voice tinged with weariness, "come with me. We've got a lot to discuss, and precious little time to do it."
Tickets Please
There were no windows in the Luggage Car. Gas lamps, perpetually on the verge of sputtering out, cast flickering shadows that danced across mountains of luggage. Unlike the Staff, who sipped lukewarm tea in the previous car, these Guildsmen were bound to their burdens.
They slept on narrow cots wedged between steamer trunks and dented valises, the rhythmic groans of the engine their lullaby and the unseen things that lurked in the tunnels beyond their only companions. It wasn't a life for the faint of heart. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of sweat and the cloying scent of old leather. Yet, for many, it was also a badge of honor, a testament to their wanderlust.
Some were young, their eyes glittering with the cartographer's dream of etching every twist and turn of the track onto their very souls. Others were weathered veterans, their faces etched with the cynicism of a thousand wrong turns and the ghosts of a thousand forgotten stations. All, however, bore the silver sigil of the Guild, and all answered to the iron fist of the Conductor, a man as imposing as the engine itself.
Lyric had gambled on the presence of the Porters, would the train have them? If so, they would surely be in the next car. But the Conductor… that was a stroke of twisted luck entirely. He would be able to sniff out an imposter in a stolen uniform faster than a starving ghoul could scent fresh carrion. He was also a walking archive of Guild lore, a man who could read a passenger's intent from the scuff of their boots. An invaluable asset, then, but a dangerous one too.
The assassins, cloaked in borrowed skins and borrowed lives, would surely want him silenced for the same reasons.
The Porters, a hulking, unshakable wall of muscle and grime, parted for Lyric and her companions as they followed the Conductor deeper into the cavernous luggage car. Row upon row of trunks and valises lined the walls, each meticulously labeled with faded ribbons. Some bore the muted hues of distant lands, whispers of forgotten journeys… a deep crimson that spoke of the sun-baked deserts of the South, a faded turquoise that hinted at the turquoise waters of the West. A pang of memory stabbed at Lyric's heart, a memory of her mother tying a similar ribbon in her hair before their first train ride, a journey east to visit long-lost kin. The laughter, the excited chatter, felt like a lifetime ago, swallowed whole by the relentless symphony of steel and steam that pulsed through the train.
The Conductor shrugged off his massive coat and hung his garment on a hook with a reverence that bordered on worship. He then settled himself behind a small scarred desk. Stacks of worn ledgers and manifests rose like miniature skyscrapers, held down by paperweights and memories.
"Tickets please," he rasped.
Lyric unslung her bag to fish out their travel vouchers, paper thin and worn at the edges. As she handed them over, the Conductor's gaze sharpened. His eyes flicked across the numbers, a silent language only he could understand.
"Where did you board?" he finally asked.
"Carver's Town," Lyric replied. "We were… issued vouchers by the Order. From there, a brief stop at Outpost Janus, then Cruce, for supplies."
"And your party?" He leaned forward, the lamp casting grotesque shadows across his face.
"Just us four. The Order provided the vouchers, we exchanged them for these tickets."
The Conductor grabbed a book bound in red leather and opened it. He flipped through a manifest, his brow furrowing. "Manifest says a dozen cattlemen. Caboose is usually Staff only, but seems someone bought their way in, hoping for a comfortable ride. Names and ticket numbers here, but…,” his eyes slid up to Lyric. “You are certainly no Mateo Hinds.” He resumed his examination of the documents. “They boarded in Carver's, livestock added at Cruce de Águilas. Irregular, that's for damn sure."
Esperanza, ever the pragmatist, cut through the tension. "Forgive the interruption, but have we persons of interest aboard? Given our recent… encounter."
Lyric saw the glint in the Voca's eye, the unspoken plea. "Yes, there might be passengers in danger. Potential targets…"
