Middle of Nowhere (55 page)

While one hand stirred the chili with a red plastic stir stick, a shadow drew his attention. Shifting shadows were routine in a boxcar; it was the shadows that did not move that attracted one’s attention. But this shadow was caused by something—someone—on the
outside
of the boxcar; it—he—moved slowly, boldly negotiating on the outside of a moving freight. Alvarez alerted himself to trouble—some drunken or crazed rider, no doubt, catching a whiff of the chili. It was no easy feat, what this man was doing—inching along the boxcar’s exterior; it implied someone strong, or hungry enough to risk life and limb for a can of chili. Alvarez rose to block the door, but too late. The heavy door slid open—a one-handed move!—another near impossible feat.

Alvarez stepped back. The faceless visitor, silhouetted in the dark opening, stood tall and broad, a big son of a bitch, with a football player’s neck. This man reached for his belt and a flashlight came on, blinding Alvarez, who felt another wave of dread: maybe not a rider but a security guard, or even a cop. The feds had cracked down on riders since one recently had been arrested for butchering people in seven different states.
Hobo Homicide!
one of the headlines had read.
The Railroad Killer,
on the TV news.

“Smells good,” the visitor said in a friendly enough tone, the voice low and dry. He did not sound winded by his effort.

The comment confused Alvarez slightly, lessened his anxiety. Maybe this guy was just trying to invite himself to dinner. But then again, that flashlight was oddly bright, too bright. Sure, some riders carried penlights, even flashlights. But one with fresh batteries? Never. Not once had Alvarez seen that. Discarded batteries were scrounged out of Dumpsters, the last few volts eked out of them. If a rider had two bucks in his pocket it went to booze, cigarettes, reefer, or food—usually in that order. Not batteries. The crisp brightness of that light cautioned Alvarez. Heat flooded him. Finally warm.

“You alone?” the visitor asked.

Alvarez had long since learned to keep his mouth shut, and he did so now. Most of the time people tended to fill the dead air, and in the process they revealed more about themselves than they intended.

The bright light stung his eyes. Alvarez looked away, the chili boiling at his feet.

“You Mexican?” his visitor asked. The man’s round face was now partially visible. A white man, with the nose of a boxer and the brow of a Neanderthal.

Riders beat the stuffing out of one another for the damnedest reasons. Most of the time it had little to do with reason—just the need to hit something, someone. Maybe this guy rode the rails looking for Mexicans to pummel. Again, Alvarez glanced down at the simmering chili.

“Or maybe,” the visitor suggested, “your father was Spanish, and your mother, Italian.”

As a part-time rider, Alvarez had learned to live with fear, had learned to compartmentalize it, shrink it, rid it of its power to seize control. You couldn’t be fighting fear and someone else simultaneously, so you learned to let the fear roll off your back. But what he felt now wasn’t fear, it was terror.

He knows who I am!

There was little he could do about terror. Terror, once allowed inside, owned you. There was no fighting off real terror. Survivors could harness it, redirect it, but could never be rid of it. Terror had to be dealt with quickly or it would freeze every muscle.

Alvarez bent down and launched the boiling chili into the visitor’s face. He charged, hoping to drive the man out the open door. But behind the ghoulish scream, as his face burned, the man produced a nightstick or a sap, connecting it with the side of Alvarez’s face. He felt his nose crack and he spewed blood. Alvarez faltered, regained himself, and turned, diving for the small stove. Coming to his feet, he waved it as a weapon, prepared to strike.

This would be a fight to the finish. Alvarez knew it before the next blow landed.