The Black Train (12 page)

A pistol barrel touches your temple. “Private, if you do not shoot that escaping prisoner, I will kill you right now and put
your hair
in with the next batch!”

I’m not going to do it,
you think but nevertheless you take a breath, let half of it out, and squeeze the trigger. The hammer snaps, striking the brass primer cap, and after a split-second delay, the musket tries to leap out of your hand. Black powder blows the .69-caliber smoothbore minié ball out of the muzzle with a deafening boom and a belch of smoke.

Your eyes were closed when you squeezed the trigger but you hear a faint
thwack!
and a child’s shriek.

The lieutenant is fanning gun smoke with his hat. “Fine shot, Private! You hit that kid right in the back even as she was turnin’!”

Your eyes sting like fire. You see the small nude body quivering in the grass. For a few seconds she hacks out some sobs—“Mommy! Daddy!”—then:

Silence.

“What’s your name, Private?”

The answer grinds out, “Collier, Justin. Third Corp, sir.”

Did the lieutenant’s eyes seem tinged yellow? “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

Your throat is nearly squeezed shut, and in the back of your head a voice whispers,
You killed a child, you killed a child…
and the words come out of your mouth with no awareness, “Fredericksburg and both Bull Runs, sir.” But you only wish you could reload and kill yourself right there.

“
Damn
fine shooting, Private.” A slap on the back. “Now get some nigrahs to recover the body and resume your post.”

You stare into the field and drone, “Yes…”

“…sir…”

Collier lay atop the sheets in a trembling rigor, eyes peeled in dread. A cold sweat thick as honey seemed to sheen him. Confusion came first; then his stomach tightened when images from the dream illuminated in his head.
Holy SHIT, that was the most disgusting nightmare of my life…

He tried to swallow but couldn’t; then he found he couldn’t move, either, the dream having crushed him like a collapsed ceiling. The image snapped brighter in his brain: a gut-sucked nude woman with parchment white flesh shuddering and in tears as a pair of iron
shears identical to those he’d seen in the display intricately snip-snip-snipped off all of her hair.
Like the Nazis,
he thought.

Did the Confederates really do such things? Had he read that somewhere?

Or had his mind generated the entire atrocity?

I must really be fucked up to have a dream like that…

Indeed.

He still couldn’t move; he felt half suffocated. His chest rose and fell as he heaved in air—

Holy shit!

—and immediately noticed a figure standing next to the bed.

Collier’s heart quaked. His brain told him to roll off the bed and turn on the lamp but—

The dream paralysis only hardened around him.

Who are you!
he tried to shout but his throat was just as paralyzed. Grainy darkness filled the room like smoke. The figure’s head seemed bowed. It seemed to stand there looking down at him for full minutes, and then suddenly its pose snapped. The figure’s head was leaning toward his face.

Collier’s body clenched when a mouth locked to his and a fervent, hot tongue began to churn over his lips. His own lips parted against his will, to allow his tongue to be sucked. The action was fastidious, almost machinelike, and then petite yet insistent fingers toggled his nipples. The forced kiss sent wet smacking sounds about the dim room.

The clash of opposites couldn’t have been more profound: terror and arousal. The shapely shadow figure manipulated itself above him; then eager, deft hands pulled his shorts down and dabbled with his genitals.
I’ve got to get up!
Collier thought.
I’ve got to find out who this is…

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t budge.

Now the figure slid over his hips; he could tell—thank
God—that the intruder was a woman, and a rather insistent one. Collier’s arousal
strained;
then the figure adjusted itself and suddenly he was engaged in intercourse with someone he couldn’t identify.

The figure’s hips began to stroke up and down over Collier’s helpless member. He remained lain out on his back as this person
took
him in the dark. He heard the faintest moans as his own climax impinged. Bedsprings creaked as the rhythm rose…

The dream rigor released just moments before he’d orgasm; his hand shot out and turned on the light.

It was Lottie, grinning down at him.

Reason of the most unpleasant sort flooded his awareness once the paralysis was gone—

Lottie continued riding him, her grinning face bearing down, and he was pretty sure she mouthed these words:
Knock me up!

More terror, then, as more awareness returned. Collier heaved her hips off him, severing the coitus. “Damn it, Lottie! You don’t just sneak into a guy’s room and start…
doing
him!”

She giggled silently.

He snapped his shorts back up over the straining erection.
Knock me up,
he thought in the worst dread. At least he’d interrupted the intercourse before he’d climaxed but still, he knew that was no guarantee. Errant sperms in preejaculatory fluid could indeed make women pregnant—couldn’t they?—and making
Lottie
pregnant was a prospect he shuddered to contemplate.

“You have to get out of here, Lottie!”

She shook her head. Collier had to snatch her hand away when she reached for his groin.

“Get out, get out, get out!” he half shouted, but only now did he take full note of her trim, toned naked body.
Christ
…She leaned over him, still tipsy, and began to rub his chest.

“Just—stop. No more of this, okay? I’m not in the
mood; I just had an awful nightmare.” But even as he said it, the ghastly nightmare’s pall took a backseat to more primal impulses. “Go back to your room, just—” But his lust kept tipping. He stared slack-jawed at her bonbonsize nipples atop the ripe-fruit breasts. The tight stomach curved down…

Finish the job!
that other voice said.
What’s WRONG with you!

His hand began to rise to a breast, but then retracted…

Have some common sense for once!
he berated himself. “Lottie, no. We can’t do this, it’s not right. You’re still drunk, and your mother’s already mad enough at you, so just go back to your room!” He pushed her back with some urgency.

I love you!
her silent lips told him.

Collier groaned.
There’s always something, isn’t there?
“Lottie, look, you can’t possibly love me.”

She wagged her head up and down.

“We’ve only known each other a few hours, and besides, I live in California, and I’m married.”

She shrugged energetically, still drunk but enlivened by him. She got on her knees at the bedside and began to rub the inside of his thighs.

Collier grabbed her hands again.
This is a lawsuit waiting to happen,
he knew.
And—shit!—what if she really DOES get pregnant? I’d be ruined.
He wanted her out of here so he could simply go back to bed. But he didn’t want to be caustic, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
What a pain in the ass.
“Lottie, you’re a beautiful girl but this
can’t
happen again. You understand that, right?”

Now she frowned, and the frown turned sad.

Collier got up, put on his robe, and wrapped her up in a clean bedsheet from the dresser. “Come on, you have to go.” He opened the door and stepped out with her. It was his very best luck that no one else stood in the hall to see them.

“Just go to bed now,” he began. “You had too much to drink tonight, and that’s why this happened. You’ll feel better tomorrow…”

But then he paused as the words left his lips because he heard something.

From the bedroom,
he felt sure.

A voice from the bedroom. Very light.

A
woman’s
voice. A drifting accent…

“Come on, sweetie, there’s one more thing ya gotta do for me.”

Then a rougher voice, a man’s. “I’m done, now I gotta get out’a here.”

“No, no, not yet. Do it—you know.”

Collier’s hands froze on Lottie’s shoulders.

Who the hell is in my bedroom!

His eyes beseeched Lottie’s. “Did you hear that?”

But all Lottie could offer was the familiar drunken grin.

Collier pulled himself back into the room. Looked around.

There was no one there.

But what did he expect?
I know I heard voices,
he told himself. It sounded like they were coming from here but…

Had someone come into the room, then left just as quickly, all in the few seconds he’d been standing outside the door with Lottie? Was there some alternate entrance?

All right. I’m just tired. I heard some voices through the air duct, from another room is all.

The stair hall remained clear. “Go to bed, Lottie,” he whispered. “And hurry. Someone could see us out here.”

Lottie, ever grinning, headed drunkenly down the stair hall.

“Do it! You know! Like last time…”

The drifting female voice again.

“Who the hell’s here?” Collier barged back into his room.

The bedroom remained empty.

He brought his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes.

Jesus, I’m cracking up.

But now,
now,
he heard something else. A panting sound?

Like a dog panting.

Collier’s hands slowly lowered.

By the baseboard, a small, ugly dog snuffled. Was it eating? Now came licking sounds…

Collier stared in disbelief.

How the hell did a dog get in here!

It was lean, mud colored, a mongrel. It didn’t seem aware of Collier as it snuffled around the baseboard.

Collier, unmindful of how this might look, loped after Lottie and caught up with her just before she’d start downstairs. He grabbed her arm and looked right into her eyes.

“Lottie. Do you have a dog?”

She shook her head no.

“Do any guests have pets with them?”

Another shake.

He scratched his head. “There’s a dog in my room, Lottie. First I heard it, then I
saw
it.”

Lottie’s grin disappeared. Very slowly, she shook her head no.

“Just…come and see so I know I’m not going nuts.” And then he guided her sheet-draped form back to his bedroom door, opened it, and took her in.

No dog was present.

“That’s…crazy,” Collier mumbled. “First I heard voices, then—I swear—I heard and saw a dog.”

Lottie tightened the sheets around her body, slipped back out of the room, and scurried away.

It was now that Collier’s drunkenness crept up on him.
Don’t think about it,
he begged himself. He relocked
the door, checked the closet, checked every corner as well as under the bed to make
certain
there was no dog in the room.

When he went to bed, he left the light on.

Shapeless dreams haunted the murk of his sleep. Sounds:

Children laughing?

A dog barking?

And, later, the voices.

The woman: “Just do it!”

The man: “Good God, you are one dirty broad to want me to do somethin’ like
that.
”

“Just…do it…”

1857

A rugged man in a leather hat by the name of Cutton rode them up the main street on a new two-horse wagon. The steeds looked strong and healthy, and the wagon had iron-spoked wheels and slat springs: more proof that Gast had a lot of money behind him. The air of the street cleared Poltrock’s head quickly. He felt purged.

“So how far’s the junction?”

“Not but two miles, just out of town,” Cutton said. He sounded like a Marylander, or a Delawarean.

“It’s a nice town,” Poltrock observed of the clean streets and well-constructed buildings. Women in bonnets and bustle dresses strolled past shops with tidy
men in tailcoats. Orderly slaves off-loaded goods from wagons.

“It sure is. We got a fine whorehouse here, and, well, I saw you in Cusher’s Tavern last night so you know we got good liquor. The general store’s always full up, and folks come from all over to buy boots from our cobbler. We even got a doctor and an apothecary.”

Just then the horses pulled them past a sign: GAST—POP. 616.

“Yes,” Poltrock said. “This town’s got more to be said for it than Chattanooga. Strange I ain’t never heard of it.”

“Used to be called Branch Landing since we got statehood in ’96. Weren’t nothing but a little trading post then. Called it that ’cos three main roads branch out from here, one to Richmond, one to Lexington, and one to Manassas, the three biggest Southern rail junctions that have lines from Washington. But once Mr. Gast came to town, they just said to hell with it and named the town Gast. These folks worship the ground he walks on. He built everything here.”

“Plantation money’s what I heard,” Poltrock said over the next bump.

“Owns thousands of acres, here and other states, too.”

“What other states?”

“Don’t know.”

“This ain’t Virginia, you know, or the North. How’s one private man own all that land and manage the Indians?”

“Killed ’em. What did you think?”

Past the final buildings on the main street, they could see the Gast House.

Poltrock shuddered at a chill. His sickness had passed. He hadn’t known what to make of any of it when he’d been inside.
That…house,
he thought. The vision, the smell. “Can’t say I care for the house, though.”

Cutton said nothing as he tended his reins.

“A fine house to look at, but I mean…there’s just somethin’ funny about it. I swear I was seein’ things, hearin’ things, even
smellin’
things.”

Cutton remained silent.

Poltrock tried to push the memory out of his head. “Felt sick as a dog when I was in there.”

“You was likely hungover,” Cutton finally spoke up. “I saw you at the tavern last night, in your cups.”

“Yes, that’s right.”
And that’s all it is.

“You meet his wife?”

“I did. Seems nice, sophisticated.”

Did Cutton smile to himself? “She’s somethin’, all right. How about his kids?”

“I saw a blonde girl with a dog for a minute.” And then Poltrock gulped at what he thought he’d seen next. “Like about fifteen, sixteen or thereabouts.”

“That’s Mary, and there’s another one—nine, I think—a brown-haired little girl named Cricket…” Cutton stalled his next words, which Poltrock found curious.

“Yeah?”

Cutton gnawed off the corner of a tobacco plug. “Well, see, Mr. Poltrock, I understand that you’re a man with some credentials. I heard you were the track engineer for the Pennsylvania Railroad.”

“That I was, but what’s it got to do with Mr. Gast’s children?”

Cutton spat over the side. “I’m just an inspector—all of a sudden a very well-paid inspector but still. You’re my boss, and I don’t want to
lose
my brand-new job by sayin’ something out of line.”

This perked Poltrock up. He didn’t know anybody here. “I appreciate any information you might be kind enough to render. Good men keep the details of their discussions to themselves. My word is bond, and I am certain yours is, too. An honest man is worth his weight in gold and, for instance, it will be an honest man as well
as a helpful man that I pick to be my line chief. Which pays an extra five dollars per week.”

Cutton nodded. “I just mean to say that without no discourtesy to Mr. Gast, his children are a might peculiar and the same for his wife. It would do a wise man service to keep a good distance from ’em all. They’re bad luck is all I’m sayin’, Mr. Poltrock.”

Cutton stroked his reins and drove on.

Poltrock thought he got it. But now that he was out of the house, he could think clearly.
Gast just hired me to be his number-two man on this job—that’s all that matters.

The horses drew the wagon down a byroad that ran parallel to the track. The track itself appeared to be top quality, as was the tie bed beneath. “How much track’s been laid so far?”

“Five, maybe six miles so far, and we only started a few weeks ago.”

Poltrock looked at him. “That’s impressive, Cutton.”

“Mr. Gast plans to have it completed in mid-’62. He says the war will’ve already started by then, and the South will likely be in Washington. Mr. Gast’s rail line will be a crucial alternate supply route.”

Poltrock thought about that, and smirked. A lot of it didn’t make sense to him.
An alternate supply line…from Maxon?
He figured it was best left alone.
Just do what you’re paid for, and let Gast think what he wants…

A high gaze ahead showed him the layout. A steam engine connected to several pallet cars would haul the new rail and ties up the current point of construction, then go back to Virginia for more: a constant replenishment of material. Each return run would find the newly lain track a mile or two longer.
Five years,
was all Poltrock could think.
Five years of goin’ back and forth like that, each trip back a little bit longer.
It would be hard work, for sure—and Poltrock wasn’t adverse to that—and by the time the project was done, most of his formidable salary
would still be in the bank.
Ain’t gonna have much time to spend it.

The sun blazed. The closer they got to the site, the more apparent the sound: metal ringing as a hundred slaves brought hammer to spike. It was almost musical in Poltrock’s ears.

“Gettin’ close now,” Cutton remarked.

At once a foul odor crinkled Poltrock’s nose. “God in heaven, what’s that?”

Cutton pointed beyond the track, to farmland. Poltrock saw cotton, corn, and beans being picked by complacent female slaves. But that’s not what Cutton pointed to…

Poltrock thought of scarecrows when he noticed a couple of severed heads on stakes. The awful smell came from the rotting heads? “I heard some talk of executions,” he mentioned through a half gag.

Cutton nodded. “Yes, sir. Plantation justice I guess is what you’d call it. When slaves get frisky, well…you gotta make an example of ’em.”

“Any white men executed?”

“Oh, sure. Two or three, at least. One fella got caught tryin’ to steal from Mr. Fecory—”

Poltrock stared at the odd name in his head. “Who’s he?”

“One you’ll get to know well, like the rest of us. Mr. Fecory is the paymaster. Shows up at the site every Friday with his ledger book and suitcase full’a money. Funny little man in a red derby hat. And he’s got a gold nose.”

“A gold
what?
”

“Nose. Rumor is he got his nose blowed off a while back when some fugitives tried to rob him, so now he wears a fake one made’a gold. But like I was sayin’, one’a Mr. Gast’s white laborers pinched some money out of Fecory’s pay case and, well, that was that for him. Then another white fella or two got caught rapin’ some town girls. They got executed, too.”

Poltrock looked at the next severed head. “In the fields?”

“No, no. The white men got trials. They was hanged in the town square. Only the nigrahs are killed in the field. You’re probably smellin’ it right about now.”

“Yes, I am. Hard to believe a couple of severed heads could smell that bad at this distance.”

“Oh, it ain’t just the heads,” Cutton calmly went on. “Their whole bodies are threshed into the soil. Fertilizer. turnin’ somethin’ bad into somethin’ good. And they’ll just leave the heads there till they rot down to skulls, a reminder for the rest of the slaves not to act up.”

Poltrock gazed back out when several intermittent shadows crossed his face.
Jesus Lord,
he thought grimly. They’d just passed two more severed heads mounted in the field. He forced himself to look forward.

Down the line, he could now see the men working. White foremen measuring gauge and marking the next length of track bed to be dug and filled with ballast, then a hundred sweat-glazed slaves, either digging, hammering spikes, or dropping ties. Armed security men stood watch over the entire site, faces vigilant.

“Here were are, Mr. Poltrock,” Cutton announced and slowed the wagon. “Everything you see, you’re now in charge of. It’s a pleasure to be workin’ for ya.”

You work for me, but I work for Gast,
Poltrock reminded himself. “Thank you.” Metal striking metal sang in his ears. “I must say, this appears to be a top-notch team.” And suddenly he felt enthused. Maybe the job wasn’t impossible after all. The operation was running like welloiled machinery.

The wagon stopped. “Morris is the crew boss. I’ll have him call a break, and then he can introduce you to the men.”

“That would be in order.”

They both dismounted the wagon. No one even looked at him when they approached the line. Each man, black or white, worked with focus and determination.

And the hammers hitting spikes rang on.

When Poltrock crossed the line, he stopped cold. Suddenly he felt bile bubbling in his gut…

The field seized his gaze, where he saw at least three dozen more severed heads on stakes.

“Quit actin’ like you ain’t never done this before,” the younger man said, straddling the fat man’s face. The fat man mewled.

This guy is the hardest trick I ever turned,
thought the younger man, frowning, and this younger man, of course, was Jiff. To maintain his arousal, he forced himself to think of Tom Cruise in
Cocktail
, because every time he looked down at his obese client, he winced. Nothing arousing about
him.
The fat man remained strained and trembling on his bed, his XXX-large Christian Dior shirt opened, and his Bermuda shorts pulled off.

“Suck it right, fattie,” Jiff said, and grabbed a hank of white hair beside the fat man’s bald spot. “If’n you cain’t suck better than that, I just might have to slap your big fat face.”

The overweight “client” struggled to do as complied.

“Maybe if I kick your fat ass, you’ll get the message,” Jiff went on with his playact. He angled off the bed and—

CRACK!

—brought his open palm
hard
against the fat man’s face.

The fat man was misty-eyed now. “I…I love you…”

Jiff couldn’t have smirked more sharply.

Afternoon sun lit up the fat man’s posh bedroom; Jiff found it amusing that a busy Number 1 Street bustled just outside that window, a story down. Tourists out for leisurely strolls and antique fanatics scouring the town’s quaint shops.
And none of ’em would ever guess what’s
going on up here.
When the fat man brought his hands up to caress Jiff’s ass, Jiff jerked away the fat man’s cheeks with one hand, squeezing hard.

“Did I give you permission to touch my ass, girlie? Hmm?” He squeezed harder, and the fat man shook his head.

“I ought’a drag your fat girlie ass right out in the street with your little pants down like ya are, so’s every one out there can see your little pansy pecker! And then piss on ya to boot!” Now he squeezed so hard, tears formed in the fat man’s eyes, and—

Jesus, what a sick pup,
Jiff thought.

Before the great mound of belly, the client’s genitals hardened and he moaned.

How grim. It just reminded Jiff of the situation’s strange psychology.
I tell the guy I’m gonna piss on him and he gets hard?
Jiff had been a male prostitute for a long time but even
he
had never seen a client this bad off. It wasn’t the actual sex, nor even the pain and bondage—it was the sheer humiliation that the fat man was paying for. It didn’t matter that this was fast money—the gig was getting
old.

Get it over with,
he thought, disgusted.

He put the rubber ball in the fat man’s mouth and got to work.

A few minutes later, Jiff was finally done, his client ravaged. He removed the rubber ball.
Finally…

“Help me! I love you so much!” came the desperate plea.

By now Jiff felt sorry for him.
Poor fat bastard’s up’n fell in love with me.
“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “And now, for bein’ so good, you know what I’m gonna do?”

Hopeful eyes glimmered up.

Jiff lowered his face and bit one of the nipples.

The fat man shrieked in glee.

Jiff climbed off the bed, nude. He knew that the fat man’s eyes were on his body when he strode to the bathroom.
Behind him, he pretended not to hear the forlorn whisper: “I love you so much…”

Jiff washed up at the sink. He felt skewed. He’d originally viewed this gig as easy money—thirty bucks for ten minutes?—but now it was getting too kinky even for him. The debasement? At least his other tricks in town were simple action. It was his body that got him the business. He appraised himself in the mirror, flexed his abs, shot a few bicep poses. Some of the guys down at the Spike would lay twenty on him just to flex while they jerked off.
Now I’ve got this tub’a lard with all his hangups.
Oh, well, he supposed it beat cutting yards.

He pumped his pecs once in the reflection.
Yeah. I still got it.

Behind him, his client’s voice drifted, “You’re beautiful…”

Jiff frowned.

When he came back out, the fat man was sitting up in bed, his shorts still at his ankles. “I’d be a mess without you.”

You ARE a mess! Look at yourself! You look like 300 pounds of vanilla pudding folded over in bed!
Jiff ignored the remark.