The Insane Train (9 page)

Pap Gonzales waited on the Needles platform for Hook to disembark from the east-bound Chief.

“Well look who's back from the insane asylum,” he said. “Glad to see you got your britches on. Hope you feel better 'cause you sure as hell don't look it.”

“I figured you'd be retired or dead by now,” Hook said. “You ain't dead, are you?”

“Just as well be,” Pap said, “living in this hole.”

Hook hefted his bag over his shoulder. “So what's so important to drag me across the desert, or are you just lonesome to see me?”

“I have track torn up. Looks to me like someone's been tampering.”

“You section hands are always looking for a reason to blame someone else.”

“Truth is, I wanted you to come get this goddang dog. He's more trouble than a railroad official.”

Mixer leaped out of the motorcar when he saw Hook. His ears were shredded, and one eye had swollen shut.

“Jesus, Pap,” he said. “You been beating my dog?”

“No, I ain't been beating your dog, though I can't say I hadn't thought about it.”

Hook loaded his bag on the motorcar and lifted Mixer into the back. He waited for Pap to spin the engine up.

“What's he been up to?” he asked, as they clattered off down the track.

Pap goosed the engine, and the wind flapped Mixer's ears like a bird taking flight.

“He chased a badger into a culvert,” he said. “Big as a goddang mountain lion. That idiot dog of yours went in after him.” Pap adjusted his hat. “I never heard such a racket. Pretty soon, here comes Mixer out the other end looking just like he does now.”

“What happened to the badger?” Hook asked.

“I don't know, and I damn sure didn't go into that culvert to find out.”

Hook grinned, lit a cigarette, and leaned back to enjoy the wind and desert.

Within the hour, Pap idled down the car and brought her to a stop just short of a crossing. A lonely dirt road stretched out into the desert, and buzzards circled high in the blue.

Hook walked up the tracks and then back down. He stopped at the motorcar. Mixer marked all four wheels before climbing aboard to lie down.

“Well?” Pap said.

Hook propped his foot up and leaned in on his knee.

“It's just poor maintenance, Pap. If you boys would spend more time working and less time shooting craps under the bridge, we wouldn't have these problems.”

Pap rolled his eyes. “If you'd turn this stuff in once in awhile, maybe we could get a little more help around here. Can't you see someone has taken the spikes out?”

“They worked loose, Pap. Those ties are rotten.”

Pap walked up a ways and then came back. “Then where's the spikes, Hook? Someone has pulled them.”

“Just picked them up, probably selling them for scrap. The only place they're missing is where the ties are rotted. Get your boys out here and replace those ties, and I think you'll find your problems will be over.”

Pap climbed back on the motorcar. “I see where that dog of yours gets his mean streak,” he said. “Where to?”

“Yard office. I need to call Eddie.”

Back at the yard office, Hook climbed out with Mixer right behind him.

“I'll walk back to the caboose when I'm finished here, Pap. You have any more trouble, let me know.”

“Just be wasting my time, wouldn't I?” he said. “Least I won't have that dog following me around all day.”

“See you later, Pap.”

The yard office clerk looked up from his desk when Hook walked in.

“Well,” he said, “if it ain't Hook Runyon. When did they let you out? What I mean is
why
did they let you out?”

“They figured it was time someone straightened things out around here,” he said.

The clerk grinned. “There's a sack full of mail for you over there. I was just getting ready to toss it out when you walked in.”

“Thanks,” Hook said, picking up the phone.

Eddie answered on the third ring. “Division,” he said.

“Eddie, this is Hook. I just got back from that crossing Pap was squawking about.”

“What did you find?” Eddie asked.

“The ties haven't been replaced in about a hundred years. Somebody has been picking up the spikes, probably kids or something.”

“Tell Pap to get them replaced then. We get a derailment out there somebody's going to swing.”

“Pap's got his hands full. How about sending him a little extra help out here once in awhile?”

“Right,” Eddie said. “Did you get those men lined up for Baldwin?”

“Oh, sure. It's working out fine. Those guys are top-notch.”

“Listen,” Eddie said. “I get this call from Barstow, see. Their supply clerk's gone, and they can't find him anywhere. They checked the supply inventory. Turns out the son of a bitch has been stealing.”

“Yeah,” Hook said. “He probably concocted that truck deal to sidetrack my investigation. I'll keep an eye out for him.

“Have you put together a train yet, Eddie? These people can't hold out forever.”

“I found something,” he said. “It will be coming in a couple days.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it ain't the Chief, but it ought get the job done.”

“Put in an order to pick up my caboose.”

“Do you know that caboose weighs forty thousand pounds?”

“Part of my deal, Eddie.”

“I'll put in the order, but I'm siding the train
outside
Barstow. I don't want mentals hanging out at Casa del Desierto.”

“I always said you were a sensitive guy, Eddie.” Hook paused as he deliberated on the next question. “About that disciplinary board thing?”

“No decision,” Eddie said. “The Flagstaff foreman can't make up his mind if you were drunk or just crazy. I figure both. My advice is to stay on the straight and narrow. The railroad might let you get by with murder, but they'll hang your ass for drinking.”

“Thanks for the support, Eddie. Maybe someday I can return the favor.”

Hook hung up and looked over at the clerk. “What the hell you grinning at?”

“Well, it ain't pretty,” he said. “Don't forget your mail or that dang dog out there, either. Somebody ought shoot the poor thing and put out him out of his misery.”

Hook picked up his mail. “Better be glad they don't shoot
people
for ugly,” he said.

Hook headed down the track for his caboose. Mixer followed at a distance, keeping his eye out for anything deranged enough to intrude on Santa Fe property.

The caboose smelled of stale air and metal, and a cobweb stretched across the room. He opened both doors to let the heat escape and set his new books out on the table. With a little luck he'd have enough time to do some reading this evening. Mixer curled up in the corner and went to sleep.

The sun settled onto the horizon, an orange ball quivering with heat, and locusts serenaded the coming of night with a symphony of thousands.

Hook dumped the sack of mail out on the table and sorted through it. There was nothing of importance or in need of attention. His ties to the past had long since faded.

After that, he lay in his bunk and read until the lantern light fluttered and went out. He tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Lots of problems awaited him back in Barstow. So why did he find himself so anxious to return?

Maybe it had to do with his need for change, an affliction he'd struggled with throughout his life. Or maybe it had to do with a nurse with gunmetal eyes and a fierce loyalty for those in her care.

Seth made the rounds in the boys' ward while Ethan carried out the morning trash. The inmates barely acknowledged his presence, shying away or glowering silently from their rooms.

Frankie Yager sat behind his desk working on his fingernails. Periodically he would rise from his chair and walk the length of the ward while slapping his leg with his magazine. Now and then he would pause and peer into the rooms like a ferret.

When the record player came on full volume, Ethan rose up with his jaw set. Seth grabbed his arm.

“Take it easy, Ethan.”

“Somebody needs to shoot that bastard behind the ear,” Ethan said, pulling away.

Frankie smirked from his desk and turned to his magazine.

“I couldn't agree more,” Seth said, “but our jobs depend on us getting along. I'm sick and tired of living under a bridge.”

Seth's night sweats and bad dreams had worsened with the rigors of jungle living, and now that the nights were getting colder, he hardly slept at all. The constant harassment by the law kept him on edge, and the stress of the new job nibbled away at his nerves. Sometimes his hands shook so badly that he had to bury them in his pockets.

But he didn't want to disappoint Hook, a man who did what he said he'd do, a man tough but fair. Seth liked the way Hook went about his life, the way he let others do the same.

Later that morning, men from the insurance company came to see Frankie. They talked in hushed tones out on the porch. When Frankie came back in, he threw his magazine into the trash can.

“I want this pigsty cleaned up,” he shouted. “I want it cleaned now.”

At noon, Frankie said, “Take them to lunch. I got errands.”

“We've never done that before,” Seth said.

“Well, it's high time,” Frankie said. “And don't lose them when that cow from the women's ward drops her pants.”

Seth and Ethan walked the boys to lunch without incident. Seth saw Roy and Santos from across the cafeteria. A big-bosomed woman sat close to Santos and gazed up at him.

They ate meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Compared with Roy's cooking, it tasted pretty good, though in all fairness cooking out of a pot under a bridge had its disadvantages.

After lunch, Seth watched the boys while Ethan sneaked a smoke in the bathroom, and then Seth took his turn, fieldstripping the butt before flushing it down the toilet.

That afternoon about two o'clock, Ethan disappeared from the ward. When he returned, his face had turned the color of paste, and a bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“I feel like hell,” he said.

Within the hour, one of the boys complained of a stomachache, and then another boy fell sick. Ethan sat at the table, his head down on his hands. Seth stood and grabbed his own stomach, which had twisted like a wet rope inside him. His head spun, and a cold chill swept through him.

Soon, the entire ward moaned and groaned, and the stink of sickness filled the room.

“Go get Doctor Baldwin,” Seth told Frankie.

“I ain't bothering Doctor Baldwin,” Frankie said.

Seth rose, locking his eyes on Frankie. “I said get him.”

Doctor Baldwin arrived a short time later. He walked through the ward shaking his head and then went to check on the women.

When he returned, he said, “We've got people going down everywhere. I'm calling the health department.”

The people from the health department came with their clipboards, checking the cafeteria coolers, the bathrooms, talking to the cooks.

Doctor Baldwin returned to the boys' ward and stood in the doorway, his face ashen and tired.

“Food poisoning,” he said. “There's little to do but wait it out. Keep hydrated and rest as you can.”

“What caused it?” Seth asked.

“They can't be certain. Everything appears to be in order.”

“What about the others?” Seth asked.

“The women's ward got hit pretty hard. Luckily, Nurse Andrea brought her own lunch, and, as you know, the security ward doesn't eat in the cafeteria. Their food is prepared earlier in the day.

“Needless to say, the health department frowns on this sort of thing. They would have shut us down, but they didn't know what to do with all these people. They've agreed to send in extra help for a few days, so you men can go on home until you've recovered. Come back as quickly as you can.”

 

His legs still shaky, Seth helped Ethan under the bridge, where he found Roy and Santos already there.

Roy took hold of Ethan to help him down. “You look like a chicken with the pip,” he said.

“Yeah, but I'm just sick,” Ethan said. “What you have is permanent.”

They leaned Ethan against the bridge support. His hands lay open at his sides, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“He's hit pretty hard,” Seth said. “He can't keep anything down.”

“I once saw him eat half a sandwich out of a dead German's hand,” Roy said.

Ethan shook his head and coughed. “That's before I lost half my guts on a hillside. Besides, he wasn't dead yet.”

“I'll boil up some water,” Roy said. “Get the skeeters out. I think Ethan's all dried up.”

So Roy built the fire and boiled the water. He stirred in a little baking soda, but Ethan spewed it back. Seth put his hand on his forehead.

“He's running a fever,” he said. “Maybe we should take him somewhere.”

“But where?” Roy asked.

“I don't know,” Seth said, “the army base maybe.”

“They might still be looking for their Iowa corn,” Roy said.

Ethan rolled his head back and forth. “No army base,” he said. “I've had enough of army hospitals. Get me a blanket. I'll sleep it off.”

And so they wrapped Ethan in a blanket and folded another to put under his head.

As darkness enveloped the jungle, the fire sputtered and went out. Seth checked on Ethan, who slept deeply, his breathing slow and steady. Each took to his own bed then and drew into his own thoughts. Stars showered into the blackness of the cold desert night as the men slept once again under the bridge.

The sun had yet to rise, only a dim glow on the eastern horizon, when Seth rose from beneath his blanket to check on Ethan. He pulled aside Ethan's covers and laid his hand on his cheek. He sat back on his haunches. Ethan's fever raged, and his skin had turned dry as paper.

“Ethan,” Seth said. “How are you doing?”

Ethan worked at a smile, which faded with weakness. “Not so well,” he said. “My insides are burned away.”

“I'll fix you something.”

“No, Seth,” he said.

“Let me get you to a hospital.”

“Wake the others,” he said.

Shivering in the morning cold, they gathered about Ethan. All there had watched comrades die before, the disinterest that came into the eyes, the looking away.

Ethan rallied. “Are you here?” he asked.

“We're here,” Seth said.

“Bury me in the jungle,” he said. “Don't tell anyone. It will only bring trouble. I've no one else. And don't be making crosses over my grave, Santos.”

Santos pulled at his chin and looked off into the morning sun.

“When you come here, put a stone on my grave. It's the way of my people.”

He fell silent, his breathing stopping for the longest moment, and then he said, “You boys will be alright?”

“We'll be alright,” Roy said.

His breathing slowed to a rasp. “Did my life matter?” he asked.

“There ain't a one of us would be here without you,” Roy said.

Ethan turned his face away. “I've not been such a good friend,” he said.

They buried him next to the main pier, wrapping him in his blanket. Roy found Ethan's dog tags. He put them in an empty shine jar and placed it in the grave. They covered dirt over him with their hands, and each laid a stone to mark his place.

After that, they built a morning fire and cooked eggs and fatback. They recounted the time Ethan hid in his wall locker to avoid KP duty, how the latch had locked, and how no one had found him for several hours. They laughed about how they had to drag him to his bunk because both his legs had gone to sleep. They laughed and laughed until tears came to their eyes.