Transcontinental (4 page)

Without anything to look at, he felt scratchiness around his ankles. Bad time to be wearing shorts, but traipsing through the woods was another thing he hadn’t planned for. Normally the thought of the creatures creeping and squirming about his bare legs would drive him right out of there, but he subverted the urge to run.

At the count of ten, he opened his eyes and saw little more than before. Columns of black and grey striped his vision. He lurched forward with arms outstretched like an urban Frankenstein’s monster, counting his steps as he went. A few paces in, his hands became entangled in as thick a spider web as he’d ever felt. Unable to see, he scraped, shook, and slapped his hands, trying to get it off. He rubbed his hands on his pants desperately until he felt comfortable that nothing could’ve survived the thrashing, then took a deep breath and collected himself. Better his hands than his face, he supposed.

A loud
crack
to his left caught his attention. He whipped his head around, though his sense of sight was still proving useless. Listening hard, he could hear about as much as he could see. Then, a hushed rustling. It stopped after a moment, replaced by a soft sniffing, too close for his liking. He sprinted, arms first. He was desperate to change his life, but forced to choose between being caught and being eaten, he’d happily take the former.

His shoulder collided with a tree as he emerged from the woods and saw the tower ahead of him. He practically dove toward it, coming to a soft thud against the base. Once more, he listened intently, catching his breath. Hearing nothing but the wind, Leroy crawled around to the other side of the tower facing the fence. Halfway there he’d be fully visible to the tower guards. Making a break for it seemed to be the only course forward. The barbed wire at the top of the fence might give him some trouble, but there was no way around it. On the other side, a variety of freight cars lay inactive. He’d have to scurry behind one if he wanted any chance of remaining unseen.

Leroy got to his feet and counted. One. He crouched. Two. Shifted his weight to his back leg. Three. Inhaled sharply. Four. Eyes fixed on the fence.

Five. He darted out and jumped onto the fence halfway up, clenching his fingers around the metal wires until he could slip a foot in a gap, then climbed, stood on the top bar, and jumped clean over the barbed wire. He came down hard, sending another jolt through him, but kept moving.

Leroy huddled in front of the nearest train car, rusted and old and half the height of the others. He waited for the inevitable sound of boots slapping the ground as guards ran in pursuit, their flashlights criss-crossing in the air until they landed on him. But it never came. He glanced around, looking for anyone, but as far as he could tell he was alone.

A few tracks over, an assembled train waited on what he assumed was the outgoing track, as the engine unit pointed away from the station and into the woods. As long as he was alone, he figured he might as well explore. But he needed to stay hidden. Leroy slinked along the edge of the car, then hopped over a track and hid behind a boxcar. He grazed his hand over the weather-beaten metal, imagining the places the aged transporter had seen.
 

The other side of the car was covered in a huge tract of colorful graffiti. Amazed by the work of art, Leroy stood, spellbound. He traced the edges of the paint, marveling at how fine they were. It boggled his mind that anyone could be so accurate with finicky spray paint. Not only was it vibrantly multicolored, but the artist had even touched it up with textural details. The craftsmanship stunned him. It’d take quite a bit of effort for him to get to this skill level with any medium, but he desired it greatly.

He was lost in a ponderous haze, wondering how it the artist found the time it must have taken to create the piece without getting caught, when a metallic thunk behind him scattered his thoughts.

“Hi.”

Leroy turned slowly. A man in a hat that read ‘Engine Driver,’ weathered as the boxcar Leroy stood beside, tossed up a friendly wave. Leroy knew he should book it just to be safe, but something told him this man was no threat.

“Please,” Leroy begged, “I gotta get outta here.”

The driver advanced toward him, hands clasped behind his back. “We don’t see many your age out here. Heck, we don’t see many of any age much anymore. This your first time in a train yard?”

Leroy didn’t know what gave it away, but he nodded.

“Generally, we don’t give tramps much trouble. We being the crew. Just be safe. Getting yourself killed makes us look bad.”

Leroy was buoyed with relief. He had no plans to get himself killed, and being safe was second nature to him. He was a worrier.

“Think the tower might’a spotted me.”

“Good thing there’s nobody up there, then.”

Leroy couldn’t believe it. All that spiderweb torture for nothing. He could’ve waltzed right up to the fence and whistled a tune on his way over.

“Where are you going?”

“Folsom.” The name issued forth from Leroy’s subconscious. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the first stop of the journey had to be there.

“Northbound, eh? That’s where this old girl’s headed. Can’t get you the full distance to Folsom, but we’ll get you on your way.”

Leroy couldn’t have imagined things would go this well.

“She don’t depart for another few hours, mind you. Got to get her loaded up. Plenty of ways to get yourself hurt during loading, so stay well back. The crew won’t bother you none if you don’t get in the way.”

Leroy nodded. Sad news, having to wait hours to get on a train for what could be a bunch more hours. Especially considering he’d slept twice his normal amount in the last day or so. He’d have to find some way to bide his time, which he had a feeling would become a recurring challenge.

“You could take up in that gondola over yonder.” He pointed to the half-car Leroy had first taken cover behind. “I’ll shoot you a toot when we’re leaving. There’s a boxcar at the back of the train that don’t always close, if you catch my drift, but wait for my whistle to get in. And keep an eye out for the Bull.”

Leroy was overwhelmed by and thoroughly grateful for the kindness of this man. He was also pretty sure there wasn’t a real bull in the train yard, but he was too embarrassed to ask the driver what he meant.

He must’ve read it on Leroy’s face, or felt it required elucidating. “The Bull is the yard cop, and I do mean an officer of the law, so watch out.”

“Appreciate it, sir.”

The engineer tipped his hat to Leroy, a social cue he’d never seen in real life, and marched toward the back of the train, hands clasped at his back.

Leroy watched the man until he vanished from sight, then walked over to the gondola, as it was apparently called. He grasped the rim of the car, peering down into the metallic cavity. He half expected to see Adalynne laying at the bottom, neck stretched, facial features bulging. She wasn’t, of course. Pulling his hands away from the train, he found them covered in a dark grease, then scanned the yard for somewhere else to hide. He wiped his hands on his shorts, hoping his ride out wouldn’t be quite so grungy.

* * *

With the nearby tower unmanned and his train at the furthest point from the station, Leroy felt relatively safe staying out in the open. There was too much to discover for him to sit and hide.

The floodlit yard enabled him to see far enough to spot crew members, and despite his rampant interest in his surroundings, he kept a close eye out for the Bull like the engineer had warned. He amused himself by imagining a minotaur in a police uniform, huffing and stomping his hooves. He’d have to sketch that when he got a chance. Despite feeling particularly inspired from the graffiti earlier, he needed to learn his way around a train yard, and so, set out to educate himself.

After draining his shoes of sand, Leroy spent a long time walking the various lengths of train, studying the differences between the cars, deducing the function of each model, divining the ideal spots to ride. He’d never realized how truly massive trains were. Each car was like a giant metal tank repurposed for peaceful use. He marveled at them.

Not long after the engineer left, he returned with a crew of ten or so workers. Leroy observed them from afar, seated against a wheel of a boxcar, which apparently was highly unsafe, as he’d learned in an earful from a boisterous woman stouter than most of the men. Intimidated by her, he scooted forward into the ballast beside the idle train.

Occasionally, a thunderous
boom
from elsewhere in the yard would startle him, always managing to catch him unaware. None of the workers reacted to the noises, so Leroy figured it couldn’t be anything going wrong. Soon, a crash particularly near to him revealed the source of the tumult—train cars coupling together. After, he hardly noticed the periodic uproar.

He watched pallets piled high and huge containers carrying mystery contents forklifted into boxcars. At the base of each car, a man knelt down to inspect the wheels, clanging each of them with a steel rod, before grunting to another who followed with a clipboard. The large woman from earlier proceeded them, inspecting the couplings and the air hoses between the cars, yelling “Good!” to the clipboard man as she went. The engineer stood idly toward the back of the train chatting with a few of the workers.
 

Further down the yard, Leroy could see grain and minerals pouring into other cars from vast vertical silos, whooshing and clanging like a hail storm concentrated onto one unfortunate soul’s vehicle.

As the last boxcar was tended to by the forklift, the large woman made her way from the front to the rear, securing doors on cars that bore them. As the woman went to close the last boxcar, the engineer intervened. Leroy couldn’t hear what they said from the distance he sat, but the woman stomped away without closing the door, the the engineer held a whistle to his lips and blew, a short, shrill note. Time to go already? A shudder flowed through him.

The bustle of the rail yard was unlike anything he’d experienced, and he was caught off-guard by how fulfilled he felt amidst it. He almost wanted to stay and hang around, but he had plenty to do, and not much time to do it. He approached the engineer.

“Your ride.” The driver motioned to the boxcar. Inside, large upturned rolls of paper created a platform four feet off the floor, halving the total space.

Leroy looked to the engineer, eyebrows raised.

“You won’t hurt nothing. It’s rolled up too tight.”

He grasped the edge of a paper roll and pulled himself atop it.

The man stepped back and slid one of the doors closed. “I’ll leave one side open for air. Too small to lose cargo, but big enough to lose you. So please, don’t make me regret helping you out, son.”

Leroy settled onto a roll in the corner, shifting until he was somewhat comfortable. “No sir, I won’t. Thank you.”

With another tip of his hat, the man strode off toward the cab.

He had done it. Just yesterday, his current situation would’ve seemed impossible. Leroy thought back on the day, one of the strangest he’d ever lived. And he almost didn’t live through it. Now he was on a train, ready to make tracks. Leroy let an uneasy smile shine through. He’d never left California, but was eager to do so, and a little bit scared.

A cacophony of clicks, clacks, and beeps echoed from the engine unit, followed by a mechanical whirring sound. For a moment, Leroy thought something had gone wrong, until the engine finally caught, and roared to life. All at once, the cars expelled a rush of air, pressurizing the brake system. The noise reminded Leroy of the school bus in the morning, mercifully whisking him away from home for a brief eight hours. Just like the bus, the train jerked forward and accelerated slowly. But this time, his wish had come true—he wouldn’t be returning. Better late than never, he supposed.

* * *

As the train pulled out of the station, Leroy found himself back in the forest. No spiderwebs to worry about, though; he was riding in luxury, tramp style.

The train-hopping nomad definition of tramp was new to him. The version his mother had used was a bit more blue. She had been, on the whole, a coarse person. He’d often questioned how she could speak and act in the manner she had, yet never reflect on it, never realize how she rubbed people the wrong way. Maybe she had, and she just didn’t care. Either way, she’d served as a walking, talking lesson in how not to act, and he sponged it up.

Neat rows of lean evergreens stretched back as far as he could see, yet close enough for him to discern the individual pine needles. He wondered if the trees had grown in a row naturally or were planted that way.

As they traveled further from the station, the reach of the floodlights faded, and darkness returned. The train lurched along at a much slower speed than Leroy had hoped, leveling off around what he estimated at near forty miles per hour. Seemed sort of inefficient for a cross-country means of transportation, but he figured it was an issue of safety. He was embarking on an adventure. Safety be damned. He wanted speed and suspense and thrills, not that he’d been lacking in the latter so far.

Folsom was a decent distance away on the map—five-hundred miles or so. At the current speed, it’d take nearly half a day to make it there, shattering his hopes of a brisk joyride. Wasn’t traveling by train supposed to be
faster
than by car? Japan has bullet trains and this is all
America
can manage? Twelve hours was a hefty chunk of minutes to spend doing anything, and a hell of a lot longer to spend doing nothing.