Luck and Other Deadly Things

Franco had spent most of his time listening. Never before had Pappy rambled on about his days as a hauler so enthusiastically. He talked of the kinship among those aboard the trains that had helped bring about Surenth’s quick industrial development. He spoke of the grandiose sighs of the old trains, stirring the hearts of everyone who witnessed their presence in the Sand Sea, of the beginnings of rail transport, the tracks its veins and each train’s cargo its lifeblood.

The youngster couldn’t help but be utterly enthralled by the tales of drama and danger. The time Pappy tangled with one of the many gangs who attempted to hijack the train itself was Franco’s particular favourite, and he cheered upon being told that the intruder was unceremoniously ejected from a boxcar with a swift kick to the chest. Maybe it was romanticized in his head – but what of it? The last time Franco had indulged in fantasy was when his age was in single digits. If he couldn’t succumb to the heady possibilities before him now, when could he? After the latest bout of tales, Pappy slapped his forehead, leaving a mark of coal dust on his skin.

‘What am I doing? We’re here enjoying a drink and I almost forgot to serve one to the guest of honour. How utterly terrible; this will not do at all …’

The old man took to unsteady feet, sliding a second bottle from its case by the neck and raising it to the train before them. The hulk of iron and steel stood proudly in the ebbing glow.

‘Forgive me! Here’s to you, you beautiful thing, Eiferian number 433! May your wheels take us far from this pit and give fortune to us luckless bastards who ride with you. You are born anew!’

With an almighty heave he hurled the bottle through the star-speckled sky. The glass receptacle exploded against the pitted boiler, christening the venture in alcohol.

‘Out of respect it should be something pricier,’ Pappy confessed, holding his drink high before taking an almighty swig. ‘You don’t christen with hog water – much as you wouldn’t bathe in it. We intend no offence.’

Franco cheered loudly and gulped down the last mouthfuls of drink in his possession. As he lowered the bottle and the moon’s lustre took to the vehicle’s sides, a curious feeling stirred in his being. These last couple of years had been full of toil and frustration, but for every difficulty there was a solution. The train, with all of its hardships and annoyances, was a thing of beauty, just as his grandfather described. He had been simply too young, or too blind, to appreciate it in his youth. Times were different now. Now, all he had for the damn thing was boundless affection.

For a meagre moment, watching the stupid old fool crow in the night, clearly drunk, all was right in the world. There was no concern about their poverty. There was no fear of the local criminality. Life had meaning and all actions had a wondrous purpose. Under a pale-moon sky, the Eiferian 433 accepted the old man’s praise, situated proudly upon the tracks, despite standing in a graveyard to its kind. Though it was difficult to discern it from the scrap that littered the yard in piles of corroded metalwork, life still beat within its heart, fuelled by the four-year-long endeavour undertaken by Franco and his grandfather.

When satisfied that Pappy had made an ass out of himself, Franco put forward the burning question.

‘What do we do now?’

‘Well.’ Pappy straightened his back until it popped numerous times. ‘The way I see it, it depends on a couple of important factors. You should ask yourself how well rooted you are in this dear town. If it’s all you’ve known, going elsewhere may be a difficult feat.’

‘Funny talk, like there’s anybody who gives the slightest damn about me this ways. Anybody I knew believed that I was selling things off on the side while working with you and got angry when they found out I was doing the work straight. Even Ketan has been giving me lip, running with others who are best avoided. What do I have to stay for?’

Pappy cracked his knuckles next, letting old bones complain as loud as possible.

‘Good answer. We can sell the house, flog most of our things. There’s nowt for me but bad memories and graves far too numerous to visit. We can live on the train. The first car can be converted into living quarters – just look at her, there’s plenty of room to utilize. Paint her up while we’re at it; we can’t let her sit in the buff like this. It wouldn’t be proper. We can get hold of a couple of other cars in the yard, haggle a good price and haul goods for a living. There’s plenty to pull if you know where to look. We’ll start small, see what the mills need to transport, that sort of thing. From there, we pick up the contracts from whatever outpost we roll on into.’

‘I see. Back to what you know, huh?’ Franco casually swigged from his bottle. He lifted himself up and gave his grandfather a warm pat on the shoulder.

‘It will be. On top of this grand scheme, we’ll drink with some regulars and get them back to one of the end cars where we can play some hands of cards away from prying eyes. You can easily make a little money by gambling with the drunk or the foolish. That, my boy, is as much of a given as the sky is blue and the dirt is brown.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Franco tossed the idea about in his head, with an inebriated grin. There was something alluring about the idea of gambling, almost dangerous, a perfect accompaniment to their new venture. At his request, they struck the caramel-coloured bottles together, cementing the agreement. ‘Do tell me more …’

The Rust Cough (#)

Though not elaborated on in the novel, the years that Franco and his grandfather shared were spent transporting goods around the region, with Franco learning how to operate the train. Unfortunately, this was all to be cut short. Pappy began to develop a respiratory disease on account of poor working conditions in his youth, something he would never recover from. This sequence was supposed to reveal the sudden decline of Pappy’s health, as well as a twenty-something Franco managing the train itself.

Franco picked beneath his fingernails for the umpteenth time. The dirt had congregated there so many times that it was almost a permanent fixture. He shuffled his feet forward, looking past the queue to the station house on the platform. There, illuminated by gaslight, a solitary individual wrote in his ledger. He spoke with the person at the front of the line. When their business was concluded, the individual inside called the next person forward and the line became one shorter in number. Franco looked about for the station clock, squinted at the time and exhaled in an attempt to remain patient.

Another step closer. More small talk made by those in line. The one in front was smoking like he was on fire, wafts sailing over his shoulder and traversing down into Franco’s face. He held both his nerve and his breath. The man ahead then tapped the ash from an ill-made roll-up, letting the breeze carry it away and land upon Franco’s oil-soiled jeans. Franco tried to ignore it. It was late and an argument would do nothing to help his already sour mood. He checked the station clock again. It had barely moved since last time.

At long last he was next. The smoker ahead grumbled about this and that, his conversation patchy and only half listened to, before he suddenly erupted with a deep guttering laugh.

Finally, it was Franco’s turn. He casually greeted the man behind the counter with a nod and presented the prepared paperwork in a bundle. It was separated and scanned with a modest amount of conversation made. Franco spoke only to confirm the train’s designation and its cargo, and to declare no contraband was on board.

The drum of the rubber stamp across paperwork was loud and routine. Franco said nothing, letting the station hand do his work. He didn’t flinch at the occasional flick of the eyes in his direction, condescending ones to be sure. He responded to the questions promptly, the same as everywhere else they pulled into, with the answers already prepared. Yes, he was young to be at the front of a train like this, or any train for that matter. Yes, he understood the contraband restrictions. Yes, he understood the taxation in this region. No, all that didn’t give this outpost an excuse to mark Franco up by another three per cent and assume he’d not notice.

Hauling was hard work. The more you pulled, the greater the profit, though it put the engine under greater stress. Many a train had broken down in the Sand Sea, its owners greedy and misjudging the limits of their vehicle. He had seen plenty abandoned so far out in various states of decay, the vehicles left on sidings to be consumed by the unforgiving desert. Maybe their owners made it back to civilization somehow. Maybe scavengers feigned assistance and took out the drivers, leaving the carcasses to be picked clean of anything of value. Sometimes the risk outweighed the reward.

Franco looked to the side and further down the platform. Reams of crates were designated floor space with trolleys and trucks back and forth from the stationary trains over some twelve platforms. It was quite the busy operation and, thankfully, a decent payer out this way.

The last paper was stamped and the documents passed back over.

‘Bay thirteen, shipments B through E. Hand your manifest to the station hand in red. He’ll organize to get the goods unloaded. He’ll sign you off, then you need to come back here for payment.’

‘Cheers.’ Franco grunted, turning to leave.

‘Hey, kid,’ the man interrupted, crunching up his features in thought.

Oh, here it comes.

‘You go steady out there,’ he offered, showing genuine concern, a rarity these days. ‘Your log shows you pulling a lot of jobs in the last month. It’s unhealthy to be working so hard. Try to find time when you can. Understand me?’

Franco did understand. He understood the sense of urgency he was under and having to haul further afield each job just to get a decent amount in the purse. Other people didn’t have his overheads. The train had needed servicing a month back. There were the supplies for the long hauls, unexpected costs that arose during travel.

Then there was the pay for the doctors and subsequent medication.

‘Yeah.’ Franco tipped his head. ‘Thanks.’

Franco opened up the goods cars and let those on the platform do their work. Sitting on the steps of the footplate around the engine boiler, Franco sipped coffee from a battered tin cup, alternating between a mouthful and a draw of a cigarette. The station lights did their best to blot out the flood of stars that rode the black sea of the night sky like a million pinprick boats of white. The moon was, naturally, immune to this attempt to usurp its radiance and contested fiercely with its full illumination.

As barrows and trolleys rattled up and down ramps, Franco spent the time indulging in a moment of contemplation, the closest he could get to relaxing. He caught an hour of much-needed sleep during unloading, with his waking being a less than gentle bang of a fist on the footplate.

With payment collected, Franco took himself to the lonely engine cab of the train and stoked the boiler before fiddling with the myriad of gauges. When satisfied, he took the Eiferian 433 out with a departing whistle, its headlamp illuminating the track ahead in blackest night, stumbling forward for the next leg of its journey.

The tracks clattered over and over until the steam reached the outer rail lines, which moved through canyons and passed over the grand bridges suspended above colossal dunes. The Eiferian 433 cut a path through the cold and indifferent night with its driver fixated on the route ahead. Their next destination would take a few days of travel and if that meant forgoing a little sleep it wouldn’t be the greatest of losses. He could take to his bed once he arrived. What mattered was reaching the trading post in question before anybody else and claiming the majority of the goods to transit. That was how the best contracts were won. That was how the money was made.

Franco was so absorbed on the journey, that he failed to notice the shape come up behind him. The shadow, who had silently advanced past the train’s tender to the young man, reached out – but before he could make contact, Franco noticed and yelped in surprise, his roll-up landing on the cab floor.

‘What the fu—! Damn you, old man, you nearly made me drop dead from fright!’ he protested, reaching down to reclaim his smoke.

Pappy shuffled over, cackling in amusement before struggling to clear his throat. The single oil lamp in the cab covered his thinning face with a warm yellow, barely penetrating the straggling misshapen beard that had wildly grown in the last month. Most of his movements seemed stiff and hampered, with walking taking significant effort. He shouldn’t have been out here.

‘I always took you as a hardier fellow. If a simple scare can stop your heart, then I worry about your future,’ the old man croaked in amusement. He shuffled over, utilizing a nearby handrail for stability to counteract the relentless rocking. Finally, he found himself a place on one of two leather seats that had been installed for comfort.

Franco knew better than to tell him off. His obnoxiousness was fierce enough to rival even his own. After a few minutes of tending to the throttle to navigate a series of gentle curves, Franco called to his company.

‘How are you holding up there, Gramps?’

‘Watch the track rather than me. You still take those corners too fast. Always have.’

Franco’s grandfather spasmed with coughs, his body lurching more violently as the noises became deeper. Eventually they halted as thick mucus was brought up and spat into a handkerchief.