A Prayer for the Dying (18 page)

Another, the same place.

The driver pokes his nose out the window and blows the whistle. You wave the rifle, then sight in on him. He ducks and tugs the whistle again.

It’s not a hard decision. If he doesn’t stop, you’ll kill him for the sake of these people. You’ve made up your mind, justified it.

How easy it seems, this commandment, but just look at you.

No one behind you moves, not a man jack of them. You suddenly love them for this. You know you can do it.

The rails sing, and you stay on the window, getting your breathing ready.

His glove comes up, you tense, and then the steel shrieks as he lays on the brakes. The driving wheels skid along the rails, a piercing squeal like taking a grindstone to a huge knife. You want to cover your ears, and then it’s bearable again. The grade slows the train, holds the great mass back.

And still you don’t lower the gun, leave it on him to let him know you’re in charge. This has nothing to do with them, or anyone, just the two of you. You know that’s not true, but when you finally drop the barrel, you nearly feel cheated. He would have run you through. And you were ready, there’s no denying it.

He’s your age, with a boiled face and a fringe of whiskers, and he’s angry as a drunk Canuck. He scowls down from his perch as if he’s the one holding the gun. You make a show of putting it away.

“Just what the hell is all this?”

“Be obliged if you could ride us to Shawano,” you say.

“Sign back at the tunnel says I’m not sposed to take on riders.”

“
I
posted that sign.”

“So now I’m sposed to take these people on your say-so, is that it?”

“None of them are sick, I can vouch for them. They can all fit in a boxcar, you don’t even have to look at them. Whole thing won’t take five minutes. Otherwise it’s the fire.”

He looks back at the sky, the smoking twigs and leaves dropping all around the tender. He regards you, the rifle down by your side, finger still on the trigger.

“Three minutes,” he says. “And I ain’t gettin’ anywhere near ’em.”

There’s a panic at first, a lot of clawing at the door to get it open. You have to holler at them to let Kip Cheyney through, but they do. The car actually has a load of tractor parts from Montello. The women sit on top of the crates, the men lean their muddy backs against them. It’s windowless, so you leave the door open to give them some air.

“That everyone?” you ask, and when no one answers, you run to the middle of the bridge and call down at the water. The cow’s headed for Ender’s. Just as you’re fumbling to hook the handcar on, John Cole comes racing down the bank. The boiler’s building up steam, hissing like a teakettle, water dripping from the piston. You put a hand up for the brakeman to wait, then wave John on.

“Where’s Marta?” he asks, breathless.

“I’ve still got to go back,” you say, which is the truth, and point to the handcar.

“Better hurry. The roof of the mill just caught.”

“Get in,” you tell him, then run up front and climb into the cab with the driver.

“I can tend her myself, thank you,” he says, then when you don’t budge, yanks the cord above his head and deafens you, tips a lever, and the train lurches forward.

You know every pebble of this stretch, every tree. The freight seems slower than your handcar, takes forever to get up steam. The engine hesitates and the couplings clatter, the cars knock, then pull taut again. The driver doesn’t look at you, just peeks at the rifle, as if he might wrestle you for it. You’re still ready to shoot him, though you find your mind wandering, resting a second, going over what you have to do. There’s no time, but you promised Marta. There’s probably not time to take care of them
and
Doc proper. And then you skirt the far edge of the Hermit’s lake—the water black between the trees—and you remember him.

He’ll know enough to jump in the water, you’ve already talked to him about that. Crazy maybe, but he’s no fool.

Like you?

The marsh is dried up on both sides, and in the cattail flats you can see a smattering of fires. The ash is just as thick here, and when you lean out to look behind, it seems the fire’s pursuing you, the sky violent and backlit, shimmering like some artist’s vision of Hell. For no reason, you check your watch; the time doesn’t even register. You wonder if Shawano is far enough, or if it might be best to just keep going east, run the tender empty.

“I ain’t stopping for no one till
I
think it’s safe,” the driver seconds.

You thank him for taking Friendship on.

“Not like I had much say in it,” he says.

He’s got the throttle opened up, and you bump along, the trucks clicking. Almost there. You wonder how Henrik Paulsen is doing with his family. You think you should have found a way to convince him, move him with a sermon. Too late now.

Too late for a lot of them. How many did you leave?

Chase. The entire Colony.

You should have had a plan, you and Doc.

The canal slides alongside you, the towpath busy with hoofprints. You think of Fenton; that was just last night. Two weeks ago you loved the heat, the lull of summer. It’s astonishing how quickly things fall apart.

Directly ahead, a column of smoke lifts from the woods, and the driver slows, leans forward, squinting. The smoke rolls straight up, a black pillar, and you’re afraid it’s another train.

“What is it?” you ask.

“It’s on the tracks.” He points, and, in the distance, as you thunder for it, you can see a heap of burning ties. It’s right at the town line.

Old Bart. Just like Kentucky.

“Don’t slow down,” you order him.

“We can’t run through it.”

“I’m telling you to.”

“We’ll hang her up,” he shouts, and keeps his eyes on you so you know. You wish you’d closed the door, then you could just crouch down.

“All right,” you say.

The driver inches back the throttle and you ease up to the ties, scanning the woods for an ambush. They’re stacked in a neat tepee, like a campfire. Bart must have just lit them; you can still smell the kerosene.

It’s him, with Millard, a patch over his eye. They sidle out of your blind, hatless. You keep the rifle beneath the lip of the window, give them a wave. They look down the length of the train, then back up at you.

“What all you got here, Jake?” Bart asks, and you wonder if it was Fenton who told him. The son of a bitch, it must have been.

“Everyone that’s left. We had to leave the sick ones behind.”

“Quarantine all done with then?”

“Yep,” you say.

“I thought Doc said another week.”

“I can vouch for everyone here. We won’t even leave the train, we’ll just—”

“You know I can’t let you,” he says, and his face changes, turns stern. “I been seeing your people all day.”

“Kip Cheyney’s got some burns need attention.”

“I’m sorry, Jake.”

“None of these people are sick,” you protest.

“I can’t risk it.”

“What did you do with the rest of them—Emmett Nelligan and them?”

“All I could do—turned ’em around.”

“Where are they all?”

“That’s not my lookout, or yours.”

Bart starts and draws on John Cole, who’s come out of the boxcar.

“Get back in there,” Bart warns him, then yells it when John asks what’s happening.

“You can’t do this,” John says. He’s a big man, and Bart has to step back. “I’ll tell you right now, we’re not going back after all this.”

“You shut up,” Bart says, “and you get back in there.”

John still won’t go, starts to holler, threatening him. “Goddamn you, we’re not going back!”

“Get back in there before I shoot you!”

Millard reaches for his pistol, and you find you’ve got your rifle on Bart, who’s got his Colt aimed at John’s face. You see where it’s leading, and what’s left to you. There are thirty-some people in that car. The fire’s not going to stop.

“Bart,” you call, “leave him.”

“Get back in there!”

John turns to appeal to you. He wants to rush him, take the gun, shove it in his face.

“Get back in there,” you say, and now Bart sees the rifle.

“You better just drop that right now,” he says, and turns the pistol on you.

“I’m warning you,” you say. “So help me, I’ll put a buttonhole through you.”

“I can’t let these people into my town, you know that.”

“I don’t have time for this.” And you don’t. He isn’t going to listen to you. It’s simple when you get down to it. You’ve been hopeful for too long. Look what it’s gotten you. Doc, Marta, everyone you love.

“Jake, understand now—”

“Will you let us through?”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“Can’t,” he says, and stands firm. You know him, you know it’s true.

“I gave you fair warning,” you say. And can you say what moves you—is it like Chase and his people, the Hermit and his ducks? Is it some kind of love? Because you shoot him through the heart, turn and drop Millard where he stands.

“Jesus God,” the driver says behind you.

“Get those off there,” you call to John.

He doesn’t move, stands there entranced. Say it again, then jump down and start hauling them off with the gaff on the catcher. In a minute, the rest of the mill crew pitches in. You let them finish it, turn away from the flames and look at Bart and Millard, faceup in the dust. John joins you, but you don’t say anything to him. You walk back to the handcar and start uncoupling it. The chains are hot, and you have to tug your gloves on.

You’re sorry and you’re not. You’re sorry for Millard; he didn’t know any better. Bart you’re still angry with. Of all people, he should know what Friendship means to you. None of these people are sick, but he’d never believe you. You would have sat there and died like Chase’s people, when there’s no need.

Does this excuse you?

No.

Is this evil?

You’re not sure.

Then what is it?

You don’t know.

You unhook the handcar, give it a push with your foot. The bar seesaws, then stops, waits for you to climb on.

Walk up front, past Bart and Millard, still lying there draining. The faces in the boxcar follow you, but you don’t acknowledge them. It seems plain that while you love these people you don’t belong with them, that even in caring for them you’ve managed to damn yourself.

Give John the rifle, tell him to ride with the driver. The others hop back in the car, arrange themselves on the crates. You leave them, head the other direction. No one protests; they know what you’ve done.

“You be careful, Sheriff,” Harlow calls.

“You too,” you say.

Cyril waves, and for a minute you wish you could go with them, explain. But that passes.

On the handcar, you look back. Bart and Millard are still there, the plume’s pouring up from the boiler. You wait till they move out before you pump for town. To the west, the sky is like night, a red glow just above the horizon.

Your chest is sore from doing nothing, but the grade helps you. The canal is an ashpit, no hint of water. You keep looking back; the train doesn’t seem to move, and then you turn a curve and it’s gone and the marsh is on fire, the cattails waving like flaming brands. The Hermit’s lake flits in the trees, slips back.

Ridiculous, but you’re worried about him. You’ve always included him as part of Friendship; that hasn’t changed.

And what about the sick, can you dismiss them so easily? What about Bart and Millard? Where do your responsibilities stop?

Sometimes you have to choose.

But don’t you see the vanity in your decisions? Aren’t you at all sorry? Why do you need to believe you’re right? In the end, do you think that will save you?

No.

The fire’s louder toward town, the constant rush of a waterfall. The bridge is intact, and Ender’s, just up the river. The bank’s littered with their possessions. The cow’s gone, only the fish floating. You run for town, wishing you had your bicycle, every breath hurting your throat. The wind blows so hard you have to lean into it, and the dust peppers your skin.

The mill’s already gone, the hose of the water engine burned through. The lumberyard is a field of black ash, a smudge. You pause to take it in, then think better of it when a maddened horse crashes past, dragging a buggy on its side, one wheel busted to the hub. You know it—it’s Soderholm’s bay mare—and you wonder what Bart did with them.

Turned them back, he said.

Which was his right. Why are you still trying to justify it?

Friendship is still standing. The bell tower’s untouched, you mark it from a distance, and when you reach Main Street you see everything’s fine: the empty
County Record
office, the bank, the foundry. Fenton’s, Doc’s, the jail, the livery, Ritter’s. All standing abandoned, doors flung open, windows smashed, goods strewn over the whole street.

Who would do this? you think, but the proof is irrefutable—someone did. There’s Doc’s blotter, and your Wanted posters thrown around like a joke. For a minute you forget what you’re doing and stand there disbelieving, in a rage, crushed by what they’ve done to your town.

The air is filled with cinders. An ember lights the sidewalk on fire and you stomp it with your boots.

Across the street, a branch lands on Fenton’s roof, and the shingles flash and catch. You run to the trough but it’s empty. Throw the bucket away and race for home, your eyes stinging.

Under the oaks there’s just a dusting of ash. No one’s gone through your neighbors’; their shutters are battened tight against the fire, their owners hopeful. You expect your house to be gutted—hope against hope—but it’s fine, and you’re grateful. You vault the fence and dig for your keys, sure of your purpose. At least this promise you can keep.

Marta’s on the love seat, holding Amelia. Her head’s bent, as if leaning down to rub noses with her.

You sit beside her, tip her chin up and give her a kiss.

She looks at you, her eyes milky, her mouth fixed in a grimace, lips pulled back from her perfect teeth. You should have used more fluid. You almost want to say you’re sorry.

You are.