Children Of Fiends Read online

  The train was pulled by an old GE Evolution series ES44AC diesel electric. It was a heavy-duty locomotive that got fairly good fuel mileage. There was a passenger car and a boxcar built especially for drone storage and control. There was also one tanker car of spare fuel – precious fuel. In so many ways, The Shore had been a lucky place to survive Omega and the Russian nuclear winter: There was lots of wind power and they had been able to tap into the Hope Creek nuclear generating station across the Delaware in New Jersey, which was patrolled at all times by two Sentinels. Diesel fuel and gasoline were all together different. Despite extreme rationing, the existing stocks on The Shore had been used up within a year of the onset of nuclear winter. It wasn’t until the people there had truly gotten on their feet that they had begun to make raids with their valuable trains to the fuel storage facilities surrounding the island nation.

  The population of The Shore had quickly learned to live inland from the northern border of their island where it met the ruined city of Wilmington. In the early days, when the nation was just getting on its feet, several unfortunate curiosity seekers had had their minds taken over by small groups of foraging devils on the far shore and had subsequently launched themselves into the water that separated the two worlds, to fates unknown. Despite this, caution was overruled by the desire for the goods that lay in abandoned abundance on the mainland. To that purpose, a single rail bridge was repaired and permanently guarded by drones. As the Shoremen ventured out in their searches for fuel and other valuable goods, the Sentinels and their drivers would occasionally cross paths with The Devil Children. These encounters were short lived; the Shoremen quick and merciless in their killing. No effort was made to parley with or capture any of these beings. With final say on all matters of the devil and his spawn, Vicar Wentworth overruled the few scientists who pleaded with the government to try to capture and study them. Those scientists who struggled with this policy were deemed hostile to national security and banished to the mainland to research all that they wished. As such, the creatures remained an unknown quantity and fodder for nightmares.

  With a shelf life of only about a year without significant intervention, and with no way to produce or refine new sources, The Shore’s diesel stocks were more precious than nearly anything else. Much of what they had scrounged had been clogged with bacteria and algae or had broken down into sediments or simply evaporated or seeped into the ground through cracks in old tanks. The locomotive held five thousand gallons of fuel and the fuel car another five thousand; enough to potentially cross the country and return. With fuel being so precious to the island nation’s existence, it was with a significant amount of dismay that the gathered onlookers watched the train being loaded. What little fuel there was, was strictly for communal purposes.

  Among the many curious observers at the Dover station stood Constable O’Connor. He watched Plimpton as he oversaw his baggage being loaded and casually strolled over to the councilman. Plimpton gave a start as the man stepped close. “Big things here, O’Connor,” he offered lamely. “Going to track the Northerners.”

  “So I hear, Councilman. I’m at a loss as to its purpose, but I see that you feel you need to go along.”

  “The purpose?” Plimpton asked, as though the policeman was daft. “The purpose is to ascertain the goings on of the people up north. They are playing in our neighborhood. As far as we know, they never have before.”

  “Your DNA came back positive.”

  Plimpton’s face went instantly white, yet he still had enough wits to guide O’Connor into a more private area of the platform. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “You left copious amounts of semen inside the girl. Your DNA also matches samples taken from Marylou Denton who died in a similar manner last year.”

  Plimpton felt his shoulders slump and his normally rigid spine go loose. He stared past the constable with his mind running a mile a second until he noticed Colonel Quale looking at him with a broad self-satisfied grin. Quale knew. Plimpton felt his stomach acid boil.

  O’Connor, leaned in close so that Plimpton could feel his breath on his ear, his spittle on his neck, and continued, “I’m not going to arrest you.”

  Plimpton, unaccustomed to having his private space so thoroughly invaded, scrunched his nose at the proximity of the man; onions with his eggs for breakfast perhaps. He attempted to back slightly away. O’Connor stayed with him, a boney but strong hand gripping his forearm, pulling him in tight. “You are indeed going on this so called mission of yours, you filthy piece of shit.” Plimpton’s ego quickly analyzed the deep affront and decided to let it go. He wasn’t going to jail. He attempted to stand tall and took a step back saying, “Yes I am and you very smartly assume that arresting me would result in bad tidings for yourself.”

  O’Connor shook his head with amusement and pulled the man back in tight. “You, out there, will save me the trouble. With you dead and gone, your devoted fellow citizens get to avoid a very destructive and divisive trial.”

  “Who says I’m going to die out there or when I get back here? You are but a public servant, Constable. I am -”

  O’Connor put a finger to the man’s lips. “Quiet you. You will not be returning to The Shore. If you do, you will die by hanging in public, as is our law, and you will thrash about and gag and turn blue as the roughest rope I can find strangles you. You will defecate all over yourself, and you will know you’re beloved people are watching as the filth runs down your legs. This I promise. Instead, you will get something you don’t deserve, but they do: a statue built to your honor by a grateful public.”

  As Plimpton searched in vain for a response, the Vicar Wentworth showed up on the platform with two deacons in tow and a cart full of baggage. O’Connor let his lips nearly touch the other man’s ear again, light bits of spittle passing from his mouth as he spoke. “You have a different wrinkle to attend to. Looks like it’s The Shore’s lucky day. Two pieces of shit gone for the price of ten thousand gallons of diesel. A bargain, says I.” He leaned back and picked a bit of lint off of Plimpton’s topcoat. “I’ll let you to it.”

  As O’Connor turned, flicking the lint away, Plimpton suddenly noticed how heavy his legs felt. It was as if every drop of spare blood had gone to his feet in anticipation of flight. He had felt his face grow white with his confirmed guilt and whiter still as the description of his hanging was offered. He still felt slightly faint. It was only Wentworth’s irritatingly high-pitched nasal voice that got his heart to reverse the flow and focus his fear into anger. What in God’s name was the man doing here? He wiped O’Connor’s spit off his ear, forced his shoulders back and lifted his chin to its usual angle; a view of his flared nostrils. He tested and found his voice and marched toward the arriving clergy. “Vicar? May I ask by what intention you arrive here with a mule train worth of baggage?”

  Wentworth smiled with genuine mirth, patting the baggage. “Bibles, my son. Precious Bibles, and of course my own meager luggage and that of Deacons Jones and Hoeg here. The intention should be obvious.”

  “Well I’m afraid it is not. The manifest clearly states the names of those going. On the manifest you are not.”

  “An oversight I’m sure. I don’t take it personally. All involved would naturally assume that any deep expedition, and certainly one that looks to make contact with Northerners, would include those who live vicariously through the Lord. I’m sure you have also considered the importance of any opportunity to save whatever souls we may find out there.”

  “Yes, but Vicar. This is a mission that is exploratory in nature. Proselytizing can be saved for a time when information is more at hand. May I suggest -”

  “Not to mention, sir, that we will be in the Devil’s playground. Wrong it would be, to simply let this mission, with a person of your consequence as its head, go without the protection of The Church.” The deacons stood behind their pastor with stoic faces.

  “Vicar Wentworth, let me be blunt. There is in
sufficient supply and or room on board for you and your entourage.”“My conversation with Major Thompson assures me otherwise.” Wentworth then put his hands on his substantial hips and looked candidly at Plimpton. “You are not refusing the spiritual guidance and protection offered by myself and my volunteers, are you Councilman?”

  Plimpton caught the major’s eye as he directed things at the far end of the platform. Thompson spread his fingers out on both hands to indicate that they would be ready in ten minutes and followed with a thumbs up. Plimpton returned his gaze to Wentworth and decided that the argument was pointless. An alternative point of view came to mind. Any prayer that he might have for future redemption amongst his countrymen most likely lay with the large man before him. “Forgive me. You and your deacon’s selflessness is deeply appreciated, Vicar. We shall be all the better for having you aboard.” He stepped toward his personal car. “Please see the Major about where you will be bunking.”

  “Already done,” said Wentworth with a genuine smile. “We shall be riding in your car of course. The Sentinel crews are in the second.”

  Plimpton offered a forced toothy smile. “Indeed they are.” He stepped to the side of his door, gesturing the men into his car. “Please. After you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tracks

  Desolation. I have fought in three wars. Have seen villages left for dead, whole cities in ruin. I thought I understood desolation. We passed through Charlotte without incident. The city had been raised to the ground during Omega. Fires that had started in a thousand different ways had spread unchecked, leaving little untouched. Was it desolate? Sure. It was dead. Truly dead. Despite a decade of harsh weather, human remains were in evidence everywhere. We spent several hours clearing debris off the tracks and stopping at switching posts to manually shift the rails to the direction we wanted to go. Often, that debris was human. Dead cities are always barren, except for Birmingham. Birmingham was perfectly intact. It had been an orderly evacuation for that city. Every piece of rolling stock had left with it. Despite the decade of harsh climate, the place still felt recently abandoned; as though everyone simply stopped what he or she had been doing and left. Toys in the yard, lawnmowers standing still, trash cans full, pallets of crated goods waiting forever to be moved to the next destination, furniture all in its place, all without use. A clock waiting to be wound. Vacant. Desolate.

  The only advantage to a decade of winter is food preservation. In Birmingham we were able to scrounge plenty of canned and foil packaged food from a Sam’s Club. There was fresh water to fill the tender and the canteen. We also had a choice: we could either head south toward New Orleans or north to Memphis and from there to Little Rock, Texarkana, Dallas and then the long slog to El Paso and beyond. It was pointed out to us by Captain Dean, that New Orleans was likely to be underwater, as the levies surrounding that city required constant maintenance and electricity to pump the water out. So North it was and more desolation.

  Whereas the Southeast had experienced the bulk of the trauma that had been the Exodus, the further west we traveled the more orderly the evacuations had occurred. As far as life: we’ve seen almost nothing but the occasional small bird or rodent. If it was bigger than a rat, it didn’t seem able to survive the long, long winter. We are all surprised at how incident-free this trip has been. However, it hasn’t been without peril. Twice, our Geiger counter has sounded serious alarm bells. It’s hard to say just how much exposure to radiation we have received. The best we could do is stay inside and speed up. Toxic waste in general is a serious concern. I’ve lost count of the number of times the horns have blared on the chemical sensors. We grow weary of having to suit up. Already, we are running low on replacement respiratory filters.

  With Fort Worth well behind us, and six days after leaving Richmond, we are passing through the town of Big Spring and, for the first time in a long time we are seeing broad swaths of green. Plant life is definitely returning to the Southwe–

  “Colonel,” interrupted Sergeant Green. “Sir, one of the pucks has spotted something.”

  Hansel had taken to standing at the rear door of the observation car where he summoned hapless birds to eat. Eliza had decided it was harmless enough. It kept him out of mischief, which, given the boredom that had settled in for all of them, was prone to come on without some type of distraction. When MacAfee and Green arrived at the back of the car, Dean was already there staring at the sky with his helmet and standing somewhat inside the train door, his body in shadow. Hansel stood at the rail with the grisly remnants of a bird still at the edge of his lips. He finished working a bone with his tongue and spit it onto the receding tracks. Dean said, “Stay back in the shadow. We don’t want them to know that we’ve seen it.”

  “What am I looking for?” asked MacAfee.

  Dean pointed at a forty-five degree angle toward the distant sky. “An observation drone. Hansel says it has been there for a while.”

  “I thought it first a bird,” said the puck. “It would not come to be eaten.”

  MacAfee focused in the direction that Dean pointed and scanned around until he saw it past the stream of white smoke that trailed from their engine out front and partially obscured the view. Sure enough, it was a small propeller driven drone of the type that field troops could launch by hand. “Hmm. Short flying duration. Could only be someone nearby.”

  “Or following us.” Dean pointed at the rails as they passed behind. “A polished line of breadcrumbs.”

  “Or following us,” MacAfee agreed.

  They watched the drone fly for another twenty minutes when it abruptly made a u-turn and flew back over the horizon. Gretel joined them on the crowded platform and said, “My brother tells me we are being watched.” It continued to astonish the Homo Sapiens that these two Homo Telepathus could communicate through the train without any indication that a conversation was being had. Dean eyed the soft downy hair on Gretel’s young ears as they independently scanned about for confirmation of her statement. Her brother responded aloud, “It is gone.”

  Eliza stepped toward the group. “We’re being followed? Hansel, you need to wipe your mouth.”

  The puck licked the last of the blood and feathers off his teeth and smiled.

  Dean said, “A drone flying behind us. Could only be launched from nearby.”

  MacAfee said, “Nothing to do but keep watch. He looked at Hansel. “Young… man. Along with listening for other pucks, I would be grateful if you would keep a sharp lookout behind us.”

  “I’ve got better eyes,” said Gretel.

  Hansel turned his back on MacAfee. “I’m already doing the job.” Then to Gretel, “You do not have better eyes.”

  “Do.”

  “Don’t.”

  Eliza cracked a smile. “You can take turns keeping lookout.” She said to MacAfee, “If it’s survivors, shouldn’t we investigate?”

  MacAfee said, “Our priority is those turbines. Midland next, Captain?”

  “Midland. Track change at Sierra Blanca with a good chance of water. At this pace we should be able to end our day down there.”

  MacAfee left. The children watched the rails pass behind, leaving Stewart and Eliza a quiet moment to amble back toward the observation deck stairs. The lower part of the train had been turned into the bedroom area and was therefore mostly empty. Dean wanted to say something to her so he finally blurted out, “It occurs to me that we haven’t been alone since our little talk on the Ginger Girl.” He cursed himself for his fumbling. What the hell was he trying to say to this woman? Why bring up that unpleasantness? Why did he become so…so dumb around her? They’d catch each other looking at one another from across different spaces and immediately avert their eyes.

  “No we haven’t.”

  Answered like a bad interview guest, he thought. He was dumb struck. He didn’t know how to follow up. He could see her casting her eyes about, looking to make an exit. But he was in the way of either direction she could t
ake. She finally said, “I disagree. If there are survivors, we should know about it.”

  “I don’t call those shots,” said Dean lamely.

  She’d made her point and decided to let it go. “I have to prep. I’m administering the final dose to you and the crew tonight.”

  Dean said, “Amazing. I’ve been living as Dr. Jekyll for ten years waiting for Mister Hyde. I’m still in the habit of reaching for my pills in the morning.” He made room for her to pass toward the forward car. “All of us. My crew I mean. Thank you.”

  She smiled with genuine warmth. “You’re welcome. I haven’t forgotten the agony and stress of being infected. You all are basically done. This shot is just insurance. In fact, I’ll tell the healthy that they are safe to work without masks.”

  “I’m sure they will be grateful. Uh, see you at lunch?” What the hell is wrong with me?

  She had begun to walk past and turned slightly. “Uh, sure. See you at lunch.”

  “Okay, good.” He found his gaze following her tight athletic buttocks moving rhythmically as she walked away. He felt a shift in his pants and he found himself averting his gaze to put out the small fire that was building in him. He grumbled lightly under his breath and admonished himself further. He needed to get a handle on things. Distractions were not good in his business. He walked up the stairs telling himself to pull it together.

  At the back of the train Hansel and Gretel offered mental smiles to each other. Gretel started the conversation. It is funny that he doesn’t know that she likes him.

  Funny and disgusting.

  Very disgusting.