Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 28
Émile straightened and looked down at the tracks. “How do we move?”
The engineer gestured for Émile to shut the door, sequestering them inside the cab. He took his place on a foldable padded seat behind the controls. “Are we free of pedestrians?”
Émile glanced through all the windows and gave a thumbs up.
Kevin released the brake lever. A hiss of steam rolled out. But instead of moving, the locomotive sat like a mule, stubborn and defiant. He pushed the lever in again and then released it. More steam, but no motion.
“What in tarnation?” Kevin flipped the switches to the electrical off and on again before checking a few meters. “Well, that’s not good.” He flopped back into his chair.
“Please tell me that whatever problem you’re about to present me with has a solution.”
The engineer craned his neck up at Émile and placed his fingers on a dial. “Well, hoss, it’s like this. We’re running a diesel electric. The engine runs the electric generator, which then supplies the train with all the electricity it needs to function.”
Émile banged his head against the front window and mumbled, “And the generator isn’t working.”
Kevin must not have heard because he was repeating Émile word for word. He exited the cab and seconds later, there was silence.
By the time the engineer returned, Émile had an idea lined up. “What you were working on in the warehouse with the others, that wouldn’t be a generator, would it?”
Kevin stood on the railing and swung the door back and forth a few inches between his hands. “We finished it just before the lights blew out. But it hasn’t been tested yet.”
“Then why wasn’t it in the repair bay instead of the storage house?”
Kevin was an expressive old coot. Just a lift of one eyebrow or the coy quirk of a grin, and you knew what the old codger was thinking. He raised his shoulders up to his ears. His sideways grin revealed it all.
Émile scratched at his chin to hide a smile and did his best to look serious. “That boy. Nicholas should’ve had the parts delivered by now and when the mechanic saw it in the corner decided to do something besides sit. Can you replace the generator?”
“I’ve had enough years around trains and mechanics to do a fair few repairs.”
Émile tripped, trying to get out of the cab in his eagerness. “Let’s go get it. The sooner this train is moving the better.” He hopped to the gravel, landing beside Kevin and pointed at the end of the line as they headed for the repair shop. “Are those passenger rail cars functional?”
The engineer craned his neck again and put a hand on his forehead, a small shadow covering his eyes as he did. “You mean the twins. Yup, they can still haul people.” He lowered his hand and squinted while they traipsed across the yard, stepping over switching tracks as they went. “Was a shame when they decided to scrap them, but the new whippersnappers in charge said the classy ladies were needing too many repairs. Put them out to pasture while still in their prime. Now, there really is more to repair than they’re worth, at least for a commercial enterprise. Good thing we’re not commercial, eh! Springs may be worn but the truck sets should travel well enough.”
When they entered the repair bay, Émile did a head count. Ten. No one had deserted. He left Kevin’s side and climbed on top of a hydraulic lift meant to hold up train engines and cars for repair. “Nic!” The group turned as one organism, giving Émile the creeps. “I need you to go with Kevin and help transport a generator.”
Nicholas waded through the others until he was within reaching distance. “Boss. That forklift won’t handle the kind of weight you’re talking about. It’s too old and in need of repair. You should know.”
“Then use the big boys.”
There was a brief glint in his eyes, which faded just as quick. “I haven’t been certified for that class yet.”
Even though Nicholas struggled with his grief for Brandy, Émile could tell he was interested and that the task would keep his mind off of his dead girlfriend, at least for a few minutes. The busier everyone was, the less time they’d have to think about their losses. “Congratulations. You’re now certified.”
Nicholas nodded as Kevin wrapped an arm around his shoulders. They disappeared out the door. Maybe the old man could give some fatherly advice to the grieving young man.
Émile straightened his shoulders, his head held high. “All right everyone, we’re going to do a scavenger hunt. Break into groups of three or four and start looking for food and equipment we might need and bring them back here. Try to organize the items by priority. Which means survival things on the top. While you’re searching, keep an eye out for clothes. We’re going to be living in tight quarters and I don’t want anyone feeling uncomfortable while we travel together.”
He climbed down from his perch and clapped his hands. “Let’s get to it, people. I don’t fancy being here when the cicadas come back.” His last words seemed to have the effect he wanted, because several cast furtive glances at the sky and grabbed one or two others as the group scattered. He caught up with David as he headed toward his wife. “I got a task for you if you feel up to it.”
David froze, his body language unreadable. “What do you have in mind.” Another statement instead of a question. The Sackmans could use a few classes in decorum.
Émile led him out of the building and past the train engine. They stood before the tarnished exterior of a passenger car, its scuffed steel and cracked windows just a hint of why it’d been sent to the recyclers. He kicked at the platter-like wheel. “We need these on the track behind the boxcar. Both hooked up and oiled before we leave.”
David circled the once luxury cruiser-on-rails several times. On his third pass, he nodded. “Can do.”
“How long do you think it will take to get them hooked up?”
“If you loan me a spotter, possibly two hours.”
Émile worked his jaw back and forth. The job needed to be done yesterday, and taking that long to get three cars connected was about as painful as having the dentist pull a tooth without Novocain. “I’ll give you forty-five minutes to get it done.”
David touched his swollen cheek, wincing as he did. “I’ve never done it before, and have reduced visibility and you want me to rush things?”
“If those damn insects return before we’re ready, it won’t matter. One hour, tops.”
David gave a reluctant nod and both men left in opposite directions.
Back in the repair bay, the scavenged items were piled in a mound on the concrete. He lifted a tool and placed a wrench to the side. Several flashlights, batteries, gloves, a set of wrenches, and some binoculars lay among the other assorted tools for train repair. There was nothing in the pile that resembled food, not even junk crammed with sugar. He was halfway through a box filled with gears and springs when he was interrupted.
Mary stood beside him, a glow of satisfaction surrounding her that he hadn’t seen in a month. “Come see what I found.” If agreeing to look at something helped repair the trust issues, he couldn’t refuse.
She led him to the staging area where several shipping containers lay open and unloaded. Crates and pallets had been pulled out and lined up, so there was a walking path down the center. She pointed at the containers as she played tour guide. “If you look to the left as we travel down the path, you’ll notice sacks of flour, rice, and beans. Further along there are canned peaches and pears, along with mandarins in light syrup.” She turned around, hands clasped together, before returning to her spiel. “If you look carefully on your right, you can just make out the illusive shapes of freeze-dried fruit.”
She’d found the most important thing the group needed, which put him in her debt. No wonder she was playing nice. “Well done. The other groups seem to have trouble finding anything of actual value.”
She flashed a clipboard with several papers folded over each other and laid it on a crate holding flour. “That’s because they don’t have the ship’s manifest to work with.”
Émile took the clipboard and flipped through the papers, drawing a finger down the line of items. There was no mention of hardware or clothing. “This is fantastic. Again, great work. I’ll have Nic transport these over to the boxcar.”
She smirked and pointed in the train's direction. Nicholas seemed to be enjoying himself, or at least was too preoccupied to erase the smile covering his face, as he whipped the rigger around for another load. The forklift was twice the size of the one he was used to driving, and new, which meant that it handled better. He picked up a crate, stacked it on another and whisked both of them toward the train. “I figured we could load the cars while Kevin finished up the repairs.”
He had to hand it to her, she’d thought well in advance. It’d be a benefit for them to have things ready before the engine was repaired. “I’ll go this way and round up anyone I find to load the loose items.”
Mary took the manifest sheets back and began looking through the papers again.
Émile took a turn around the yard, giving himself a few, precious minutes to remember those happy times when his friends had shared bags of chewy Nerds and Color-Your-Mouth Gumballs and, for one magical month, a whole Reese’s Nutrageous bar each when Klaus Monty’s mom and dad got divorced and they both gave him an allowance, raising the minimum to bid for his love. It hadn’t lasted, of course. Greg Mothan’s mom had tattled to Klaus’ mom and Klaus’ allowance had dropped back down to pre-divorce levels. But that hadn’t spoiled their fun; the kids Émile hung with back then were just great kids. He wished—not for the first time—that he’d stayed in touch with them, but his pride and shame had forced him to sever all contact with his past.
Émile patted the side of the train, glad that fate had brought them together, then headed back to the main yard. Not only were the crates stacked beside the boxcar, but the observation and coach cars were coupled to the engine and ready to travel. He stopped by the engineer to get a feel for how things were going.
The upper half of a grease-stained Kevin leaned into the cubby where the diesel engine and electric generator connected. Clanking and the occasional “ouch” came as he worked. Before Émile could climb the side steps, Kevin emerged and wiped his hands on his overalls. “Well hoss, we should be in business.”
“The crew’s busy loading foodstuffs. We’ll be ready soon.”
Kevin scooped up his tools and headed to the cab while Émile went to organize the crew. There was no more room for crates, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t stack a few more bags into the back.
Five minutes later he was part of a chain gang, passing bags of rice to Larry and Nicholas in the boxcar. They were halfway through the crates when David sprinted up and skidded to a halt in front of Émile. Out of breath, he panted and pointed skyward. Émile instantly got the message. The cicadas were circling back. “How long?”
David lifted his hands, using his fingers to mark off the time. “Ten.”
Ten minutes. That wasn’t enough time to finish loading and get his family inside the cars.
Mary came out of the repair bay in a pair of overalls. She wrapped herself around her husband, making eye contact with Émile for as long as he could stand it.
Émile got the second message loud and clear. Protect the crew. He wasted half a minute calculating the odds while the crew continued to load the contents of the next crate. Mary’s glare scattered his thoughts. The crew’s lives were important. But, having as much food and water to keep them alive was just as crucial. Another thirty seconds flashed by and Émile whistled. “Alright, everyone grab as many bags of freeze-dried food and bottles of water as you can and hop aboard.”
The entire crew froze and stared at him.
“Today, people!”
Bodies flooded the repair bay’s wide open door. Scrabbling workers grabbed packages containing beef stroganoff, spaghetti, and other meals, then dashed to the passenger car. It was the most chaotic fire drill Émile had ever experienced. By the time the last person had evacuated the bay, three-fourths of the crates were empty. Émile kicked at a couple of dropped packages until they were in the pile that would be left behind. They’d managed to carry away more than he’d expected. He scooped up several meals and headed to the locomotive.
Kevin was fiddling with the switches as Émile dumped the packages on the floor. Émile raised a finger. “I’ll be right back.” He hopped from the cab and jogged to the passenger cars, his feet sore and aching from traveling all day over the jagged gravel. He took another headcount. “Make sure all the windows are up, and shut the doors.”
Larry shot a hand into the air and waved it at his window. There was no glass. No window meant the potential for cicadas to get in.
Émile scuffed his feet against the carpet runner, which curled around his shoe. “Knife, someone hand me a knife.”
Nicholas yelled out from the back of the car. “Would scissors do?”
Émile yanked on the runner, pulling up a three-foot section. “Anything with a sharp edge, pass it up.” He caught the scissors and slashed at the stubborn material. The runner came apart and he tossed it to Larry before leaving. “Find a way to secure that to the window. Don’t leave even the tiniest of cracks for those bugs to crawl through.”
As he ran past the boxcar, his stomach sank. Kevin was back in the engine compartment, fiddling with something. Émile tapped him on the shoulder, but he wouldn’t turn around. “It won’t prime now.”
Émile glanced at the sky. A dark cloud amassed just north of them. The crew was in a train that didn’t run and was about to be invaded by killer cicadas. They were sitting ducks.
Chapter 29
JEREMY CURTIS. CURRY VILLAGE, YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK
Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay awake.
The taste of copper coated the inside of Jeremy’s mouth. It grounded him, kept him from slipping back into that tempting out-of-body place where he could watch the dust motes dancing in the sunlight instead of thinking about the boots coming for his face, his nose cracking, his eye swelling shut, his ribs caving in. But the longer he lay on the cold, tiled floor, the more his disjointed thoughts jostled for ascendancy until finally one broke through the haze: Brandon was out there somewhere. As were the thugs who’d beat the living shit out of him for no good reason. However long he’d been floating in semi-consciousness had been too long.
Jeremy embraced his throbbing feet, the sharp stabbing under his ribs, his pounding heart, and the lancing pain in his jaw. He grimaced as he sat up, his eyes squeezed shut. The room spun as he crawled to a wooden bench and heaved himself to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath at the agony of the effort.
The supplies he had selected and packed were gone. His attackers were gone. Tosh—who’d been there when Nash’s men beat him to a pulp, he was sure of it—was gone. There were no voices, no evidence that anyone was nearby. He stepped out of the locker room with measured movement, clamping his mouth shut against gasps of pain. The lobby was empty but that didn’t mean he was alone. Those assholes could be waiting for him. The last thing he needed was to run into Randy, Mason, or Nash before he could find Brandon.
The sunlight filtering through the windows caught a metal keychain tucked under the front desk. “Dammit.” He’d missed them on his first pass through the lobby; too focused on Nash rather than his own goals. He grabbed the car keys and stashed them in his pocket.
A box of masks sat on the desk. It was a real “Nash” move to leave those behind. The man was as arrogant and pig-headed as he was oblivious to his surroundings. The fires might have died down some, but the trees were still smoking and the ash hadn’t abated. Jeremy grabbed the masks from the box, and shoved them in his pocket.
A clinking of glass broke the silence. It was coming from outside. Jeremy lurched toward the front door, boots thudding across the ash-kissed floor, raising miniature dust tornadoes. Eyes trained on the corner, his heartbeat thrashed against his battered ribs. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, adding salt to the coppery taste in his mouth. The clinking of bottles resumed.
He stepped softer, using the porch railing as a support as he neared the corner. A wooden broom with stiff, straw bristles leaned against the wall between two rocking chairs. He grabbed hold of it with both hands and lifted it, swollen fingers screaming for release as he tightened his grip. He pressed against the wall just shy of the corner and peeked around it, broom at the ready. If he had to beat those suckers off with a cleaning implement, so be it. The adrenaline surge masked the intense, throbbing pain that had dogged his steps since he stood up. He was ready for battle.
He rounded the corner, screaming and charging, like Braveheart on steroids, minus the blue war paint and then came to a screeching halt.
Tosh was slumped against the wall, legs sprawled. Half a dozen beer bottles lay in a heap next to her, and she pinched the neck of a half-full bottle with two fingers, tapping it against the empties. Pale tear tracks had carved clean grooves through the dirt on her cheeks, and her eyes were reddened and puffy.
“Hey, Tosh. Where’s Brandon?”
Tosh’s head wobbled as she turned, squinting against the sun. “Why d’you die?” She took a long slug of her beer and tossed the bottle on top of the pile.
“Say what?”
Tosh leaned forward, tipping out of her chair and landing on all fours. “I kinda loved you, you know. If you’d just said something, I would have left that asshole…” She swayed, a string of drool dripping onto the ashy porch. “I have. I left him. Wasn’t pretty.”
Jeremy set the broom against the door and wrapped his aching hands around Tosh, pulling her back into her chair.
“Get me another, would you, hun?” She slid down so that her head was against the back rest. “And get one for yourself.” She fumbled with the front of his shirt, pulling him in close and examining his face. “You’re not Max.”
Jeremy uncurled her fingers and straightened himself out. “No, I’m not Max. I’m Jeremy. Brandon’s dad.”
