Читать книгу Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy - Christopher Byford - Страница 12

Chapter Two

Postponement

Velencia was a once-thriving trading town, but like so many others in the region, when train tracks carved shorter routes from A to B, business slowed. For most, it was a sign that life was for living elsewhere. The most determined stayed behind until even they were convinced by the populace’s mass exodus.

Velencia deteriorated in time and eventually became abandoned. Empty businesses stood in Main Street and its residences dissolved into husks. The Sand Sea had swept in and began to erode the structures away, blistering paint and carving wood and brick alike. Large drifts piled in doorways and alleys, and over time layer upon layer of sand was deposited. Unlike Rustec, there was nobody to shift it away, leaving the town partially concealed by its environment.

When a dust-storm threatened from the north, there was no option but for Franco to request a diversion. A looming blanket of rust was seen far in advance over the horizon and all that could be done was to make haste to the nearest shelter, or the closest thing resembling one. The Gambler’s Den was still a couple of hours away from anything resembling a settlement, which made the decision easy. To be caught in the middle of nowhere by the large storm would be disastrous.

The lack of any natural formation to take shelter in – such as a gully, recess, or the like – was problematic. Exposed, the best-case scenario was that the train would have to be freed from a thick covering of sand to continue, but that was hilariously optimistic. Unlike a sandstorm, he clarified to the showgirls who asked the difference, a dust-storm normally carried much more violent winds. Franco had witnessed a good few of these first-hand and was right to secure the locomotive for its impact.

With no other option they would need to take refuge in the remains of Velencia.

When the Den pulled up to the broken platform that was, remarkably, still intact, everyone got to work. Large canvas covers were fastened around the train, protecting anywhere the sand could cause a nuisance. Already the breeze had picked up, attempting to wrestle them away into the air. The girls and even Franco himself bolted the ropes to the train’s frame tightly, double-checking for any signs of slackness before retreating inside.

Watching from one of the exposed windows, each of them observed a mass of orange plumes swarming in the distance. It hung silently, arching, almost motionless. Surrounding tumbleweed that dotted the landscape lurched sideways in unison, quickly consumed in quiet ferocity. Day descended to night, with the wind rattling though every air vent. Misu busied herself lighting the oil lamps, flooding the carriages with subdued illumination.

‘Best get comfortable, everybody,’ Franco proposed, relieving a bottle of red wine from a wall rack. Its cork was stubborn but not enough for someone with hours to kill. ‘It’s a nasty one out there. It looks like we might be a little late for our next show.’

Few spoke. It had been a while since they had seen a storm this large and violent; they knew between them that all that could be done was to wait it out. The suggestion was made to play cards to pass the time, a few of the girls partaking in a few hands while the time idled away. Victories were not cheered for fear of setting off the tinder atmosphere between the two most imposing presences in the room.

Hours trickled by, but whenever Franco suggested something new to pass the time, Misu loudly sighed, distracting herself with whatever was at hand. A coin. A coaster. Her fingernails. Everything held a sense of fascination when it competed with Franco’s voice, thanks to their quarrel. Sure, there were other cars she could retreat to, but that took effort and there was a risk of inadvertently bumping into that stowaway in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents.

The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting.

Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept.

Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather.

Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid.

* * *

As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence.

How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do.

Vehicles littered the yard too.

Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.

All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years.

‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound.

Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds.

The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled.

‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be.

‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’

‘Except me.’

Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’

‘We’ve been here for ever.’

‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted.

Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’

The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog.

‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’

Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around.

Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside.

Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior.

Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame.

‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders.

‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze.

‘It’s a wreck.’

‘That’s all it is to you?’

‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact.

‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring.

‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’

‘It pulled ore?’

‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’

He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed.

‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean, but still.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

The engine cab may have been blanketed by dust but this mattered not to Pappy. He stepped inside, trying not to let his excitement run away with him. His hands drifted over the knobs and pipes, most tarnished with age but seemingly in acceptable condition. Memories dictated movements. He gently tested levers with a tug this way and that. The firebox took more encouragement, though it finally opened. Large metal jaws exposed the heart of the locomotive, once an all-consuming fire, now just a recess harbouring darkness and ashes.

Franco watched all this play out. Never had he seen his grandfather so keen, a curiosity considering that he was the one raising him in his father’s absence. There were always arguments, mostly revolving around Franco’s troublesome friends and wayward attitude. Pappy scorned more than he complimented, knowing no better than to mimic how he himself had been brought up.

Dirt was wiped clear from the engine’s pressure gauge, its numbers clearly visible through smeared glass.

‘The 433 wasn’t just any old train, Franco. It was my train. I used to work it, this exact one, over forty years ago. You can’t imagine how excited I was to hear that it was here – cast aside like junk, but I was excited nonetheless. Back then I worked hauling coal in the east on one of the smaller lines to the smelting plants. Tough, dirty work, my boy. Would break someone of your frail constitution, as you are now at least.’

‘Day to day on this thing? Doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’

‘You may come to regret those words.’ Pappy chuckled.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The yard owner owes me a debt.’

‘What sort of debt?’

‘The kind that you want to pay off immediately,’ Pappy coyly answered, ‘and he was mighty desperate too. This delight is now our property. Part of the arrangement is that we also get to use this here workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’

‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’

‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’

‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride.

‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’

‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’

‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’

Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration.

‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’

‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’

Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales.

‘Fine. I get it, I get it,’ the youngster conceded.

‘Do you? Because if you don’t make something of yourself now, you’ll die a very sad death out here, alone and with no one to grieve for you.’

‘All right! All right, stop; you don’t have to go on,’ Franco squawked, ‘but why would you want to go to the effort of getting it running again? It sounds like a job for a younger man.’

Disappointingly this was correct. Pappy lacked the strength of his youth, physically at least. Help was indeed required, which is why Franco would be another pair of hands in the endeavour, an apprentice of sorts. Age was against him and this was apparent from the occasional pain in the joint or strain of eyesight. What was the alternative though? Endure the remaining years in abject poverty? No. He’d promised the boy better once and no matter the hardship, he would make good on that. He’d fixed such a beast on the go with little assistance from associates, learning every facet with vigour. Resurrecting one from scrap should be a straightforward affair.

The Eiferian 433 loomed over the pair, patiently slumbering.

‘The same reason why you act up when you could be doing something productive. What compels you to do that? Honestly.’

Franco was unsure whether to take offence or not, but he deliberated and answered truthfully. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘Exactly,’ Pappy agreed, ‘we both have things that run in our blood that we can’t quite explain.’

* * *

Franco lay slumped, fingers still coaxed around green frosted glass, the last pouring collected at its base. An occasional mumble left his lips but they were nothing particularly coherent. He didn’t deserve Misu relieving him of the bottle so it wouldn’t spill on the carpet, but taking pity on him, she’d returned it to the bar counter. Neither did he deserve the blanket draped over his person to keep out the cold, but it was provided. For a moment she questioned whether she’d caught a mumble about time in his comatose state, though with the affray outside still taking place, she dismissed it.

Leaving the lamps burning out of consideration should he wake, Misu left in the pursuit of rest. As winds battered the Gambler’s Den, their troubled manager slumbered in the carriage with nothing but his dreams as company.