as his fingers tried to find purchase somewhere, the nails digging into the splintered wood as the other hand stupidly held on to the shotgun. The corner of the boxcar bit into Connelly’s ribs, creaking and cracking. The man with the .38 looked at Connelly, his eyes woozy. His hand shook but he lifted the big pistol and waved it at Connelly’s face. Connelly kept pulling, not thinking, and when the gunshots cracked through the sound of the train he was sure he was dead.
He opened his eyes and saw the side of the man’s belly erupt. Red shining ropes of blood leapt up in the air like fireworks and arced back down. More holes punched up through the roof and Connelly heard Lottie cry out from below. The wounded man shivered and rolled as though trying to hold his entrails in and when his weight changed he tumbled off the roof of the car and out of sight.
Connelly pulled the remaining gunman toward the edge of the train. His shoulder screamed in raw pain and his teeth hurt from gritting them so hard but still he pulled. The man shrieked, his free foot kicking out at Connelly’s face and striking him once, twice about the ear, opening up the rim of his eye, but Connelly barely felt it and instead waited for the moment when the man’s center of gravity would reach its tipping point and then, and then…
The man’s mouth opened in dull surprise. The shotgun clattered from his grip and was devoured by the wheels below. Connelly’s arm was made of broken glass and barbed wire but the man was slipping over, screaming madly and slapping at Connelly, but Hammond held fast. The man’s body began to move, pulled by wind and momentum and gravity. Connelly let go and saw the man twist as he dropped. He was struck by the next car and he flipped and tumbled and then there was a hideous flash of bright red blood as the wheels found something finally worth eating.
Someone screamed. Connelly did not know if it was his own voice or the train’s. Hammond pulled him in and he saw Lottie kneeling on the floor of the car, face to the sky and hands together almost in prayer. The sinister black gun was clutched in her fingers. Drizzled blood ran across one of her cheeks and she was saying, “Blood… There’s blood on me. I think I hit him, Roonie, I think I… I think I…”
Roonie did not answer. He was squealing and trying to stop the flow from his arm. Monk was holding his face, picking out splinters of shrapnel and wood, wiping away the blood that welled up in his forehead like water from underground springs. Pike stood to his feet and the overwhelming violence of the train car seemed to focus around him.
“We need to get off!” he shouted. “We have to get off! The train’s already slowing. Whoever sent them knows something’s wrong or is coming to check. We have to get off!”
Connelly was trying to listen but everything was still screaming. He was, his attacker was, the guns were still going off and the train was still screeching, fingers still clawing over gray wood and the wheels churning below…
Pain again. His cheek. He looked up and saw Pike had slapped him.
“We need to get
Connelly nodded. “We need to get off,” he mumbled.
“Come on.”
They got to their feet, Hammond and Pike rounding them up. When they judged the train was slow enough they leapt onto the dry ground below, their bags falling around them. It was dangerous, still too fast, but they were forced to risk it. Monk sprained his ankle and Connelly knew he hurt himself falling but he couldn’t tell where because everything hurt, all of him, face and arm and waist and knees.
“This way,” said Pike’s voice. “This way.”
The sun was fading. They sped into the forest, limping underneath the leafless trees. Behind them the train was slowing to a stop and men were shouting to one another. The musk of dead leaves and old earth filled Connelly’s nostrils. He wiped at his nose and found half his face was slick with blood.
“Come on,” murmured Hammond. “Come on, Con. Come on.”
They ran as far in as they could. Soon the sky overhead was choked out by trees and they could see only by the blades of dusklight that rained through the branches. Hammond said something about hearing dogs and Pike rebuked him harshly and dragged Lottie forward.
“We need to go as far as we can,” he said as they ran. “We have to get away from the rail. There’s bodies back there and they cause a fuss, yes sir, they do. I don’t like it but I like not being one of them even more, and I don’t plan to join them, so come on.”
Hours passed. Maybe days. Connelly lurched from tree to tree. Soon he saw the shattered moon glaring through the woven branches. Hidden watchers observed their ragtag procession from the dead canopy above and made comment or warning. Soon the forest was alive with hoots and calls, snaps and whistles. The song spread through the treetops like wildfire. The sounds mixed together in Connelly’s head and he turned aside to vomit beside a tree. The others watched him retch with worried faces. He said nothing as he rejoined them.
“… concussion, probably,” said Lottie. “The guy nearly kicked his head off.”
“What?” said Connelly, slurred. “What was… What was that?”
“Hush,” said Lottie. “Just hush.”
They found an old stream in the woods, no more than a trickle, but it had eroded through enough soil that they could use it as shelter. They camped on its banks and drank their fill but they had no food to eat and Pike would not risk a fire.
“The woods may be crawling with men for all we know,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll give them any signals we’re over here, no thanks.”
“What in the hell makes you say that?” said Monk.
“Because that, back there, was a trap. Pure and simple,” said Pike, slapping his arms to stay warm.
They looked at each other.
“Set by who?” said Hammond.
Pike thought, then looked at Connelly, lying barely conscious on the riverbank.
“We’ll discuss this when… Well. We’ll discuss this when we can all discuss this,” he said. “Get some rest.”
Things swam together for Connelly and thankfully went black.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Connelly awoke to a sharp, stabbing pain in his forehead and a rumbling ache everywhere else. He opened his eyes and saw Lottie was daubing his forehead.
“Mmm? What?” he said, still slurred.
“Just trying to clean you up,” she said. “You need stitches. Probably. Hell, I don’t know. Your forehead is a mess. Half your face is unrecognizable.”
He felt his cheek. It was stiff and swollen and felt like rubber. Speaking was difficult. He lay back down and saw Pike standing on the ridge of the stream, leaning into his staff and staring out at the woods.
“He hasn’t slept yet,” said Lottie. “It’s been almost a day. Everyone’s slept but him. He hasn’t even moved. You saved his life, you know.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Didn’t know or didn’t save his life?”
Connelly waved his hand, sick of conversation that wasn’t yes or no.
Lottie gave him a brittle smile. “Sleep more,” she said. “You got to.”
“Fine,” said Connelly, and then again, a whisper: “Fine.”
They used cool mud and dry moss to stop their bleeding. In the wan starlight they looked medieval, wandering partisans wearing some diseased warpaint. Lottie bound Roonie’s arm in a piece of Hammond’s coat lining and he whimpered as she drew it tight. Connelly allowed her to do the same to him, bandaging the gash on his face. His arm was still useless and they made a sling of his coat but it pained him when they walked.
