The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. (18 page)

And neither would I
, he added silently.

‘Why did you leave?’ Wu asked. Marco shot him a guarded glance. How much did the sergeant know already? But Wu’s countenance was blank, implying nothing.

‘I had a great opportunity in Arizona,’ Marco answered. ‘At St Joseph’s.’

Roger Ballard appeared in his mind. The bony, rectangular face, prematurely wrinkled, wire-frame glasses not big enough to hide the heavy dark bags under his eyes. Thick brown hair combed straight back on his head. Sallow cheeks tapering to a narrow chin, and his top lip not quite centred, formed just a bit to the left like a permanent sneer.

Whispering something.

‘One creepy thing,’ Marco remembered. ‘He mumbled to himself a lot near the end. You’d see him at his desk, his lips moving, but he wasn’t talking to you.’

‘Talking to himself? Odd.’

Marco nodded. ‘Rumours started around, like maybe he was having a problem–drinking, or some drug. Because… well, here’s what you need to know about Roger. What
pushed him over the edge, I think.’ Marco’s mouth was dry again. ‘Something bad had happened.’

Wu cocked his head, interested. ‘Bad. To Ballard?’

‘Well, bad to a patient. But it affected Roger. People said it was his fault.’ Marco took a deep breath and steeled himself.
Say it.
‘A baby died.’

Wu’s eyes narrowed.

‘
Hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy
,’ Marco continued, the words turning over in his stomach. ‘Birth asphyxia. Not enough oxygen to the brain—’

‘Look,’ Wu interrupted. He pointed through the windshield. ‘Ahead on the tracks.’

Marco snapped up straight in his seat. ‘
Shit
,’ he said and hit the brake.

A silent unmoving train blocked the tracks, lifeless and weathered like the cast-off skin of a snake. A hundred yards long, eleven cars connected. Far ahead, a titanic locomotive rusted on a curve in the rails. Faded pink and green stripes ran the length of the cars, powdered with windblown dirt. Grime covered the windows.

Marco crept the Jeep to a stop fifty feet behind the last car. He let the engine idle as he contemplated the dead train. ‘It’s the Sunset Limited,’ he said.

Wu scratched the back of his head. ‘How far from the next station?’

‘Yuma. Not that far.’

‘Any reason a train would stop here?’

‘No,’ Marco replied. ‘Only bad reasons.’

Wu rolled down his window and listened to the desert.

‘Seems quiet,’ he observed.

Neither man spoke. Wu was right. Outside, the Sonoran
napped through the angry heat of daytime, nothing but the churning of desert bees and the faraway call–
kee-u, kee-u
–of a Gila woodpecker nesting somewhere in the shade of a cactus.

Half a minute passed. Then Wu asked, ‘Does it have a dining car?’

Marco frowned. ‘The Sunset? Sure. They all—’

He stopped mid-sentence, understanding Wu’s interest. Immediately he regretted his answer. Too late. Wu nodded and opened his door.

‘Wait,’ Marco said, disapproving. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting a look.’ Wu swung himself out of the Jeep and reached into the back seat. ‘I assume this train wasn’t empty when it left Gila River?’

‘Safe assumption,’ Marco grumbled. Both his hands remained on the steering wheel. ‘The Sunset holds two hundred passengers, I bet. Probably two fifty. Plus the crew.’

‘I see.’ Wu pulled his daypack and the AK from the back. He untied the knives and hooked them to his belt, then slipped the gunstrap over his shoulder.

Marco tensed. The hum of the Jeep trembled up his legs, begging him to drive. ‘Hold on,’ he protested. ‘Just get back in. We’ll go around it.’

Wu leaned through the passenger door, shook his head. ‘You have your rations, Doctor. Here’s where I get mine. But I’m not reckless. We’ll do a quick recon. If it’s clear–and only if it’s clear–we can raid that dining car’s galley, in and out in three minutes, loaded with enough food to last us both the next week. Or would you rather risk a supermarket in the middle of the next town? How many corpses in Yuma? More than two hundred, I’m certain.’

Marco opened his mouth but had no answer. Wu’s point was valid. The supplies in the Jeep would take them halfway
only; when those ran out, they’d have to replenish somewhere. At least out here, the train was remote. Much safer than a trip into town.

‘You’re wasting time, Doctor,’ Wu continued. ‘If there
are
corpses on that train, we should make our move before they know we’re here. In case they’re as hungry as we are.’

‘Funny,’ Marco said. ‘Look–some advice. There’s no such thing as “easy” around here. I’m talking from experience. One minute seems fine, the next is all-out fucked. These corpses have a way of… I know this sounds crazy, but a way of
outwitting
you. Maybe because we overthink, and they just go on instinct, but I’ve seen some very smart people get their heads torn off because they underestimated a few rotting bodies.’

He hesitated. ‘Your unit, for example.’

Wu’s face darkened.

Marco reconsidered. ‘I’m sorry,’ he admitted. ‘That came out harsh.’

‘I appreciate the honesty.’

‘Believe it or not, I don’t want you to die a horrible death.’

Wu said nothing, simply stood and adjusted the rifle on his back. He left the Jeep and trotted four or five steps towards the tail of the train. ‘Let’s go,’ he called back over his shoulder.

Shit
, Marco thought, relenting.
Okay then.

He couldn’t let Wu risk it alone. However arrogant the man might be, however strange, however huge a dickhead, he’d been a lifesaver back at Maricopa. Wu was fearless, no doubt–a definite big-time ass-kicker.

The video of Sarsgard Prison flashed in Marco’s memory. A thousand blood-soaked corpses, wild and rioting. He shuddered.

The truth was, he was going to need Wu’s help at Sarsgard. And right now Wu needed his, whether the soldier wanted
to admit it or not.
We don’t have to be best buddies
, Marco thought.
But, Jesus, we oughta stick together.

Marco tapped the gas and rolled the Jeep forward, pulling next to Wu. ‘Hey,’ Marco called through the open window. ‘All right, you win. I’m coming with you.’

‘Leave the Jeep,’ Wu said curtly and continued walking.

Marco rolled his eyes. ‘Holy Christ, it’s hard to be nice to you. Stop acting like a teenage girl on a hissy fit for a goddamn second, and listen to me.’

Wu halted. He turned and regarded Marco with scepticism.

‘Just get in,’ Marco said. ‘We’ll drive up next to the dining car and leave the Jeep there. Engine on, ready to drive. No sense parking this far back.’

Wu considered, then a moment later nodded. ‘Agreed,’ he said, opening the door, and climbed back into the passenger seat.

Carefully Marco steered the Jeep off the tracks and onto the sloping desert terrain. The Jeep dipped to the right, and Marco heard his bag of gear slide across the back seat. Wu pressed his hands against the dashboard, steadying himself.

The Jeep crawled alongside the train. Each dark car was massive, the size of a house. The rear car was a double-level sleeper; centred in the middle was an open doorway through which Marco saw metal stairs ascending into shadow. He kept his boot steady on the gas pedal, and the Jeep passed the opening with no protest from Wu.
At least he’s got some sense
, Marco thought. Entering the train at the tail end–walking up tight-quartered passenger cars to the diner–would be
way
the hell too risky, and Marco wasn’t feeling quite that suicidal.
Not today, anyway.

The Jeep continued past a windowless baggage car, and beyond that were four metal-ribbed coaches lined with portholes of dirt-caked glass—

Something moved.

Through the grime of one window, a flash of white skin. Then darkness.

‘Aw, shit,’ Marco said, craning his neck. ‘Did you see that?’

Wu nodded. ‘We won’t go near that car. The diner is up ahead.’

‘You said only if it was clear. That didn’t look clear.’

The Jeep pulled even with the impressive lounge car. The vessel loomed above them. Marco watched it creep past, eleven dark windows staring back at him like a set of alien eyes. Thick observation glass rounded the upper deck, designed to give riders an unobstructed view of California mountains and sparkling stars on desert nights. All wasted now. Even from below, Marco could see streaks and spatters of what looked like dried black mud on the skylight glass.

Except it wasn’t mud.

‘There’s guts everywhere,’ he announced.

The dining car rattled up beside them.

‘Stop the Jeep,’ Wu said. ‘We go in here.’

Marco winced at the crunch of rusted metal. In the quiet desert, each sound seemed a hundred decibels louder, a screaming wake-up call to every possible corpse on the train.
Jesus Christ, this is stupid.
He held his breath and wedged the crowbar deeper between the black panels that connected the lounge and the dining car, bending the material apart.

The diner had no exterior doors, so breaking into the small walkway between cars was the simplest way inside. Marco had volunteered for the job, attacking the lower
corner, the only area he could reach. The corridor was raised ten feet off the ground, joining the upper levels of the train; he’d hoisted himself up by the outer grab-rails and established an unsteady foothold along a rubber-tubed electrical cable. From this awkward perch he could barely get leverage on the crowbar; the iron handle pushed back at him, almost chucked him to the dirt below.

‘Do it fast,’ Wu ordered. He sounded annoyed. ‘Slow makes more noise.’

‘So does talking,’ Marco snapped. ‘Shut up, please.’

He rocked the crowbar back and forth into the seam where the panelling bolted to the car. His grip was painful. On the fourth or fifth pull, he felt the burn blisters on his palms pop, and a watery serum leaked between his fingers.
Motherfucker
, he hissed to himself. The panelling shook and bounced to the sound of loose chains jangling.

Drops of his sweat splashed the metal, drawing dark wet spots in the dust. And then at last the panelling peeled apart with another hideous squeal.

A narrow shadow opened, large enough to fit through.

‘There,’ Marco breathed. Exhausted, he hopped down. ‘We’re in.’

‘Not yet,’ Wu said. ‘There’s still the diner door inside.’

Twenty feet behind them, the Jeep idled on a sandy dune where the desert dropped off steeply from the tracks. Marco had parked at a precarious tilt, the sand loose beneath the wheels as he fishtailed to a stop. Hurriedly he’d armed himself with the Glock, then rummaged in the back for the crowbar and a flashlight. And his duffel bag to cart whatever food they’d find.

Might find
, he reminded himself.
Could be nothing.

The more he thought about it, the more this idea sucked.

‘Hey,’ he said, turning to Wu. ‘You ever throw a rock at a hornet’s nest?’

Wu frowned; he seemed not to understand. Marco continued.

‘Like when you’re a kid, right? You find a hornet’s nest, and it’s all quiet and peaceful, and for whatever idiot reason that makes sense to a kid, you throw a rock. And then you better run like hell when a thousand pissed-off hornets come shooting out to sting your ass to death.’

Wu stared blankly. Marco sighed. ‘Right… so maybe we had different childhoods. But my point is, right now we’re standing outside a giant, metal, quiet hornet’s nest. So before we do this, let’s take a second and ask ourselves–are we really sure we want to throw a rock?’

Wu considered this. ‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘were you ever stung?’

‘Well, no… I always got away.’

‘Exactly,’ Wu said. ‘So do I.’

The matter apparently settled, he grabbed the handrail and, with graceful ease–weightless, deft like an acrobat, each limb in perfect synch with the others–scaled the train exterior and slithered his upper body into the torn panel. For a moment his legs hung from the hole, and then he kicked and the darkness swallowed him.

Marco tensed, waiting. Then he saw the flashlight click on.

Wu’s voice, muffled, called to him. ‘
Clear. Come on.
’

Marco set the crowbar down, then reconsidered and picked it up again. With the Glock holstered and the crowbar tucked under his arm, he climbed, not like Wu at all, clumsily, banging his ribs as he flopped and wriggled his way into the crack.

Goddamn it. No style points there
, he thought, rolling onto his back.

Inside, the atmosphere was cooler, out of the sun but musty and oxygen-depleted; Marco battled the urge to stick his head outside again for a fresh gulp of air. Instead he blinked, his
eyes adjusting, the afternoon still bright on his retinas. He rose to his feet and bumped against Wu, who stood sweeping the flashlight high and low, measuring the space they’d entered.

The short connector was about three feet long, just enough for both men to fit shoulder to shoulder. Dust hovered in the flashlight beam, and ghostly spider webs laced the corners. Seed shells littered the floor around a ball of dry leaves where some desert mouse had once nested.

Wu cast the light over Marco’s shoulder. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘This way.’

Behind Marco was a closed metal door, a window in the middle. The flashlight’s reflection in the glass burned like a sun in a starless universe. A small placard read
DINING CAR
in dirty red letters; next to it sat a large rectangular button.
PRESS
. The door had been hydraulic–hit the button, the door slid open. Wouldn’t work now.

‘There’ll be a release somewhere for emergencies,’ Marco said, scanning the jambs. ‘Like power failures. Or when resurrected corpses eat all the people on board.’

On the frame above the door he found it, a small inset panel with a sticker.

In Case of Emergency:
Open this Box
Pull Red Lever Down
Slide Door Open

Wu leaned across Marco and popped the lid. His hand reached for the lever.

‘Wait,’ Marco interrupted. ‘Let’s have a peek first. Turn off the light–there’s too much reflection.’