The Train Job
The noisy train rumbled across the San Saba prairie, a cloud of dust in its wake.
The ashen clouds of oxblood smog from the engines mixed with the white dust of the plains, rising behind the train as it chugged along towards its destination. The gleaming metal of the train reflected the hot San Saba sun, and wind carried the sound of the passing train for miles in every direction. It was a loud and noxious way to travel, but about the safest way to venture across the region, provided you had the Brass to pay for passage.
It was quicker than a caravan or airship, and tough enough to barrel through any zombie hordes that happened across the train tracks. Raiders rarely bothered trying to stop the train, preferring easier prey and the racket scared off most critters. Provided the train didn’t need to stop for emergency repairs (a more common occurrence than the RRC would have liked to admit), the trip was usually uneventful. The only real danger these days was the threat of bandits or massive sand leviathans, but that kind of mutated monster didn’t normally ramble this far east.
The aft passenger car was full, survivors packed into the rickety vehicle as tight as the train staff could fit them. This wasn’t a luxury car pulled swiftly towards their destination by the mighty Ox, but a lesser locomotive in the fleet of the corporate Rusted Rail Combine, or RRC. It was mostly suitable to the common delvers, travelers, and farmers traveling back to the metroplex of Essex. It was packed beyond capacity, the last trip out to Essex for the day. This train was a marvel of wasteland engineering, nevertheless, recycled machines strung together to drag a trio of passenger cars along the Ox Lines back towards the Essex Station. A heavily laden luggage car rode at the back, carrying a shipment of scrap and metal from Bravado.
The cacophony of noise from the engines was somewhat soothing to Marshall Garrett, but he resisted the urge to let the rhythmic rumbling lull him to sleep or to dull his senses. Train hypnosis, some of the educated types called it. There was a periodic thump as the train ran through a zombie or two, unfaltering as the massive engine kept moving forward. The dull chatter of the other passengers was barely audible over the noise of the train.
Garrett had grown up in Essex, so the white noise of the train reminded him of days near the scrap factories that churned through the night near their cheap tenement. He smoothed his white mustache down and drew his wide-brimmed Merican hat down to shade his eyes from a glaring reflection off the train window. His weathered sun-baked skin had seen a life of travel, and the scars marked him as a veteran of more than a few wars. He’d been a law man of some sort for years, since before the Hiway War. These days, he felt those aches and creaks of a long life spent chasing down criminals and ruffians, especially after being cramped into one place for a long trip. Getting to enjoy the relative luxury of the Ox Line was a rarity in his profession.
As a ranking member of the Law Dog Union, he was charged with enforcing the law and keeping the peace in the San Saba, and his train ride was part of his most recent investigation. Boss Wyatt had given him the gig personally, and the old Marshall was grateful for the job. He wasn’t a young buck anymore, so any chance to get back in the proverbial saddle was welcome. Since the Arbiters had stepped in, Boss Wyatt and the other Marshalls had been focusing on ferreting out corruption and grift from within, and that meant that the important jobs got given to someone Wyatt could trust implicitly.
Garrett glanced at the delver woman crammed in the shallow seat to his left, but she was still fast asleep, her brown skin glistening with sweat and dust from the trip. She had her worn short-brimmed hat fully over her face, shielding from the dust that slipped through the cracked train windows, with a scarf pulled around her to cover her snores. She smelled of a pungent smoke, likely from the oil fields near Bastion, and murmured something under her breath as she tried to get comfortable. He envied her the chance for a nap, but he was here for business, not relaxation.
The RRC had been complaining about banditry on the Ox Line recently, and since their company headquarters was in Essex, that meant it was a job for the local Law Dog Union to resolve. The Peacekeepers were still stretched thin, and this needed a more discerning touch than the soldiers could provide. Ever since the war, they had had their share of rebels and ex-soldiers looking to make a quick Brass through petty larceny, but it took gumption to risk robbing the Ox Line. The RRC normally ran a few paid thugs to watch the trains, but most of their effort was focused on the actual Ox, the massive flagship train of the fleet, not the lesser train lines. Usually, the idiots went for the biggest train thinking it would have the biggest spoils, but few survived the attempts thanks to some overzealous and well-armed guards.
These bandits were a bit different. They weren’t attacking the main Ox Line routes, but waiting for the bi-weekly shipments from Bravado and Bastion carrying delvers and passengers headed back to the big city. These lesser trains tended to be packed with folks that just received their wages, or groups moving shipments of valuable scrap and herb to Essex. It wasn’t the big scores that might come from robbing a valuable Grave Council shipment, but it was far more reliable, and far less protected. It spoke of much better organization and less impulsiveness than the usual bandit gang, and far more planning than the Law Dog liked to see in his enemies.
Garrett had been tracking their pattern for weeks. He had followed the routes for the last few days, riding along with the train as a normal passenger. From Essex to Bravado, from Bravado to Bastion, out to Morgan’s Folly, and back to Essex. It was a long route, but all the stars were right. The bandits would strike again soon. Lots of people with money in their pockets on this train, plus a healthy score of scrap and metal from Bravado. Even if bandits could only load up a few horses with their ill-gotten loot, it would be a small fortune if they were quick.
A sudden squealing from the brakes of the monstrous machine, coupled with the lurching movements of the train coming to a sudden stop rippled through the passenger car. Sure enough, Garrett picked out the tell-tale crack of gunfire from the front of the train over the noise of the brakes and lurched to attention. Passengers around Garrett groaned at the interruption, a few of them nearly thrown from their seats in the shuffle. A cloud of white dust settled over the train as it slowed to a grinding halt, the screeching of the wheels on iron-clad rails abruptly waking anyone still asleep. It didn’t take long for the stuffiness to settle over the car, as the cooling breeze from the windows grew still.
Garrett checked his belt holster for his shooter, a trusty Slappi-model revolver that had been his good luck charm all these years, but didn’t draw it yet. No one else seemed to have heard the gunfire and there wasn’t any need to cause a panic yet. Wildly firing a firearm in close quarters wouldn’t do anything but deafen everyone in the passenger car. Garrett kept glancing out the windows, the smoke from the locomotive still obscuring his vision as the train came to a halt. He could see movement out there and still hear a few scattered shouts from the locomotive.
This had to be the bandits Garrett was here to stop. There weren’t any planned stops on this route for a few hours yet, and the conductor had said that the maintenance team had worked on the locomotive right before they left. They must have struck at the conductor’s car first, or found a way to block the tracks. The other passengers were shouting questions, grumbling loudly as if the RRC leadership could hear their complaints, or struggling to pick up fallen bags and gear from the sudden stop. A few Lascarians hunkered down, taking cover as a stray gun shot rang out nearby. Passengers screamed in terror, and chaos ensued.
He could hear frenzied hoofbeats outside, and the return fire from the RRC guards a few cars ahead, but it definitely sounded like they were outnumbered. Garrett stood up and tried to calm a few nearby panicking Quiet Folk, and tried to get a better look at the windows. The dust and grime made it hard to see, but there were armed men and women riding up along the stopped train cars. The shots up front seemed to have stopped, and Garrett knew that a few of the defenders had to be dead or bleeding.
The side doors of the passenger car wrenched open, and a scuffle near the staircase ended with one of the RRC train staff that attempted to interfere getting tossed out into the dirt while several bandits rushed the car. A shot rang out from outside, ending the poor fool’s life, and a few more screams echoed in the car. Each of the bandits that boarded the train wore a bright yellow bandana marked with a peculiar cat-like brand, two letters forming the face of the feline in the style of old cattle rancher marks. Something tickled Garrett’s memory, but he was far more interested in the bandit in front of him at that moment.
“Everybody listen up! This is a stick up! Ain’t nobody make a move or everybody on this train is gonna die!” shouted one of the bandits.
The grim-faced bandit held up a stick of explosive dynamite in her hands, brandishing a lighter towards the short fuse, as if to emphasize her threat. Her yellow bandana was splattered with blood, and she had a sharp looking knife holstered at her belt. She must have been the one that killed the train attendant a moment ago.
One of the other bandits behind her, a Remnant armed with a wicked looking hatchet, had a confused look on his face, and nervously stammered, “But Sally, how can it be a stick up if you don’t have a shooter? Ain’t that how it usually goes?”
The explosive-armed bandit glowered at her compatriot, and said “It’s a STICK of dynamite, see?” She waggled the explosive, and grinned maniacally. “That still counts! And don’t use our real names, idiot!”
The lead bandit turned her attention back to the terrified passengers. “Don’t none of y’all be thinking like a hero right now. We’re here for your money, not your Infection, but I ain’t scared to blow us all up!”
Garrett thought that the explosive would be a bit more dangerous to her than the whole train car, but you had to be careful when playing with dynamite. A man near the back of the car seemed to faint, and collapsed. The hatchet-armed bandit looked at the explosives, and then at the bandit leader, and it seemed like he was about to interrupt again. The woman glared at him, asserting her authority. She shushed him with a hiss and barked orders at the other bandit boarding the train.
“Put your valuables in the bag, and don’t you try hiding nothin’!” she shouted, and motioned towards the frightened passengers. A few of the Elitariats near the front of the car meekly started emptying their pockets, trying to avoid angering the heavily armed bandits.
A deafening crack broke the awkward silence and a ringing noise filled the cramped confines of the car, as the bandit woman screamed in pain, her hand neatly disappearing in a spray of blood and gore. The explosive flew out of her hands, unlit, the bandit disarmed by the purposeful shot.
Garrett’s still-smoking pistol echoed in the car, the bandits stunned by the sudden resistance. The weathered law man stood tall in the aisle, with a grin underneath his mustache as he faced down the bandits. He tipped his hat at the bandits with one hand, eyes never flinching.
“It ain’t nice to threaten these fine folks with an explosion, miss. As a Law Dog, I can’t rightly stand by and let y’all rob this train,” the Marshall said with a drawl.
With a quick motion and ignoring the pained screams of the woman, he fired twice more, wounding the other two bandits with a careful trick shot, each of whom dropped their weapons with a surprised yelp. He could hear shouts of alarm outside, but brandished his trusty shooter towards the bleeding bandits in front of him.
“My name is Marshall Garrett, and I don’t mean to see y’all suffer, so let's round up the rest of your folks and see if we can’t find a better way out of this mess. I’ll bet a few Brass that I’m a better shot than any of y’all, and I got a few rounds left if you care to disagree.” The Law Dog gave his most charming smile; an odd, but effective threat.
The woman bandit was still screaming in pain, clutching the remains of her mangled arm, but the mousy-faced Remnant seemed defiant. “There’s only one of you old-timer, and there’s way more of us! We’re the Wildcat Kelly gang, and we ain’t scared of any old Law Dog!” The other bandit behind him, a Merican, grunted in agreement and reached for his fallen rifle.
With another loud bang, Garrett cleanly placed a bullet between the Merican’s eyes, dropping him in a heap with a single lethal shot, while carefully palming a quick loader from his belt. Two more shots left. A few of the passengers screamed in shock, but most simply huddled further into the seats for safety.
“One bandit gang only needs one Law Dog, pardner. It may be a bit old fashioned, but I ain’t had a problem with your type yet.” Garrett swung his shooter towards the Remnant, keeping a careful eye out the windows for any other approaching bandits.
He abruptly twisted his gun, firing twice more out the window, each shot finding a bandit attempting to charge the passenger car. Screams of pain outside told him his shots rang true. Garrett quickly and smoothly reloaded his revolver in one motion, and calmly stared down the remaining bandit across the barrel of the shooter he aimed at the Remnant’s head.
“Care to test my aim, friend?”
The remaining bandit raised his hands in surrender, the fight fading from his eyes. Garrett moved to him in a practiced motion and expertly slapped a set of Law Dog manacles from his belt on the offered wrists of the bandit. With the immediate threat secure, he took another glance out the window. He checked on the bleeding bandit, and bound her securely as well, stopping the flow of blood from her mangled arm with a dirty bandage. He wasn’t as good as a sawbones, but it would keep her from dying for now.
The gunfire up front had stopped, but there had to be at least another half dozen bandits out there. Garrett took stock of the train car, and offered calm reassurances to the other passengers. He grabbed the rifle from the dead Merican, and chambered a round while holstering his pistol. The corpse wasn’t twitching yet, so it wasn’t the Merican’s last infection. He’d need to be quick to surprise the bandits at the locomotive, but he could probably cross over the roof and take them from the high ground. A few extra guns wouldn’t hurt, and the bandit wouldn’t be needing it anymore.
Wildcat Kelly. That was a name he hadn’t heard in some time.
Way back when, even before the old Hiway War, there had been a bunch of claim jumpers and bandits that had used that name, but he swore they’d all been taken out or rounded up. It had been at least a decade since he’d heard that name. Garrett wondered if this was just some copy cat gang, or if they had some tie to that old legend. It was certainly the same brand they used back then on the bandanas, though. He was pretty sure that old Wildcat herself had died, he’d seen to that himself, but someone had said she’d had a kid before she met the hangman’s noose. It was certainly a new wrinkle in the mystery of the train robberies.
Garrett shouldered the rifle, took a deep breath, and prepared for the climb up on top of the train car. He knew he’d feel the pain later, but he was good for a bit more of a fight. He loved these moments – his back against the wall, outnumbered and fighting for his life against a dangerous foe, and having a blast doing it. Just like the good old days.
There was another loud crack of gunfire, but this time it wasn’t the Law Dog’s shot that rang out in the dusty train car.
Garrett felt the slam of a bullet from behind, his breath knocked from him in surprise. The deadly shot had torn through his scrap-lined coat, in a single piercing strike. Dropping the rifle, he reached a hand up to the bloody mess of his chest, glancing down at the wound in shock. He tried fitfully to take a breath, blood quickly filling his lungs and he could only choke out a cough.
No one had ever caught him off guard like that before, he thought painfully.
Garrett stumbled to the side, bracing a bloody hand against one of the benches, collapsing to his knees as he turned to face his assailant. His lucky shooter tumbled to the ground from a limp hand as he tried to draw, and he realized how hurt he really was. The pain was blinding, but he gazed up at his murderer. He fumbled for a healing injection, but his hands were sluggish.
The ebony-skinned delver woman he had been sitting next to from before stood in front of him, a smoking pistol in her hands, the gleaming chrome catching his eyes before turning towards her merciless stare. It was like a ghost stood before him. He’d seen those same eyes before, in the face of a different woman, back in ages past. His bloody injectable fell from shivering fingers, the shock overwhelming him.
This couldn’t be THAT Wildcat Kelly, it couldn’t. She was dead.
His assassin had patches of vitiligo-esque discoloration across her right eye, giving her a bit of a calico appearance. There were words inked on her knuckles, but Garrett could barely read it through blood-dimmed eyes. She seemed transformed from the quiet delver he had sat next to hours earlier. She motioned orders towards several new bandits that had boarded the train and freed their wounded allies. He could hear loud clanking noises from behind the car, probably the bandits working to decouple the luggage car from the train at her orders.
How did he miss this? Had he seen her in Essex? Had she just watched the other bandits get shot? The pain was overwhelming.
Garret choked up a mouthful of blood, the shock and questions still racing through his mind as he bled out. He reached out a hand towards her, as if asking for help in his final moments. The woman tied a familiar bandana around her neck, and picked up Garrett’s fallen hat. She removed her dusty worker’s cap, and placed the Law Dog’s bloody hat on her head, as if it was a trophy of her kill.
“You old fool. This was never about the train. We had you in our cross hairs from the moment you stepped on board. It’s just like mother used to say...” The true bandit leader stared down at Garrett, as he succumbed to his deadly wound, and she kicked his injectable out of reach.
“The only good Law Dog is a DEAD Law Dog.” Wildcat Kelly fired a single shot into the head of the law man, ending the long career of Marshall Garrett once and for all.
