We're starting to wrap things up here!
Title: The Train: Chapter Seven, Part Two
***
Chapter Seven, Part
Two
The wind hit Anton like a sheet of ice shattering against
his body.
The train traveled higher into the mountains, the last
vestiges of spring vanishing beneath the chill of freshly-descending snow. The
flakes had just begun to fall, but Anton felt every one of them on his
overheated skin. He struggled to his feet, then immediately lurched back down
to hands and knees as the train started a turn. He could barely hear his own
frantic breaths over the sound of the wheels on the tracks, but every hammering
pulse of his heart rang through his body like a warning: run, run, run.
Anton began to crawl down the top of the train. It was
gently convex, making it a little harder to balance on, but he wouldn’t have to
stay up there long. He just needed to get far enough along to drop down between
this car and the next, and get back inside. He would find Camille, and then
they would…something. It didn’t matter. Camille would know what to do.
Anton glanced back and blanched when he saw a pair of hands
grasp the rail. He forced himself upright and made his way to the end of the roof,
looked down at the slender ladder on the side of the hall that connected this
car and the next, and found the door it connected to―already open? A pale,
frightened face stared up at him for a moment before the door slammed
resolutely shut. Even over all the noise, Anton could hear the solid clack of the lock being pushed into
place.
What was Madame Orlande doing
down there?
Anton didn’t have time to indulge in the sudden realization
of her complicity. Clearly he wasn’t going to get in through this door. The
train had stabilized some: he took a step back, then jumped from the top of
Sleeping Car Four onto Sleeping Car Three. He had to make it farther forward
before Madame Orlande could cut off all his avenues of escape.
“You! Stop!”
Anton glanced back and immediately wished he hadn’t. His
would-be assassin was there—the porter, of
course, who else could have known where Anton had just been? He held the
gun that never missed in one hand, pointed squarely at Anton’s chest. It was a
strange thing, small but broad in his hand. Why hadn’t he simply fired yet?
“Give me the book,” he demanded.
“The…book?” Under the guise of steadying himself, Anton
inched backward. “What book?”
“The book you stole from the real Hasler! It wasn’t in the
holdall.”
“What?” Anton was actually distracted from his own mortality
for a moment by sheer surprise. He hadn’t moved the palimpsest.
“It wasn’t on that buffoon
either,” the porter snarled. “Tell me where you left it and I’ll leave your
corpse pretty enough to still be recognizable to your family.”
In a split-second decision, Anton decided to play along.
Hopefully his assailant hadn’t noticed his gaffe a moment ago. “You want the
book?” He patted his pocket. “You’ll have to come and get it. Shoot me now,” he
added quickly, “and my body will fall from the train before you can catch it!
You’ll lose everything!”
The porter didn’t speak again. He just began running
forward.
Anton’s body finally seemed to find its feet. He ran, veering
a bit as he slipped on the wet surface of the roof, but he made it to the next
car, and the next, without further incident. He didn’t dare look behind him—he couldn’t
spare the time. He had to make it to the engineer’s booth. Madame Orlande
surely wouldn’t get that far, and even if the door was shut, Anton had options
once he got there. He could go beneath the train, find a place to seclude
himself and wait for help. Camille would be looking for him. He would be—
A crushing weight slammed into his back, knocking him down
onto his face. He was still two cars away from the engineer’s booth, but the porter
had caught up to him. He hadn’t been fast enough.
Panic gave Anton the strength to roll over, extending his
arms to keep the porter away. The man’s handsome face was contorted with anger,
one hand holding the gun menacingly while the other reached for Anton, pawing
at the front of his jacket. “Give it to me!”
“Get off!” Anton
brought his legs up and kicked at the porter, who fell back a bit. Only once he
was out of reach did Anton realize his mistake. The porter was too far away to
get a hold on—too far away for Anton to keep him from pulling the trigger.
“I’ll take it from you once you’re dead, then.” He leveled
the gun at Anton’s head. Anton’s mouth flooded with the taste of copper, his
entire body thrumming with helpless energy. He was going to die, he was going
to die for nothing—
Bang! The gun went
off just as the train lurched into a screaming, laborious halt. The porter flew
back, and the bullet went down into the car beneath them instead of straight
into Anton’s brain. Anton felt his lungs start working again, a fresh fire
stoked inside his chest. He threw himself at his assailant, desperate to get
his hands on the gun. He needed to get the gun away from the porter, to throw
it from the train. They grappled fiercely, Anton drawing on reserves he didn’t
realize he had. It didn’t seem like they would be enough, though. The porter
was taller, stronger—Anton was outmatched. The gun slowly came to bear between
them, the muzzle coming closer and closer to the space beneath Anton’s ribs. Oh
God, no, he couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be it.
Anton barely registered the brief pressure at the base of
his spine. The feel of a hand was there and gone, and a moment later the porter’s
mouth lost its sneer, lips going slack. His fierce eyes slowly went blank, and
his relentless grip on the gun released. A long-fingered hand retrieved it
before it fell.
Anton rolled over onto his back and stared at Camille,
dumbfounded. “You…you…”
Camille took one of Anton’s hands and wrapped it tightly
around the rail. “Hold on,” he directed. “I must secure the body.” He did so
quickly, tying the porter to the roof with his own shredded jacket. The knife
still protruded from the man’s back, the black of its handle gleaming in a way
that seemed almost satisfied. Anton watched in a daze.
“Now you must climb down.”
“I don’t…” Anton shook his head. “I don’t know if my legs
work right now.”
“They, and you, have no choice. Come. We need to get you
inside.” Camille wrapped one arm around Anton’s waist and helped him scoot on
his read toward the front of the car. It was undignified but effective, and
within five minutes Anton was off the roof and back inside the train, this time
in the lounge car. People gasped, and several women screamed. Anton had no idea
how he looked, but his appearance had to be rather ghastly.
“Stay here.” Camille pressed him back into a chair. “I will
return in a moment.” He left, and Anton had to bite his lip to keep from
calling him back.
“He must be off to arrest another of them,” one of the
consuls remarked.
Anton cleared his throat. “An…another who?”
“Another of the Dévoué, of course!” The man pointed toward
the far end of the car. There was a body there, a small, slim body—Madame Orlande.
The porter’s shot must have found it’s home inside of her. Beside her, his arms
bound behind his back, her husband Bernard wept piteously.
Good God. What had happened
while Anton had been running for his life?
Had a dream last night that I WAS ON THE TRAIN! And I spoke perfect French. It was amazing! Just thought you should know that :-)
ReplyDeleteWill there be post next Tuesday? Hopefully the holiday won't delay the next part!