Mr. Shivers

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They came upon the trains nearly a day later. The filthy metal webbing spread out before them on the plain, smoke and ash rising in columns, gray trains milling and laboring forward like a nest full of snakes.

It did not take long to find someone. Find water, Roosevelt told them, and you will find other hobos. He was right. Near a small pond to the west they found a ragtag shack and a handful of men wallowing in soiled beddings. The smell of drink poured off them in cascades. Pike strode up to them and they scattered at first but then relaxed. When he asked of the scarred man they said, “Sure, sure. We know him. Came through here about three days ago.”

“Three? You’re sure?”

“Yep,” said one man who seemed half-sensible. His face was long and he wore a cheap cap and a long overcoat. “He come through, asked when the next train into New Mexico would be running.”

“Christ,” said Roosevelt. “New Mexico? You’re sure?”

“Yes. I sure am. You fellas got any money?”

“Not much,” said Hammond. “You’re sure it was him? Scarred on the cheeks?”

“I said it was, didn’t I?”

“Did he say anything?”

“You got any money?” he said.

“We don’t have much money.”

He spat. “Then maybe you dumbasses should stop bothering a guy, huh? Get out of here. I’m sick of looking at you.”

Pike grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he said to him, “unless I ask you to open it. Where in New Mexico? Where?”

“Jesus!” cried the man. “Some poor-ass town! Vuegas, I think! Let me go!”

“When did he leave?”

“The hell with you! I’ll kill you, you old bastard!”

Pike struck him in the stomach. Hammond and Monk moved forward to face down the other hobos who were getting up.

“When did he leave?”

The man coughed and spittle hung from his mouth. “Yesterday,” he gasped. “Just yesterday.”

“Anyone know when the next train is running out?” shouted Monk to the other vagrants.

“Why you being so mean to old Bevis?” croaked one of the hobos. “He ain’t done nothing to you.”

“Because he has bad manners,” said Hammond. “When’s the next train out?”

“Two days. Just two days. You fellas don’t got to be so mean about it,” he mourned. Connelly saw he was weeping like an infant.

“Why couldn’t you all just say so?” said Connelly as Pike dropped his man. “Why?”

“Because fuck you, that’s why,” the man gasped. He wiped his mouth and glowered at them. “I’ll cut your throats. All of you dumb sons of bitches, I’ll cut your throats.”

Connelly looked at him and followed the others away.

That night Connelly could not sleep. Each time he shut his eyes he would see the shape of Ernie’s shrouded body lying not far away from him, spots of red and brown seeping through and soaking into the patchwork of the sheet. Sometimes beyond it another person was sitting on the ground, leaning madly and painted red, arms clutched at their sides.

Finally Connelly gave in and sat up. He looked at the others lying around him, their chests gently rising and falling in sleep. Then he saw one figure standing far away, a small fire held in its fingers. It looked at him and held a finger to its lips and he blinked and realized it was Pike.

Connelly stood as quietly as he could and walked over to the old man. He was standing far out in the brush, watching the sleeping party, a glowing ember from the fire in his hand. He blew on it until it turned into a hellish spark and then he held it to the end of a damp cigarette and took a drag.

“Can’t sleep?” Pike asked.

“No.”

“Hm. I can’t either.” He sighed. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s damp tobacco,” he said out of the side of his mouth. Each time he puffed his gray-black teeth would flash between his lips before being lost behind a fog of foul smoke.

“How’d it get wet?” asked Connelly.

“Roonie stored it next to his canteen. The man’s an idiot.”

“He’s a bit off, yeah.”

“He’s an idiot,” Pike said again. When he was satisfied with his dogend he lowered the ember and studied their party again. “Tell me, Mr. Connelly. What do you think of these new additions?”

“Think of them?”

“Yes.”

“I think they’re all right.”

“Do you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, they been roughed up a fair amount last few days. So have we, though. But then we never had anyone die on us.”

“No,” said Pike. “I suppose that’s the true test of man, isn’t it. If his beliefs quake in the face of death. If they do, does he really believe in them?”

“We’ve all seen killing,” said Connelly. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes. But there’s a difference between seeing killing and taking part in it.” He shook his head, eyes not moving, face still faintly lit by the glow in his hand.

“You don’t like them,” said Connelly.

“I don’t trust them.”

“Why not?”

Pike turned the ember over in his hands thoughtfully, his skin never touching the glowing point. “Men,” he said, disgusted. “They are such weak things. Do you know when I first saw death? Do you?”

“No.”

“When I was nine. I saw my brother, kicked by a mule. He was two years older than me. Fooling about in the pen. My mother insisted on an open casket, saying we had to see his face. He had little of it left, though. I remember that.” Pike turned to look at Connelly. “Do you know why he died?”

Connelly shrugged.

“Because he was weak,” said Pike. “Because he was a fool. I know what you think now, though. I do. You think, surely the boy was twelve, and so cannot be blamed for his death? But I was twelve once as well. And I lived. What difference is there between me and him? Either a degree of stupidity, or perhaps those that live on are touched with the blessing of God. I think it may be both. We are all His soldiers, you see. I believe He can save us at any time. If we falter and fall it is of our own doing, none other’s.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” Pike shook his head again. “Mankind. Mankind is feeble. It is given to lust and hunger and greed. To cowardice. I have seen it in my years of traveling among them. Even when I preached to my flock, I hated them also. For they would weep or tremble, or most often simply forget my preachings mere moments later. Sometimes I sought them out, to see if they had listened. And I found them, then. In their moments of weakness. In their desires of flesh. Soft and senseless. When I found these things I did not let them forget me. No sir. No, I did not.”

He spat on the ground. “I know now that my years of preaching were wasted on them. They were not worthy of the wisdom I had to give. But with the arrival of these new people… I worry. I worry that I have forgotten how weak men can be. That they may falter when we need them most. I say this to you, Mr. Connelly, because I know we are somewhat alike. You are strong. And I do not mean you are strong in arm, though I can clearly see you are. But in spirit. You are stronger than this new band. Stronger, perhaps, than Hammond or Roosevelt. Maybe stronger than me.”

“I don’t know that,” said Connelly.

“No. But I worry for you. We are doing the Lord’s work here. I know this. You and I are great tools in His plan. Do not weaken. We must stay forever sharp. Forever hard. Remember.” Then Pike dropped the ember and crushed it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe. It smoked and sputtered and there was the scent of burning leather. Then he strode back to the fire and lay down.

Connelly watched him for a while longer. Within moments the old man was asleep and slumbering gently. Connelly waited and then returned to his bedding, but sleep still did not come.

They spent the next days in the hobo jungle outside the freightyard, waiting. They were joined by migrants from all over the country, men young and old, desperate and excited. Some were mere children, others young families. Some clung to the idea of travel as their only salvation. The young ones smiled through their hunger and dreamed only of biting the horizon, of the great iron machines eating up earth beneath their wheels, and of freedom.

Some in the camp said this was a tough yard, and Connelly listened. The line he and the rest were going to flip was rumored to be hot, hard bulls with no tolerance for hobos. They spoke of men dragged off and beaten in the woods, whispered of being pushed beneath the cars and being bitten in half by the wheels. Others dismissed it as rumor. All agreed they would rob you, though. It was common for the bulls to herd men off and line them up and take every penny they had. Everyone who was a passenger on the line paid, the bulls would say. Sometimes they paid regular fare. Sometimes they paid more.

“I remember one time when a railroad man dragged us all off the train,” said one old man. “Had a gun and a stick. Told us the fare to ride was half of whatever we had on us. Me, I didn’t care, I barely had a buck, but this one poor bastard had been working day in and day out and had near to fifty. Damn railroad man was lucky that day. Took the money smiling, told us to clear out or he’d toss us in the clink. Laughed as we ran away. I wanted to kill him. Still do.”

“One time there was too many,” said a grinning man. “We was all over the train like crows on a telegraph line. The conductor took one look at us and sighed and waved the train on ahead. We cheered him as we sped by and I think he got a kick out of it.”

Still, you gambled each time you stepped on the rail, they all knew. It was dangerous enough without railroad men kicking you off. The churning machinery would be happy enough to eat an arm or a leg or all of you, should you foul up your mount. Greasing the rails, they called it.

Connelly had been lucky and knew it. He had sewn a few dollars into the cuffs of his pants in case he ever needed to bribe his way out, but he had never been hurt and had been caught only once, when he was hiding in a car carrying piping. He had managed to stuff himself inside one and ride in something like peace, arms and legs crushed into the tube. Then everything had lit up and a man had been crouching at the front of the pipe, flashlight in hand. He had looked at Connelly for a great while, face invisible behind the light, and Connelly had frozen in fear. Then the light had clicked off and in the dark Connelly could make out a sad and sympathetic eye at the end of the tunnel. The man had thoughtfully tapped the flashlight against his leg, then stood and walked away. When the train had slowed, Connelly had crawled out and jumped off and had not looked back.

He never knew why the man had spared him, or even who he was. He told this story to Roosevelt.

“He was soft, that’s what he was,” said Roosevelt. “Men like that are few and far between, and getting fewer. You want to see something?”

“Sure.”

Roosevelt led him out to the woods where the track was clear. A solid line of trees had been chopped down and uprooted, carving a path thirty yards across or so. It was clean and even like a man-made hallway and the rails slid through them like a ship through a canal.

“We’re not going to hop one, are we?” asked Connelly.

Roosevelt laughed. “What are you, nuts? I just want you to come here and see.” He knelt by the tracks and reached out and touched them. Parts of them were rusty red and other parts shone bright from where the train wheels had rubbed them clean.

“See this?” he asked.

Connelly nodded.

“You sure? I mean, you ever really looked?”

He shrugged.

“These here are the bones of this country. Know how many folks died doing this?”

“No.”

“More than a hundred thousand. Maybe two hundred thousand. From when the first spike punctured the dirt to now, men died for this. To lay the bones of this country. Men are still dying. Right now. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“They are. In the freightyards someone’s had an accident. Someone’s getting dragged, something’s not loading right. A hobo like us is messing up his mount and getting chewed up like a doll in a cat’s mouth. Greasing the rails. But, see, you got to sacrifice something. This is the first time in the history of anything that you been able to go from one ocean to another. One big… big architecture,” finished Roosevelt. “And we’re just a part, if that. You know, I had a bunch of different preacher-folk yell at me when I was a kid but I never had much of a head for religion or gods. But if it came right to it, why, I’d say train’d be something like a god. It’s a god to plenty of us. Brings work, brings travel. Brings the future and it brings our loved ones. And it brings death. A lot of it, too. Maybe that’s part of it. Maybe you got to feed it. Feed it a little more than coal.”

Roosevelt stood up and brushed his hands off. His eyes followed the track, carving its wide alley through the woods. “That’s how you know you believe something,” he said. “If you wound up dying for it and thought, well, that’s okay.”

A thought wormed its way into Connelly’s head. He tried to understand what it was asking but at first he didn’t have the means. He hammered it out as best he could and said, “Roosevelt?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you kill for the trains?”

“What?”

“Let’s say if a certain someone didn’t die then one whole line would wind up breaking down or never getting built. So you had to be the guy to do him in. Would you do that?”

Roosevelt sucked his lip into his mouth and leaned on one foot. His brows drew close together and then he licked his teeth and blew a streamer of snot from one nostril. “Goddamn, that’s a crazy question,” he said. “It’s getting dark. Let’s head back to the others.”

Roosevelt led the way, following the path of the rails, but he did not look at them again.