Captive Freight

Russ woke with a start. A screaming whistle cut the night air, and his senses came to. The oppressive weight of the tarpaulin covering him. The smell of sweat. The ache of his muscles, tired from running. He sat up, bundling the tarp aside, and breathed the cool air. A freight train stretched lazily along the tracks nearby, steam blooming from its underbelly and spreading across the ground. Russ swung his legs over the edge of the crate and slipped his feet into the clouds.

A black car crept into the yard, its headlamps probing the darkness like sunbeams. Russ heard two men get out; heard the gravel crunching underfoot, and the low voices. How the hell did they find him here? He stole down the yard along the shadow of the train. He found a boxcar, the rusty door slightly open. Ahead, the whistle screamed.

The train awoke, and it was alive.The smell of oil. The grinding of metal wheels. The two men watched from the yard, eyes searching as the train surged into a blossom of steam. Russ watched from inside the boxcar. For a moment, his gaze met those piercing eyes, then the station was gone. He was safe. He breathed slowly and felt the rhythm of the tracks in his feet; the traveller’s lullaby.

‘You ain’t a cop are ya? ‘Cause I swear I’ll throw you right back out again.’

Russ turned quickly, fist raised. A man stood in a sliver of moonlight, leaning against a stack of crates. He wore a dirty red shirt and an old pair of jeans. The shoes on his feet were badly worn. He looked at Russ, then smiled, showing gaps in his yellowed teeth.

‘Nah ... You on the run, I’d say,’ he said. ‘Got that look about ya. Kinda jumpy.’

Russ watched the man carefully and kept his mouth shut.

‘Not much of a talker, huh? Well, I’ll start off. Name’s Larry Nichols. I’m on the run too, ‘bout three days now. Wasn’t my fault, ‘course; things jus’ went bad. How ‘bout you?’

No reply. Larry swept the floor with his foot and sat down.

‘You don’t have ta tell what you did, but you might as well say somethin’. Next stop ain’t for about a hundred miles, and it’s easier to pass the time with someone to talk to.’

Russ looked back at the door. If he didn’t fancy breaking his neck, he was stuck on this train until it stopped.

‘Bank job,’ he grunted.

‘You don’ say?’ Larry grinned. ‘Me too! Two harden’d criminals on the same damn train. Maybe we should work together next time?’

‘Won’t be no next time,’ said Russ. ‘Spent months planning this job, down to the last detail. The last goddamn detail. Drilled through the vault wall, careful and quiet. They’d never know we were there until it was too late!’

‘So? What happened?’ cried Larry, leaning forward.

‘Goddamn bulldozer, that’s what happened!’ Russ said. ‘Came through the wall! Bricks and plaster everywhere. Cops showed up shooting. Lucky I got out alive.’

Larry’s eyes widened. A flicker of fear.

‘Bulldozer? You sure? Where’d you say this bank was?’

There was a jolt, and the shrieking of brakes.

‘What the hell?’ said Russ, peering out of the gap he’d climbed in through. He saw lights up ahead; cars, parked by the tracks. Men swarmed across the ground. The train lurched to a standstill.

‘They’ve held the goddamn train,’ he said. ‘Cops everywhere. We’re trapped.’

A light flashed across the ground towards the boxcar. Russ ducked back inside.

‘Shit! I think they saw me.’

Russ listened as gravel crunched outside; as men talked, and weapons were loaded. A spotlight shone through the gap in the door, turning a sliver of night into day.

A loudspeaker crackled to life: ‘Larry Nichols, you are wanted for bank robbery. You have sixty seconds to give yourself up.’

Larry sat with his head in his hands as the voice rang through the boxcar.

‘This is all for you?’ said Russ. ‘Jesus, Larry! What the hell did you do?’

‘I tol’ you, things went bad,’ Larry said. ‘How was I s’posed to know drivin’ a bulldozer into a bank wasn’t gonna work?’ He groaned dismally. ‘You ain’t gonna turn me in, are ya?’

Russ glared at Larry, cowering in the shadows of the boxcar. The oppressive weight of conscience smothering him. The smell of sweat. The ache of his muscles, tired from running.

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Written for the weekly short story competition on the 'Writer's Block' Discord server.