Andrew Lane - Red Leech

Sherlock glanced back and forth between Ives and Berle. Between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

His heart felt leaden in his chest. No way out. Two choices, each of which led to captivity.

No, he told himself. What would Mycroft say? What would Amyus Crowe say? “When you’ve only got two choices, and you don’t like either of them, make a third choice.”

He opened the door of the carriage and stepped out into the open air.

The green, lush landscape of the New York countryside flashed past in a blur. He heard Virginia gasp behind him, and Ives curse. He kept his left hand gripping the doorframe and his left foot wedged against the point where the frame met the floor, and as the wind whistled past him it pushed him backwards, and he swung out and around, into the area between the carriages. He’d spotted a ladder there earlier, leading up to the roof of the carriage, and he grasped for it with his right hand. His fingers closed on a rung, and he stretched with his right leg, trying to get purchase on the ladder. After what seemed like minutes but was probably only a second or two, his foot hit a rung. Releasing his grip on the doorframe, he pulled himself up the ladder.

A hand closed on his left foot before he could pull it up. He kicked downward, feeling his heel hit someone’s face. The grip released abruptly, leaving an ache behind where the fingers had clamped down hard.

Within a moment he was on top of the train.

He had to crouch, and keep one hand gripping the guide rail that ran along the roof from front to back.

Ahead of him he saw the train curving away. Smoke from the funnel was streaming backwards. It made his eyes water, and made it hard to breathe.

He hesitated for a moment. Rather than be captured he had taken the only other option — escape — but his escape was limited. He was still on the train — literally on the train — and he didn’t have a plan. No matter where he went, Ives and the other men would find him. Find him and probably kill him. And he couldn’t just escape, just jump off the train into a convenient river or something. He had to rescue Virginia and Matty.

He felt despair looming over him like a black wave but he pushed it backwards with a massive effort of will. Time for that later. Now he had to think.

If he could scramble along the roofs of the carriages to the front of the train then maybe he could alert the driver. Maybe he could find a way to get a message to the authorities, or get the points switched around to take them back to New York, or something. Anything!

Still crouching, he scrambled along the roof of the carriage. The wind was against him, pushing him back like a giant hand in the centre of his chest, but he pushed back. He had to. His eyes were streaming with tears where the steam was stinging them, and his breath was catching in his chest, but he couldn’t stop. Matty and Virginia depended on him.

The train shuddered over some rails, and Sherlock nearly lost his grip. He swayed back and forth for a moment or two, trying to get as low as he could, before he thought he was safe.

Well, saf er , he thought, glancing around at the landscape that flashed past in green and brown blurs.

A river was coming up. He could see it ahead of the train, which was curving around towards a bridge that looked like it was made out of matchsticks. He felt his heart pounding.

And then it threatened to explode completely as Ives’s head and shoulders appeared at the junction between the carriage Sherlock was climbing along and the one ahead of it. The man must have doubled back along the carriage and climbed up the next ladder.

He pulled himself up to the roof and stood upright. The steam from the engine, pushed backwards by the wind, billowed around him like a white cloak.

“You’re not thinking straight, kid,” he yelled. “Where are you goin”? You’re safer down there with the others.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You only need one of us to threaten Amyus Crowe with,” he yelled. “And I don’t think you want to be saddled with three hostages.”

“Amyus Crowe,” Ives said. “Is that the big guy the one in the white suit? Never knew his name till now, but he’s persistent. An’ so are you.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock yelled, but he was scared. He glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Berle or the other man, but the chances of him being able to get away in that direction were slim. They were probably waiting for him at the next couple of carriage junctions, one of them holding Virginia, the other holding Matty.

When he turned back, Ives was holding a gun.

“You’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that,” Ives said, raising the gun to take aim.

Part of Sherlock was wondering what “moxie” was, while another part was noticing that the train was just shifting from land on to the bridge that he’d seen just a few moments before. The ground below suddenly plunged away into a chasm of rock with a glittering blue ribbon at the bottom. And a third part of his brain was trying to tell him something.

Ives fired. Sherlock flinched, but the wind and the vibration had knocked Ives’s aim off, as he knew that they would, and the bullet passed harmlessly off to one side.

Ives moved closer, trying to maintain his balance, and Sherlock tried to latch on to the thought that hovered just out of reach. Something he’d done recently. Something he’d bought.

The sling! Desperately he scrabbled through his pockets looking for the leather pouch with the two bits of leather thong attached that he’d bought at the “notions” store. Right-hand trouser pocket — no. Left-hand trouser pocket — no. Ives was getting ready to fire again. Left-hand inside jacket pocket — no, but his fingers brushed against the collection of cold ball bearings he’d also bought. Ives was pointing his gun again, bracing it with his other hand. Left-hand outside jacket pocket — yes! Sherlock pulled out the sling and quickly slipped his right hand through the loop, then closed the other loop in his palm, leaving the leather pouch to hang loose.

Ives fired. The bullet whistled past Sherlock’s ear.

He delved into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out a ball bearing, and quickly slipped it into the pouch. Before Ives could react, he whirled the weighted sling around his head twice, then released the thong he was holding. The ball bearing flew towards Ives, making a gleaming line in the sky. It caught his left ear, tearing a chunk of flesh away. Ives cried out in surprise and shock as blood splattered on to his shoulder. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

Sherlock grabbed the loose thong again and slipped another ball bearing into the pouch.

The train was in the middle of the bridge now, and Sherlock thought he could detect a sideways motion, as the bridge rocked under the weight.

Ives lurched forward and shuffled towards Sherlock, hands outstretched to grab him. He appeared to have forgotten the fact that he still had a gun.

Sherlock whipped the sling around his head again, twice, and let go of the loose thong. The ball bearing shot across the narrowing gap between them, hitting Ives in the centre of his forehead and staying there, in the dent it had created. Ives fell backwards, eyes so wide that Sherlock could see white all around his pupils. His back hit the train roof and he rolled sideways, then vanished over the edge. Sherlock heard a despairing cry as he fell, and then there was nothing but the whistling of the wind and the mournful call of the train’s whistle.

Sherlock fell to his knees, still gripping the guard rail. He let his breathing settle and his heart calm down before he stood again and moved backwards to the junction where he had climbed up.

One down; several more to go; but he had a weapon now.