Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

James begged the woman to stop crying and to focus, but her weeping had taken her past the point of control. He tried the door, but it was no use. He came to the side closest to Thomas and tried yanking the padlock from that one too. It wouldn’t budge. “Where’s the key, lady? Come on!”

“He keeps— He keeps it on him. It’s…” Her voice trailed off, once again succumbing to her bawling.

James didn’t wait for her to compose herself. He took off, running to the body and rolled it over. He plopped one knee onto the ground and began patting down the cargo pants. His hands invaded the dead man’s pockets—only air from each. “Come on lady, where is it?” James spoke forcefully.

“A necklace. It’s on his necklace,” she shouted.

This is taking too damn long. Thomas stood and slung his rifle back onto his shoulder, but from the corner of his eye, several shadows slipped between a group of boxcars in the distance. “James, find cover!”

He hid back behind the cupola and steadied his rifle across it. Adrenaline surged through his body. All he could imagine was that the rest of the dead man’s party had caught up with them—drawn to them by the gunfire. But how many?

He tried to calm his breaths, his rifle rose and fell with each one. Damn it, focus! “You see anything?”

No response from James. It was strangely silent. Even the woman had found a way to smother her cries.

A minute passed and nothing. Crawling back from cover, Thomas retreated, sliding down the backside of the caboose and onto its platform. The butt of his rifle knocked out the small window above the door handle. He reached inside, twisted the lock, and entered.

Halfway through the cab, he crawled into the lower portion of a set of bunk beds, his eyes barely cleared the lower portion of a side window as he tried to assess the situation. He took a deep breath, calming himself, trying to refocus. Gonna need a clear shot. He punched the muzzle through a window then slunk down into the bare mattress for a moment. A few breaths—the smell of spoiled food and unwashed clothing taken in.

He popped the barrel of his rifle even with the broken window and toward where he suspected the threat would be advancing, but the open area between the trains remained clear. Still no sign of James. Where is he? With his eyes floating overtop the rifle’s sights, glancing from left to right, he caught glimpse of another figure rushing across the yard. Is that a…? “Oak!” He shouted, as if he had hoped to freeze the figure in time.

“Hickory!” The correct response to his challenge word.

Cautiously, he looked on as three men in Second Alliance Guard uniforms appeared, two from between some rail cars and another just opposite them.

A great sense of relief swept over Thomas. They had been fortunate. The fact James hadn’t been gunned down was a huge stroke of luck, and the negligence he exhibited to his own well-being would have to be addressed at a later time. But for now, they would focus on the woman and appreciate the reinforcements.

“False alarm, James!” Thomas shouted upon exiting the caboose. James shuffled out from where he was set up, and the five men exchanged handshakes in the open yard.

“Damn, Eric. Almost gave me a heart attack,” Thomas said.

“I could say—“

“What the hell are you guys doing out here?” James said it without hesitation. His tone was uncalled for, embarrassing. “They should’ve told us a crew was coming through here.”

Same team. “Relax, man.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Eric winked at Thomas. “We were escorting a group of scavengers back and had to reroute through here. What’d you guys get into, Ricard?”

“Nothing major,” James once again spoke out of turn. “A little fire fight. Took some guy down. About to—”

“Get me outta here!” The woman started in again—the small talk probably signaled to her that it was safe to be known. She pounded on the walls of the train, trying like hell not to be ignored.

“What the—” One of the other Guards seemed startled by the commotion.

“That’s what kicked this whole thing off.” Thomas dragged a hand down the side of his face, knowing, dreading the fact that she still needed to be dealt with. “Dead guy”—he pointed in the direction of the body, although it couldn’t be seen—“has her locked up in there for— who knows why.”

“You going to need any help with her?” Eric asked.

“We’re going to pop it open, so if you have the time to set up a quick perimeter while we deal with her, it wouldn’t hurt. Just have to find the key, right James?”

“Yeah, we got it.” He gave everyone a half-hearted salute and made his way back over to the body.

“And when she gets out?”

“Shit.” Thomas huffed. “Don’t really know. Just seemed like the right thing to do. I guess we’ll let her gather what little she might have and direct her to L.P.H. Fortress. If she goes, good, if not… I don’t know. That’ll be on her.”

“Well, go ahead and get her out of there. She can come with us if she wants.” Eric directed his crew to their positions. “We got you covered,” he said, as he peeled off in the opposite direction of his men to complete the perimeter.

Thomas made his way to the other side of the red boxcar where James already had his hands inside the deceased man’s shirt. James turned to Thomas as he approached, revealing the dog tag chain within his hand, pulling it taut from around the neck. He appeared unforgiving, his grasp continuing to tug, ensuring that each steel ball dimpled the skin before it eventually gave in and snapped loose. “Here,” James said, tossing the chain over to him. Thomas swiped it from the air, confirmed a key was attached, and scurried over to the boxcar.

“Step back.”

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“Step back!” Thomas raised his voice. “I’m not going to say it again!” He could hear her feet sliding to the other side—the bottoms of her shoes shifting tiny grains of sand or dirt across the metal floor. She stopped. He could make out very little while peering through the vented side of the car. “Alright, lay on your stomach.” He noticed James now to his right—he had picked up his rifle and had it pointed toward the rail car. The woman dropped to her knees and lay forward. “Don’t move.” Thomas worked the lock with the key, and it fell to the ground. The heavy metal door was pulled to the side, and there she was. Her dirty, blonde hair—tangled, unkempt—appearing as if she had been pulled from a grave. Only that and her outstretched hands could be seen.

James moved his rifle more deliberately to her. “Slowly work your way back onto your knees, but keep your hands visible—out front the whole time.”

She did as she was told, her body shaking as she slowly pushed up from the ground. Her knees remained planted to the floor. “Don’t— Please don’t hurt me.”

James laughed lightly, turning toward Thomas with an impish grin. “Who the hell does she think we are?”

“Shut it, James!” Thomas snapped. “Miss, we’re here to help,” he softened his tone, “but being careful about it.”

Her shoulders dropped with relief, her body seemingly accepting his words as the absolute truth. She got up from her knees and began to approach them.

“I didn’t tell you to stand.” Thomas shouldered his rifle. “Get back on your knees!”

The outburst jarred the woman. Her eyes overflowed with tears, leaving trails within the dirt upon her cheeks. She retreated, throwing her hands out in front of her to shield any aggression. “I’m sorry— sorry. Please don’t hurt me.” She stumbled—her foot tangled in piled clothing before she fell backwards, slamming onto her ass.