Edward Lee - The Black Train

She’d been skinned from collarbones to pubis, and it was an intricate job. Morris had managed to slough off her breasts and belly skin in one clean sheet, after which he’d flipped her over and laid the sheet across her back.

So he could sodomize her and look at her bosom at the same time…

Poltrock stared at the strange corpse for untold minutes, and as he held the lamp higher, he noticed several more dead Indian women deeper in the clearing.

He couldn’t think for the loud drone in his head that suddenly threatened to push his skull apart from the inside out. My God…

He was staring at the dead girl…

My God, he thought again. What am I…

The roar in Poltrock’s head began to abate when he realized he was unfastening his belt and lowering his trousers.

As Poltrock was stepping onto the train car, he noticed Morris sitting in the very first seat, the long brass-handled knife and scabbard hanging off his belt. “Mr. Poltrock! Now we know why no whiskey was delivered tonight!”

“Yes…”

“They say we’ll be back to town by noon tomorrow.” Morris winked as Poltrock passed.

He mentioned nothing of what he’d found in the clearing, nor what he’d done afterward. He preferred to fantasize that it was all a bad dream—of course it was. Since the moment he’d signed on with Mr. Gast, in fact, his life was a bad dream.

He followed the aisle down to the last block of seats, which were reserved for Mr. Gast and himself.

Bones creaked when he sat. Yes, it had been a hard week; moreover, it had been a hard four years. Poltrock suspected that once they got back to Gast, he’d spend most of the respite sleeping, while everyone else made revel. He sighed at the fancily cushioned seat and footrest, let himself sink.

Bad dream…

Through the window, he could see strong-armers with lanterns walking along the cars; only a few would stay behind to guard the work site and its heaps of construction materials. The lanterns cast misshaped yellow circles to and fro in the darkness. Poltrock squinted. When one of the strong-armers glanced up at him, his eyes looked a sickly yellow.

Poltrock pulled down the curtain.

Next, he looked across the aisle and saw Mr. Gast fast asleep in his seat. Minutes later, the whistle blew, and the train chugged off. Far enough away now, he reopened the curtain and stared into the nightscape sliding by. An oblong moon followed him, tingeing the countryside. When he found himself scrutinizing his reflection in the glass…

Did his own eyes look yellow?

The train clattered gently over the newly lain track; Poltrock could feel their speed. He could hear the Negroes singing from the last car, while the white men in the remaining cars sat in edgy silence. Poltrock slept in jags and fits, each time wakened by an impossibly sharp image: his own lips desperately sucking the nipples of a pair of severed breasts. Each time his eyes snapped open, he was terrified to look to his side, expecting to find the skinned Indian sitting next to him, holding his hand like a lover.

Later, he dreamed inexplicably of a great blast furnace…

The train chugged on, deep into the night. Many behind him were asleep now, too. Maybe I’m the only one awake, he considered.

“Yes!”

Poltrock’s eyes darted right.

It was Mr. Gast. He’d remained asleep as well, and had sleep-whispered the word.

“Yes!” Mr. Gast muttered again. “Tonight!”

When Poltrock got off the train the next day at noon—that’s when they all learned that Fort Sumter had been besieged two days ago by Confederate forces in South Carolina. The fort’s commander had surrendered last night.

At last, the war had begun.

CHAPTER NINE

I

Collier had passed out in his bed the minute he’d returned to the inn, and when his alarm went off at six o’clock, his brain felt like a lump of garbage. Shiiiiiiiiit, he thought. Bad judgment was one thing, but now he was truly beginning to suspect he might be a serious alcoholic. I got trashed in a gay bar, he remembered. And I have a date tonight…

The shower shocked him awake. He was still half drunk and half hungover when he struggled into his clothes. The memories crept back…

Jiff turning tricks at the bar, and…

Those two little girls with the dog…

Mary and Cricket; he remembered their names. As he brushed his teeth and gargled he tried to convince himself it was all a dream he’d had when he’d passed out but he knew he’d only be lying to himself. No doubt they were two sisters from a poor family.

They had to be.

Collier spat foam into the toilet; several more gargles couldn’t dispel the hangover taste. Next he stuck his mouth directly under the faucet and filled his belly with water.

Then he remembered that little dog—the feisty mutt—and what he thought he’d seen it doing as he left…

Collier shoved it from his head and left his room but before he could take his first step down the hall, he stopped.

Sniffed the air…

Is it my imagination, he wondered sourly, or do I smell urine? He frowned and walked away.

Sluggish steps took him down. No sign of anyone in the lobby, but then he recalled that Jiff and the rest of his family lived in the rear wing.

Where am I going?

Two hallways branched off the east side of the lobby but both appeared to be rental rooms. Instead he slipped out an exit door into the backyard. He looked down a line of sliding-glass doors, hoping for a clue. If he saw guests, then he’d know it was the wrong wing. He took an adjacent footpath that allowed him to get a look through each glass door without appearing conspicuous. A large spiny bush sat at the end of the wing, and as he was about to pass it, to the next wing, he heard:

“Shit! Come on, girl!”

Jiff’s voice, for sure, but where was it coming from?

“Hold still, Lottie—Jesus!”

Collier turned back and noticed the last unit’s door was opened all the way, while the screen door was closed, and a quick glance into the room showed him…

A face. A big face.

Collier rubbed his eyes. It looks like…George Clooney. He frowned till his vision sharpened and then realized it was indeed the face of the Hollywood star. A poster, he realized. It was tacked to the wall. Clooney’s big smile and big white teeth shot through the screen door larger than life. What the hell’s a poster of George Clooney doing in there?

“Tighter…” Jiff’s voice again. It was coming from the room.

This must be the family’s wing after all. At first he thought that he was likely looking into Lottie’s room, and that she was a Clooney fan but if so, why Jiff’s voice?

Collier took one step to the side, which increased his vantage point. The shock of what he saw so suddenly almost knocked him into the bush.

No, no, no, no, no, he thought.

Lottie had her shorts off, her bare legs spread in a V as she stood bent over at the waist. Was she wearing a man’s shirt? Jiff, also nude from the waist down, stood right behind her, his hands on her hips. His tight, muscled buttocks slowly pumped.

“Shit, Lottie, you could at least have some hair on your ass—”

Collier thought he’d seen everything when he’d witnessed one of Jiff’s tricks at the bar. He was wrong.

“Damn, cain’t you make your butthole tighter?”

No, no, no, no, no, Collier thought again. More than the jolt of incest was the mere ludicrousness of the scene. Now he understood that it was Jiff’s room, and he’d positioned his sister quite deliberately: so that he could gaze at the Clooney poster while he sodomized her.