XII

In his dream, Mortimer smelled coffee.

His eyes flicked open. He rolled over, heaved, launched a stream of acidic puke over the side of the queen-size bed. He lay back, sank into the pillow. Where was he? He tried to focus. Gnomes with miniature sledgehammers were trying to pound his eyes out of their sockets from the inside. He felt like unholy shit. Perhaps if he puked again...

He rolled over. Puked again.

The smell of puke made him puke a third time.

Beyond the sour smell of vomit, Mortimer could have sworn he still smelled coffee. Wishful thinking. A nice dream.

Bill burst into his room, holding a ceramic mug. "Wake up, sunshine. Time to-Jesus H. Christ, what happened in here?" He went immediately to a window and opened it wide. The cold wash of air took some of the stench away, felt good on Mortimer's slick face.

Mortimer summoned the energy to say, "Go away. I'm dying."

"If you die, you'll miss the train." Bill shoved the coffee mug at him. "Drink this. You paid enough for it."

Mortimer struggled, grunted, sat up in bed. "What are you talking about?"

"When you bought all that stuff last night. You got some coffee too. Three hundred bucks a pound." Bill shook his head, laughed. "I guess there ain't no more bean boats coming up from Colombia."

Three hundred dollars a pound for coffee? Bill had said he'd bought some things. Mortimer had been so very drunk...had spent so much...had Bill said...? "What train?"

"It was your idea. When Mr. Coffey came back and said he knew where your wife-"

"Anne! You know where my wife is?"

"Hell, you really don't remember, do you?"

"God damn it, Bill!"

"Mr. Coffey said he felt bad so he asked some questions and found out your wife went to Chattanooga, to the main Joey Armageddon's there. She's going to be head girl or something."

"Christ."

"So you said you were going to get her and bought a bunch of supplies, ammunition and food, and you booked us passage on the Muscle Express."

"The muscle what?"

"The train."

Mortimer looked around the room. He remembered a blur of women, half expected to see one in his bed. "Did I have any company last night?"

"Well, you could have," Bill said. "When they all found out you were the richest guy in the place, you became right popular. But you drank so much. I don't think you could've gotten Mr. Willie to work."

Damn.

Bill lifted the mug again. "This is getting cold. You want it or not?"

"Hell yes." Mortimer took the mug. "I paid for it."

His sipped the coffee. Mortimer's eyes slowly widened. Every molecule in his body came alive. His bones hummed with electricity, the caffeine flowing the pathways of his body, a latent memory in his veins moaning ecstasy, seeming to say, Oh, yes. This is good. This is right.

Bill looked alarmed. "You okay, man? What is it?"

Fat tears rolled down Mortimer's cheeks. "Could you leave the room please, Bill? I'd like a moment alone with the coffee."

Once upon a time it had been a whistle stop, an insignificant knot in the great tangle of the American railway. Now, like a thriving port in the endless deserts of the old west, the Spring City train station writhed with activity, a score of stout men loading crates of trade goods (including three hundred gallon-jugs of Freddy's Stain Your Tongue Purple Merlot). The very few passengers who could afford the fare disembarked, looking sore-limbed and happy as hell to be off the train.

The only two people who could afford the fare south were Mortimer and Bill. They stood in the snow next to their gear, hands in pockets, stomping to keep their feet warm. Mortimer swayed in the biting wind, only the caffeine in his veins keeping him upright. His finger stump ached with the cold.

Silas Jones found them, puffing and red faced. He'd run all the way to the station. "I thought I might miss you before the train left, sir. Thank goodness I caught you."

Mortimer belched, and it tasted like death. "What is it?"

Jones presented him with a sheet of paper marked up in pencil. A row of numbers swam before Mortimer's eyes. He looked away. Reading the numbers made him nauseous. "Just give me the gist of it."

"Your final bill," Jones said, handing Mortimer a pen. "If you'll just sign at the bottom, we'll deduct it from your account."

Mortimer took the pen, glimpsed the total at the bottom of the page as he signed. He gulped. Mortimer had spent over two thousand dollars. His newfound wealth would evaporate in a week if he kept spending at this pace. He mentally vowed not to let that happen.

Pete Coffey appeared at Mortimer's elbow. "You look green."

"Don't worry about me," Mortimer said.

"I hope you find her," Coffey said. "Seriously."

"You didn't have to come see me off."

"I didn't. I'm mayor, remember? I always make sure the train goes out on time. I also want to make sure my boys get aboard." Coffey indicated a dozen men climbing aboard the flatcars. All held rifles and looked ready to use them.

"Red Stripes down the line, maybe. Can't take chances."

Mortimer touched the Uzi hanging from its shoulder strap. "I hear you."

"They're bringing the handcar out now," Coffey said. "So you'll be pulling out soon."

"Handcar?"

"Sure," Coffey said. "How do you think we pull the train? It's not like we got a big fat diesel engine. No fuel."

Mortimer shook his head. "Whoa. Wait. You mean guys are going to hand-pump that thing and pull three flatcars and all that cargo? It'll take a hundred years to get to Chattanooga."

"Getting started is the hard part. Once they get into a rhythm, you'd be surprised. Here come the pumpers now."

Now Mortimer saw why they called it the Muscle Express. The eight men designated to operate the specially modified handcar were brutes, hulking, shirtless men with rippling muscles. The smallest was just over six feet tall, three hundred and fifty pounds.

"Four rest while four pump," Coffey explained. "Doc!"

"I'm here." A frumpy man with disheveled gray hair waddled forward, clutching a black doctor's bag dangling from a gnarled hand. He fished an inoculation gun out of the bag and zapped each muscleman in the arm.

"Speed boost," Coffey said.

The musclemen flexed, their faces turning red, grunting and posing, a light sheen of sweat on their muscles. It looked like a really angry Chippendales show.

"They'll be ready to go now. Better climb on," Coffey said. "Once those guys get going, they don't let up."

Buffalo Bill had already tossed the gear onto the nearest flatcar. He jumped up and held out a hand for Mortimer. "Let's get a move on, partner."

Mortimer took the cowboy's hand and let himself be heaved onto the flatcar. He broke out in a sweat from the minor exertion, the wind sending a chill to the marrow of his bones. He sat on the flatcar, looked back at Coffey, who stood waving. The train was inching forward, almost imperceptibly slow at first. The pumpers heaved and grunted and leaned into the hand pump, their muscles bulging, faces turning red.

Belatedly, Mortimer returned the wave, the Spring City train station shrinking behind them. The grunts and groans from the hand pumpers finding a rhythm, the meaty machine, a new-world locomotive narcotic-fueled and lubricated with sweat.

THE MUSCLE EXPRESS

XIII

Mortimer noticed the cars straight off, half-buried in snow, the old metal husks like beer cans of the gods, crushed and tossed without heed along the roadside, the debris of some cosmic tailgate party. Others seemed obscenely new, bright fiberglass bodies sitting on the rotted remains of tires. The old junkers had been cleared out of Spring City, but now, as the Muscle Express glided the rails parallel to Highway 27 south, Mortimer remembered how it had been, the millions of automobiles plying America's roadways. Where did you want to go today? The store for milk, Sunday church, take the kids to Disney World? It had all been so close, so possible.

An hour and a half's drive to Chattanooga would now be a three-day walk. The world had grown smaller and smaller until it exploded into bigness again, distances stretching, horizons meaning something.

But Mortimer and Bill weren't walking. The Muscle Express had picked up speed, the cold wind stinging his eyes.

"How fast, you think?" asked Mortimer.

Bill squinted, tried to judge. "Maybe thirty miles per hour. Not more than that. Pretty good though. Better than hoofing it."

Mortimer leaned out, looked ahead to the handcar. Four brutes pumping, four others resting. No more unleaded for cars, no more diesel for locomotives. He wondered how many Armageddon dollars it would be worth if he salvaged a steam engine.

Somebody had bolted four movie theater seats at the back of the middle flatcar. Bill and Mortimer occupied two of them, Mortimer slouched low, trying to ignore his stomach. The cowboy thumbed shells into the lever-action rifle.

A slender figure appeared atop the crates in front of them, looked down on the two passengers in the theater seats. The newcomer's face wasn't clear at first, a dark silhouette against the morning sun. Mortimer held up a hand, shaded his eyes to get a look. A woman.

"Don't puke on my train," she said.

Mortimer looked down, closed his eyes. It took too much energy to hold his head up. "Your train?"

"I'm Tyler Kane. I'm the train captain."

She hopped down from the crates, and Mortimer got a better look at her. Athletically thin, hard body like a track star. She wore black leather pants and a matching leather jacket too light for the cold, a white turtleneck underneath. A nickel-plated revolver sprung from her waistband. Her hair was a burgundy red, cut close on the sides and spiked on top. A black patch covered her left eye, and a thin white scar leaked from under the patch and ran straight down to the edge of her angular jawline. Her one eye was bright and blue as an arctic lake. She had the palest skin Mortimer had ever seen on someone still alive.

"You're paying passengers, so you don't have to do anything except stay out of the way," Tyler said. "If we're attacked, be prepared to help repel boarders. If you vomit, stick your head over the side. Any questions?"

"When does the stewardess come around to take my drink order?"

Tyler's upper lip curled into a half-smile, half-sneer. "You make me laugh. I'll make sure you land on something soft if I have to toss you over the side."

She leapt past them onto the third flatcar.

"Nice," Bill said. "I think she likes you."

Mortimer only grunted, sank lower in his seat. It was too fucking cold. He climbed down to the backpacks, went through the gear until he found the down-filled sleeping bag. He curled up on the floor of the flatcar, the clattering ride rocking him to sleep.

In the dream, the man's scream was a shrill steam whistle, and the train traveled over water instead of land. Somehow the train floated. Pirates rowed toward them in Viking longships, oars dipping into water, prows beating against the wake left by the train. They fired a cannon. The train shuddered, waves coming over the side.

Mortimer's body shook and shook.

"God damn it! I said get your ass up right fucking now!"

Mortimer's eyes flashed open, panic shooting up his spine.

Tyler Kane had a tight grip on his jacket, jerking him away. Mortimer sat up, found he was clutching the Uzi to his chest. Gunshots. Screams.

"What is it?"

"Can you use that thing?" She nodded at the Uzi.

"Yes." He had only fired it once to test it. But it was a simple weapon.

"Then come on!" She dragged him up, and they climbed onto the cargo crates. "We've got to get forward."

Mortimer saw Bill crouched behind the theater seats. He worked the lever action, fired into the buildings along the railroad tracks. It looked like Evansville. Men on the roof and at windows fired at the train. Mortimer caught a glimpse of a red armband.

They were going too slow. Targets like the sharpshooter game at a carnival.

They stood, jogged at a crouch along the flatcar's cargo crates. A bullet whizzed past Mortimer's ear like a subsonic hornet.

Tyler grabbed Mortimer's elbow and jumped, pulling Mortimer down with her. They landed between two crates, crouched behind the cargo while she took something from her jacket pocket.

Bullets ricocheted. Mortimer's heart thumped up into his throat.

"Why are we going so slow?"

"We were coming into the station," Tyler said. "Evansville is a scheduled stop. The Red Stripes jumped us, but the pumpers are exhausted."

Mortimer saw what she'd taken from her pocket, the inoculation gun the doctor had used to juice the muscle guys back in Spring City.

"You've got to cover me," she said. "I need time to power up the guys again. Man, you've got to shoot that thing and keep those fuckers off me. You get it?"

Mortimer tried to speak but found his mouth too cottony. He nodded.

She slapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go!"

They climbed up again, made their way forward to the end of the flatcar. He cocked the little machine gun, thumbed off the safety. One of the train guards hung limp and dead between the flatcar and the handcar, the back of his head wet and bloody from a large-caliber slug. They leapt over him and landed with a thud on the big handcar.

The stink of sweat slapped Mortimer in the face. The muscle guys pumped, hot, wet skin steaming in the freezing air. A shot caught one of them in the head, brain and skull and blood exploding red and gunky. He toppled over, hit the deck of the handcar with a meaty thump and rolled off.

Tyler punched Mortimer in the shoulder. "Shoot!"

He brought the Uzi up and sprayed the buildings along the track, shattering windows, gouging holes in brick. Wherever he saw a Red Stripe pop his head up, Mortimer squeezed off a burst and sent him back into hiding. He ejected the spent magazine, slapped in a new one. The muzzle smoked. His palms and fingers tingled from gripping the gun so tight, the pinkie stump throbbing.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Tyler placing the inoculation gun against thick shoulders, injecting the narcotic boost. It took only a few seconds. Veins pulsed along necks. Eyes bulged. Faces clenched. They pumped harder.

They picked up speed.

"Up there!" Tyler pointed ahead of the train.

A narrow pedestrian bridge crossed low over the railroad tracks. At least a dozen Red Stripes jogged across the bridge to take up positions. Mortimer edged around the pumping musclemen, ran to the front of the handcar and knelt at the very edge of the train. Cold wind stung his eyes. He brought up the Uzi. The men on the bridge leveled their rifles.

The Uzi bucked in Mortimer's hands.

Red Stripes along the bridge clutched themselves, toppling over, their death screams filling the air. Mortimer looked back as the handcar and the first flatcar passed under the bridge. A handful of surviving Red Stripes leapt from the bridge onto the middle flatcar.

Tyler had finished drugging the pumpers and motioned to Mortimer. "Come on. Let's get them."

Get them? Fuck you. But he followed her.

The half-dozen Red Stripes were locked in hand-to-hand combat with the surviving few train guards. Mortimer climbed atop the cargo crates, leveled the Uzi but couldn't get a shot. It was an erratic weapon, and he was as likely to hit the guards as the Red Stripes.

He saw Bill jump up from the theater seats and swing his rifle butt at the head of a Red Stripe, who ducked underneath and tackled the cowboy. They both hit the deck. Mortimer dropped the Uzi and drew the police special.

They were out of the town now, the train rolling along much faster. Tyler and Mortimer ran along the top of the crates, the rocking train threatening to toss them over the side. They hit the melee just as one of the guards took a knife in the stomach and dropped off the speeding train.

Tyler put her revolver against the back of a Red Stripe's head, pulled the trigger. Half the Red Stripe's head flew away into the wind, the body falling.

Mortimer went for the Red Stripe on top of Bill, but another stepped in swinging a club. It caught Mortimer in the gut. He whuffed air, tumbled over and hit the crates hard. He turned, fired his police special vaguely in the direction of his attacker.

The blast shattered the Red Stripe's ankle. He yelled hoarse and agonized from the throat, hopped on his good leg for a moment before the train lurched and tossed him over the side, trailing blood.

Mortimer climbed to his knees, sucking breath and gagging. He probed his side with tentative fingers but found nothing broken.

He looked around. All of the train guards and Red Stripes were dead. Bill stood over his bloody opponent, Bill's right eye swelling where he'd taken a punch.

Tyler stuck the revolver back in her waistband. "I think we're past the Red Stripes for now." She wiped sweat from her face. "If we can just get through the cannibals, I think we'll make it."