The Gray Machine

6 Night, Shadow

One moment the deadman had lain there, almost serene, flies spinning drunkenly around in the peach hues of setting sun. The five had examined each other's faces behind growing shadows, each swirling with their own questions. The dead thing, the symbol. The old man John's daughter, Rachel...

And the sudden charge, the sweeping urgency to protect a woman none of them knew. And then, with a gurgling scream, the dead gray eyes opened.

John leaped up with a yell. The thing jerked, groped at the sand, and grasped Summer's ankle, sending her sprawling, landing with her face about six inches from the fire. It was half-bellowing, half-coughing, and out of its mouth sprayed a putrescent mass of clotted blood and seawater. Its blind eyes darted, and its boa constrictor muscles quivered wildly, sending oozes of dark blood from the many caked gashes.

Screaming, they backpedaled out of its way. But all it managed was to roll onto its hands and knees, coughing its huge lungs clear. It hung, wheezing, head just above the sand, black drool trailing from its gaping mouth, fish-eaten eyes squeezed shut.

They fell into silence, and could hear the distant sounds of the little town coming to life. Police sirens in the distance, cantina music drifting from somewhere down the beach.

And then, the thing spoke. The words came out broken, gruff, wheezing, but in English nonetheless. "Where...go me shelter...sulfur."

"Let's get the hell outta here." John had already begun stumbling backwards.

Summer stared. "We can't just leave him here."

Hot bile rose in John's throat, and he had to swallow it to keep from yelling, "Of course we're gonna leave him here! Who the hell are we, the Red fucking Cross? The thing is more likely to eat us or smash our faces in, or worse!"

But the way the others were all looking at him, John realized it didn't matter what he said. They were adopting the deadman. Of course they were. Wednesday was the kindest soul he'd ever met, and she'd shown him time and time again: if you gave someone the benefit of the doubt, blessed things happened. And Summer was like Wednesday.

"Think, John," Dimple said, maintaining a quiet, level tone despite the terror in his eyes. "You wanna find your girl and unlock this whole mess? Then no way we leave the damn key out here to die."

There was no arguing – of that John was sure. He was just as sure this would end bad, and maybe in blood. "Fine. We have to get back to the train yard. Beach combers'll be out by the time the sun's down, and there's a hump yard where the cargo ships come in that I hear doesn't get checked until the nine pm shift."

"What kind of fuzz are we looking at?" Dimple asked.

"It's a scab-train yard. The roughnecks tend to bend iron hot to save time on northbound runs," John replied. "The local federales know this, and they leave well enough alone. Helps them keep their bellies fed, I suppose."

✧

Wednesday's reeling mind had begun to settle, to refocus. She knew they had twenty minutes, assuming goings were as usual, to make it a quarter mile down the beach and over the fence into the grungy, sunbaked Coatzacoalcos switchyard. Wednesday knew John was right and scolded herself for allowing the chaos to cloud her foresight. It was getting late.

In the distance ahead, from somewhere off in the train yard, Wednesday heard a keening, whaling migrant song pierce the night. Riding these trains, as she and John had done for twelve years, you'd wake to find yourself among countless desconocidos. Droves of people of all ages would climb aboard at bridges and crossroads, during evenings and nights seldom cool enough to wear your shirt anywhere but around your head. They'd perch on ladders or put out blankets on the rust and soot-caked decks. They'd sweat side by side, weighted with terrible purpose, singing high lonesome songs of border crossing to the hills and jungles.