"The mighty men, and every bondman,
and every free man, hid themselves in the dens
and in the rocks of the mountains;
And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us,
and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne,
and from the wrath of the Lamb:
For the great day of his wrath is come;
and who shall be able to stand?"

                 - Revelation 6:15-17 -

A shooting star dashed across the sky as a train separated the desert in two. In front of it lay an endless track of steel and wood, and in its wake; a thick cloud of smoke. The colossus roared through the night, battered but still mighty, adorned in heavy metal plates which were crudely welded on in fortification from both man, and beast.

Inside, a posse of 6 guarded its cargo: barrels of oil, clean water, and crates of vegetables for the citizens of the outskirts. The gunmen peered out of the few windows still left open. Gripping their weapons, and scanning the horizon for any signs of the enemy. 

The only man who was not, a scruffy, middle-aged fellow by the name of Mark Shelby, sat upright in the corner. His head tilted forward as he slept in one of the many broken seats onboard. The train and its interior had long stopped serving the passengers of old, and rust and decay had taken over. 

Shelby awoke with a gasp and sprung his eyes open in terror. Where were they? How long had he been out?

The familiar noise of the cars chugging along eased him out of his groggy state and back to reality. He exhaled and ran his fingers through his greasy gray hair.

Just a nightmare, Shelby, just a nightmare.

Across from him, and separated by a rotting table, she sat. A short, sturdy, teenage girl with red dreadlocks, heavy black eye make-up, and an amused expression on her face. Her name was Strawberries, and she was an ever-loving thorn in his backside. 

Long ago, when he rescued her—Rescue being a horrible fairytale-kind-of-word to the whole affair—he had asked the child for her name. Strawberries was the only word she spoke for the next 2 weeks.

After their meeting, he took her in as his partner-in-crime, though of course there were no crimes to be had anymore. For that, you would need the law, and in the barren wasteland, the only justice one could hope for went through the Ghede family. 

Strawberries and Shelby survived as guns-for-hire. And everything had gone swimmingly until the family, or more precisely; the Baron himself caught wind of their operations, and requested Shelby come work for them instead. 

He had seen no other option but to shake the hand and sell his soul to the devil. Figuratively, although, in this day and age, you could be forgiven for taking that statement at face value.

The Baron had put Shelby and most of his men on tedious logistics duties. Strawberries loved it. Watching his crew haul crates around, and then spending the rest of the day gazing out of train windows. She called it easy money; staying out of trouble and collecting a decent wage. He, however, despised the ordeal.

“What you looking at?” He asked.

“What’s the matter, Shelb?” She replied. “Nightmares again?”

She crossed her arms and pretended to mope. In the old-world, people would call her neglected. She was dirty and tough, wearing battered clothes, ending in a pair of oversized boots. Years of living in the desert had taken its toll on her skin. But this wasn’t the old-world. Here everyone had gone through the wringer, Shelby included.

“Not that you can relate,” he said. “But I need my beauty sleep.”

She let out a defiant sneer, staring at him as he turned his head, pretending not to notice her. 

Strawberries, though compassionate, was cunning when required. She was a part of this new generation that had sprung up after the Great Fuck-All. The boys and girls who did not know of a life before the wasteland. How light they must feel, not being shackled to grief.

Shelby, on the other hand, was a fossil. At the rate the world chewed through its survivors, he seldom met anyone who had been present on that day. And whenever he did, they did not talk about shit like nightmares.

“I like talkin’ ‘bout dreams.” She declared. “I reckon it’d make you feel a whole lot better. Chattin’ ‘bout the terrible stuff in your wrinkled head.”

“Bad dream is all.”

“That seemed like a helluva lot more. You look like you saw the King.” 

“Thanks, I try my worst.” Shelby said. “If I tell you my dreams, you’ll have me committed.”

“Committed?” she replied. “There you go with that Old-World talk again.” The pity in her voice was palpable.

“Remind me to fire you when we get back home.”

“Like you’d find anyone better.” She replied.

Shelby straightened his coat and adjusted his firearms. The first, a 357 magnum caliber revolver, dangling from his shoulder holster. This 1990 Colt Python, double action trigger, 6 round chamber, 6-inch barrel was loaded with soft bullets. Purchased for the shock and awe it would strike into his enemies’ hearts. The other was a plain Beretta with sharp bullets, chosen because it would fire fast.

A crewman stood in the former onboard cafe, slouched over, carving curse words into the counter with his knife. His name was Marvin, or Marty, or something like that. Shelby couldn’t be bothered to remember the names. These idiots handpicked by the Baron to be his babysitters.

His own crew was back at the 5th, most likely drunk by now, eagerly awaiting their return. Jonny, Gavin, and Oliver, men he could trust. Mainly because everyone else was dead or completely useless.

He suspected the Baron had separated them in a fit of paranoia—this was, after all, a supply train, and they were very much capable of robbing it. Marvin… or Marty, on the other hand, was a simple son of a bitch. He sported a long, scrappy beard. He chewed the disgusting low-grade tobacco they grew in the Bleecher district, and he would always wear that stupid cowboy hat, regardless if indoors or not. It annoyed Shelby to no end.

He poured himself a cup of water from the drum-barrel next to the counter. They had opened one earlier for sharing on the trip home. The rest they stored in the third, fourth and last railroad car, alongside the oil and crates of vegetables.

“You suppose we’ll be back at dawn?” Marvty asked and stopped carving.

“Looks that way, Mar..” he coughed and tried to muffle the name.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Looks that way... Buddy.” 

Shelby rested his arms on the counter, wishing for his crew instead of these useless clowns. A captain should train his men before sending them into war. Know what he can use them for. 

The Ghedes’ famous train traveled the supply route every month with few incidents; still, it wasn’t a place to teach new recruits. Marvty had recently begun working for the Baron, and the two men in the corner both shared similar stories. It appeared the fragile peace turned warriors into cardboard cutouts, and he was stuck leading them.

The two greeted him as he walked over. Yankees and Black Metal were their names, or at least what Shelby called them in the privacy of his own mind.

“Any trouble out there?” He asked and smiled glibly at them.

“No, sir.” Black Metal replied. “Clear skies and a full-moon out. If anything attacks, we’ll see it coming a mile away.” 

Black Metal and Yankees shared similar appearances; both wore dirty caps. One read; Yankees in smooth white curves on blue. The other; Black Metal in jagged white edges on black. The latter had been in the Baron’s service for a few months, and was perhaps the best gun on the train, whereas Yankees, Shelby reckoned, was in all likelihood just as incompetent as Marvty. Seeing as he was wearing sunglasses and holding a sawed-off shotgun. As if he could see anything in the dead of night, or hit it at a distance greater than 2 feet.

“We saw a shootin’ star.” Yankees blurted out. “’bout 15 minutes ago.” 

Shelby pretended to be surprised.

“Well, did you wish upon it?”

“What, sir?” Yankees replied, then gawked over to his partner, hoping for some clarity.

“I said, did you wish upon it?”

“Eh, no, sir?”

“Then why the fuck are you telling me this?” He replied. “Watch the land, not the skies. And take off those stupid sunglasses, you look like an idiot.” He quickly swung around and walked away, hoping his little spiel made them more alert. Damn rookies would be the end of him.

“Shelb…” Strawberries whispered.

“What?”

All of a sudden, they heard scraping noises from the roof.

“Shelb…”

He nodded and signaled to Marvty. “Go tell Damphousse to speed up.”

Marvty sprang out from behind the counter and headed for the control car. The driver, a young man, named Damphousse, was a permanent resident on the train. Shelby was confident he could push the locomotive to the limit. 

The scraping and shrieking increased, as if giant metal cockroaches were scurrying above their heads. His blood froze to ice. How had they gotten onboard without them noticing?

“Alright, folks.” he announced. “Stay away from the windows and be cool.”  

The train gradually reached max speed; the wind howling into the open cracks. It became difficult to keep balance. Marvty stumbled back, pale as a ghost, as he fumbled to find his rusty revolver. 

“Check your ammo!” Shelby yelled out, pretending he was preaching to a group of Old-World marines and not the village nut-jobs. “We don’t wanna be firing softs out there!”

The group inspected their weapons, but they all knew what they had boarded with. Mortal men weren’t the enemy out in these parts.

Suddenly a black oily hand burst through the wall, its sharp nails clawing the wooden interior, searching for something, or someone to grab a hold of. All of its tendons exposed; dark muscles, nerves expanding and retracting, detailing the inner workings of the creature.

Shelby’s heart was racing. 

Yankees grabbed his shotgun and pointed it at the black limb squirming to find passage. 

“No!” Black Metal screamed.

A deafening bang rang out.

The arm fell limp on the ground, profusely spurting an ink-like substance, as its owner vanished back into the night. Yankees fell down, screaming and grabbing his own face.

“Ricochet, Boss!” Black Metal yelled, as he dragged the bleeding man to the middle of the railroad car and cocked his rifle.

“Fucking amateur,” Shelby muttered to himself. They were inside an armored lunchbox. 

The lights went out, and the train came to a screeching halt, throwing them across the car to land on top of each other.

Nothing but silence and darkness as Shelby clumsily tried to catch his bearings. Above him the lamps flickered before coming back on.

The train stood dead in its tracks.

“Dang it!” Marvty scrambled to find his revolver. “We’re so screwed!” 

The scraping returned with a vengeance. The creatures gathering outside, hammering to get in. Wet screams on shrieking metal. And now they were stuck in no-man’s-land to be lambs for slaughter.

Shelby picked himself up.

“Stay here!” He shouted. “I’ll check the engine.” Then he grabbed the door-handle and slipped inside.

The control car was dark. A lone light fluttered in front of him. A small fire had broken out in the electronics. The wind whirled through a shattered window. On the ground laid the mutilated corpse of what once had been Damphousse. From the shadows, two ruby red dots glowed. 

It slowly moved forward with intention, hissing as it did so. The shape of an oiled, obsidian figure emerged from the darkness. The flickering flames highlighting its face. Soulless droplets in place of eyes, on a surface burned and disfigured. 

A wide grin surfaced, spanning from ear to ear. Saliva dripped from the sides as its jaws opened and sharp fangs appeared. 

Shelby went for his revolver and fired three shots straight through the creature. He was horrified to see the bullets whizzing through its body as if he had shot at clay.

Stupid fool. It was the wrong gun!

The creature leaped forward in response. Shelby fell on his back, crying out. 

A loud boom.

The beast exploded, covering the control car along with Shelby in thick, black muck. 

He wiped his face, shocked and confused, before peeking up at Strawberries standing there in the doorway with Yankees’ shotgun.

“Get gone!” She grunted.

A still stunned Shelby staggered to his feet whiles trying to mop the muck from his coat.

“I’m never firing you again!” He declared.

She rolled her eyes in return and threw the empty shotgun on the floor.

“We gotta get out of here!”

“I know.” 

He peeked out the front window. On the horizon; several silhouettes of large horned-figures standing still. He had seen them before. Long ago. The East-Traders told him they were used to herd the oily creatures. This was a strategic operation. This was the Banner of Hell. 

“I reckon we’re surrounded.” She said.

Shelby opened the door back to the second car. 

There, Black Metal laid bleeding on the floor while Marvty fired towards the figures clawing their way through an increasing hole in the wall.

“You gotta help us!” He cried, frantically emptying his gun into the night. “We need grenades!”

“Won’t work, Marv,” Shelby replied as he ran past him. “That’s the King’s own.” 

“Who‘s Marv? Where are you guys going? They’re everywhere!” 

“Your name’s not Marv?”

Two of the creatures slithered through the opening, foaming at the mouth. Strawberries promptly grabbed Shelby by the shoulder and disappeared into the third car. 

“Any bright ideas?” She gave him a pitiful stare as he locked the door, picked up a wooden crate from the corner, and jammed it into the handle. The boxcars had no windows, no cracks. They were designed to be the most fortified part of the train. The scout-bike was their best bet, but that was several cars back, and only accessible from the outside.

“You know I used to be a salesperson?” Shelby said in a pathetic tone.

She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled sadly.

“I know, Shelb, back in the Old-World.” 

What a cock-up this had turned out to be. Why did he ever take this stupid job? Should have eaten a bullet from the Baron instead. Shelby was useless. Useless, and old, and slow.

He desperately rummaged through the surrounding cargo. Big drum barrels in front, dozens of them. The other cars would be overrun by now. Nowhere left for them to run.

He drew his revolver. He aimed it at two of the drums, firing a shot into each. They penetrated just beneath the top. Then he holstered his weapon, rushed over to them, and cracked the first one open. This was the last water drum they had tapped; those were never full, and this one was almost empty.

“Jump in,” he whispered.

She stared back at him in disbelief.

“What ‘bout you?”

He slapped his hand on the other drum.

“I’ll be in here. Now get in.”

“Shelb, that’s oil. It’ll kill you.” 

A loud bang hit the door. The handles bent down, and the hinges began to give in.

Shelby lied through his teeth.

“The last one is almost empty. I’ll be all right.” 

He picked her up and helped her into the barrel. There she crawled up like a ball, with the water reaching up to her waist.

“I hate this.” She sighed as he placed the lid back on.

A couple gentle pats with his hands, then he bent down to the bullet hole and said, 

“this is a bright idea, kid. Now shut up and breathe through the hole.” 

The cacophony of scratching was almost deafening. Shelby cracked opened his newly found hideout and peered into it. It was black and half-filled with thick petroleum. He took a deep breath and quietly cursed to himself,

“Useless, and old, and slow, and..”

The bolts bounced against the walls as they gave in and the door flung open. The shadowy figures emerged with terrible intent, hissing at each other. 

All this Shelby watched from the bullet-hole in the drum. The oil now reaching up to his chest. The fumes so strong that he was already dizzy. He pressed his lips against the hole to suck in the air from outside. 

The creatures scoured the car, trying to remember what they’d been searching for in the first place. 

Shelby prayed to his gods of physics. The ones he’d believed in before the age of demons and angels. The ones who calculated the chance of the creatures finding the holes suspicious, or the probability of dying from asphyxiation while swimming in petroleum. It was almost unbearable now. He drew one big breath of air and then used the hole to peer out. 

The attack was over; in its wake laid four murdered men.

The creatures detected another presence and stood down. Someone entered through the opening in the train. A tall, broad-shouldered man sauntered in and took stage at the center of the car. The long-coat he was wearing must have been a military garment, but now it was moldy, as if rotten bark covered him. On top of his slick hair, he bore an old admiral’s hat, and on his shoulders, thick fur that did not stem from any earthly animal. 

He was a man, but his eyes were foggy white; so were all the dead who now walked. Folks damned to an eternity of punishment in Hell, and when the Great Fuck-All happened, drafted to serve in the infernal army. And from the looks of it, this Flatliner had climbed high on the career ladder of the afterlife.

“Colonel Francis!” Another man entered. A thin, raggedy clothed character who ran up to the Colonel. “No signs of him, sir.” His white eyes nervously drawn to the oily creatures towering over them. 

The shreds hanging from his body had once been a decent tennis outfit, but had since deteriorated. Few Flatliners ever changed their appearance; some said they wouldn’t, others that they couldn’t. Like ghosts of solid matter, they would linger in a state of who they once were. He might have been someone important back when he was alive, but now he was nothing more than the Colonel’s lackey.

“The General wants us to march north, sir,” the tennis player said. “They found his… wings.”

“Well then, we mustn’t disappoint our wise leader.” Colonel Francis smiled. “Gather the troops.” 

Shelby sighed. Decades had passed since Hell or Heaven had bothered with these parts. Not since FarHaven, not since the angels disappeared, and whatever was left got carved up between the merciless.

His thoughts drifted as the fumes grew stronger. He glared into the hole and noticed the men dissolving into shadows and shapes, their voices hushed and incoherent… Then Shelby blacked out. Locked inside an 85-gallon steel drum. Floating through an eternity of his own memories, hopes, and fears. He would remember only one thing: seeing his wife and son. They would smile, embrace him, and tell him it was never his fault, although he knew that it was.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2 - The Englishman