Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader, Part-1

Later that same day …

Jack Decklin stared at his reflection in a tarnished bathroom mirror, both hands gripping the edges of a tiny art-deco porcelain sink. He had two-and-a-half days of beard growth evident, dark circles under each eye. This black and gray stubble, combined with horizontal creases on his forehead, was making him appear older than his 33 years. He felt it in his bones too.

“Fireball,” he muttered, bitterly.

Constant clanging of steel wheels rolling on iron rail—resonating at each connector gap—and swinging up and down motion; all this was starting to foul his mood.

Jack knew the special code word used on all company radios to identify the passenger train he roamed the west in. They didn’t make these anymore, quite literally. When a mighty diesel locomotive connected up with his sleeping car—this dignified, opulent Pullman Coach from the 1930s—it was labeled a “Fireball”. The exact way this nickname got started, Jack wasn’t sure. But with time it grew on him.

Something else was clear: a Fireball had primary right of way on westbound mainlines, occasionally eastbound too. Jack’s trains were fast and light, hauling incidentals like express mail, corporate documents, cash, odd perishables and precious cargo. Intermodal freight—traveling slower—had to pull into sidings or take the crossover to clear the way. Only in an emergency was Jack ever to see a red signal, otherwise the terms were absolute.

It had been this way for near a decade, and that was precisely what concerned him. How many everyday stiffs—the train obsessed civilians armed with side-band radios, listening to their chatter—also knew that name?

Two full days had elapsed since departing Colorado. Days of eating caviar, drinking $100 bottles of champagne that didn’t taste any different from regular champagne, and carousing with a gaggle of star-struck bridesmaids. His mind was in a haze from over-stimulation. He needed a 24-hour nap and some detox. But first, he wanted to make it to Santa Barbara.

The engineers had been instructed they would be skipping a traditional crew change in Barstow—no time. They would work the double shift to get by.

Which is why it was shocking that as Jack shuffled to the urinal to relieve himself, the train began to stutter and slow, causing him to miss the bowl. He frowned.

“What on earth?” he thought. “Why are we stopping now?”

It was supposed to be the eastern Mojave, a desert wilderness called San Bernardino County, five hours distant from Los Angeles.

Next came a sudden high-pitched whine from the air brake cylinders; ear-splitting, obliterating his concentration. Full pressure was being applied to every car. Bracing against the wall he separated two of the blinds. Peeking outside the windows, Jack confirmed they were still in wide-open range.

Yet his train was coming to a steady, grinding halt.

In the distance Jack could see searchlight beams, piercing the darkness, divided now and then by twisted silhouettes of yuccas. Something strange was going on, maybe sinister.

He zipped up his jeans and exited the tiny restroom, sparing no time for washing hands. Passing through the narrow halls of the sleeper, he rushed back to the lounge car. When he came to the two air-assisted metal doors he shoved his way through with both arms.

The first person he locked eyes with was his sister Violet, the celebrated bride to be. She was standing, gripping anxiously onto the brass overtop rail with one arm. She was also huffing and puffing, her free hand still gloved in black, body shaking. Violet’s maid of honor, a curly-haired brunette named Ellison, was seated and attempting to calm Violet down. On the opposite side of the car, Violet’s utterly worthless fiancée Devon sat reclined and paging through a magazine. As usual, he managed to look bored and clueless. Either he was unaware they were in danger, or just didn’t give a crap. If the entire world were coming to a fiery destructive end, Devon could scarcely be convinced to lift a finger.

“God, I hate my family,” mused Jack privately.

Ready to burst into tears, Violet pleaded to Jack, “The conductors said something metal is blocking the tracks. We can’t see anything from here. Have you gotten a glimpse?”

Jack shook his head, but shared his sister’s concern.

“I’ve told you, it’s probably a random car stalled at a blind crossing. These things happen all the time,” declared Devon, sounding irritated. “No reason to panic.”

“Doubt it. There aren’t any legit crossings for another 15 miles,” said Jack to Devon. He then directed his attention to Violet. “Just sit tight for now. The crew and I will handle this,” he reassured.

“Where are we anyhow?” inquired Violet.

“The Mojave, somewhere in the stretch between Baghdad and Ludlow,” replied Jack. “Still a ways to go til we reach Barstow.”

“Interesting,” Devon remarked, gazing through a gap in the curtains. “As I recall, you despise Barstow.”

Jack exhaled. Briefly he fantasized about opening that window and hurling Devon into the darkness. “It’s a story for another time, and you probably wouldn’t understand.”

At that moment a stranger burst through the doors; he was dressed in all black coveralls, gripping an M1A1 Tommy Gun of World War II vintage. Fearing the intruder was going to open fire, Jack instinctively whipped around Violet to block the path. A ski mask hid the man’s identity, and his body was covered head-to-toe including black gloves. A partner, also armed, thrashed their way into the car.

Violet commenced screaming at the top of her lungs, accompanied by whimpers from Ellison. Meanwhile Jack met the intruders with a confident glare. Their fingers were near the trigger of their weapons, but instead of shooting, they seemed inquisitive.

As the screaming quieted down, Jack confronted the first man, “Blocking a train is a federal offense. Who are you? What do you want from us?”

“The combo to yer blue and gold safe,” replied the man, his voice muffled by the mask.

“What safe?”

“Two cars ahead; it’s in an old RPO office coach.” He glanced back, his partner holding a gun pointed at the girls.

“I don’t know it,” replied Jack forcefully.

“Fer Christ sake, cut the shit Gandy Dancer,” said the man in the ski mask. Then he shoved the tip of his sub-machine gun into Jack’s stomach, hitting him hard. Jack winced, doubling over in pain.

“We ain’t got all day. Give me them numbers kid. We’re not playin’ games.” The way he spoke reminded Jack of someone deliberately trying to disguise their voice, like the fictional Batman. Evidence was mounting that this person had targeted their train, somehow knowing it was coming and carrying goodies.

With no immediate answer the fellow then slapped Jack on the side of his head, right in the ear, using a flat palm. The smack of the leather glove made it sting worse.

Jack grabbed onto a chair back to brace himself from toppling over. He felt as though he was going to throw up; it was that good a hit.

“Oh god. Stop this!” exclaimed Violet, terror in her voice. “I’ll give you the combo.”

The fellow with the tommy gun turned to Violet. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, counting fingers on her hand. “22 – 16 –39”

“Jesus Violet,” groaned Jack through gritted teeth. “Way to stay strong.”

“Thank you Miss. Least one of ya’ll has some common sense.” The masked fellow and his partner pushed their way back out of the lounge car, heading to the front of the train and the office car. The doors slammed shut with a puff of pneumatic pressure.

“Jack you’ve gone insane. What’s wrong with you? That man could have murdered us,” Violet scolded. “What are they getting? A stack of hundreds and some diamond jewelry, a few wedding gifts? If this is about money they can have it.”

Ellison grabbed onto Jack’s waist, helping him up. “Violet, it’s never been about the money and you know it.”

“What’s it about then?” Violet challenged, her tone suddenly filled with rage. “Your manhood?”

Jack limped his way to a seated position. Not wanting to answer, he inhaled and exhaled three times before continuing. “We do not tolerate criminal offenses of any kind against a train. I thought you understood that.”

“Screw you Jack. Save your rhetoric for a stupid board meeting. You act like you’re still living in the old west or something. Your bravado went out with the buffalo herds and the pony express. It’s the 1970s now Jack, not the 1870s.”

“I’m aware of what decade it is,” said Jack dryly. “At least I think I am,” he thought.

He continued breathing hard. He would have had greater endurance were it not for the fact he was hungover—a imprudent champagne hangover no less.

Jack was disappointed in his sibling, but this was no time for a long-winded lecture on family dignity, or to rehash arguments they’d been having since they were teenagers. Still in pain, he rested a moment while catching his breath and thinking.

“Funny he called you a gandy dancer just now,” said Devon, chiming in.

“Helpful,” replied Jack.

“But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you pull your badge and inform that miscreant you’re the chief inspector.”

Jack massaged his forehead with his fingers and thumb, quietly laughing to himself. He was laughing to keep from crying.

Just when one was certain Devon Chalmers couldn’t be any dumber, he would make a statement to prove you wrong. “Devon, with all due respect buddy, I’m pretty sure that would have made things infinitely worse.”

Unlike the sleeper, this comfort-glide lounge car belonged to Violet Decklin, featuring her decorative aesthetic. Hovering over his aching head was a Victorian portrait of a high society lady, massive ruffled yellow dress, strutting the streets of Paris with a matching yellow umbrella. Classy.

Holding out his empty palms, Jack studied the lines under the glow of a yellow reading lamp. He remembered crouching in a Vietnam jungle, flashes of gunfire brightening the night, fired from countless Soviet AKs. The terror and chaos of those forests, the screaming of wounded men, it was palpable. These were the things nobody else would understand. Jack took a final deep breath, then slapped his thighs, snapping himself out of another pointless flashback.

“Alright look, we’ve got to try and get a decent view of these bastards as they leave,” Jack asserted. “That might be our only hope of catching them.” He was staring straight at Devon.

“It’s pretty dark now, I doubt we’ll be able to see anything,” Devon replied.

Jack turned to face Violet. She quietly took a seat on the cushion, averting her eyes.

“Oh hell. Sit on your asses all of you,” Jack admonished. “When we get to town I’m sending a wire to fetch my gun and holster.”

Violet shook her head in disdain.

“You’re setting off on foot then?” asked Devon.

“Whatever’s necessary,” replied Jack, making his way to the forward doors.

“But … but … you’ll miss the wedding,” sniveled Ellison.

Jack thrust his empty hands in the air, twisting around. “Screw the wedding. Somebody robbed our train!” Pointing a finger at Devon, whose eyes were also tilted down. “Mr. Chalmers, I am never forgetting your failure to act. I will explicitly be noting this in my report to the CEO.”

With that, Jack squeezed his way out of the parlor and into the vestibule between cars. He felt the dry night air tickle his throat, scents of wild plants stimulating his sense of smell. It was a relief to be moving, but he knew he was on his own now.

Jack unclipped a small chain gate and jumped down to the nearest railroad tie. Adding to the din of the idling locomotive, Jack could hear more shouting, and an unmistakable rumble of a heavy military vehicle rolling across the rocky landscape. Its primitive engine was low in frequency, almost “growly” like a wild beast. But he also detected a changing tone as it accelerated, a turbo mechanism winding up and down, compacting air for the cylinders; that military truck definitely contained a diesel used in tanks.

An engineer came rushing toward him. “Sir, I think you ought to stay inside.”

Jack ignored the advice, instead picking up his pace, jogging toward the front of the train. Reaching the locomotive, he took note of the powerful cone of light created by the headlamp. It extended on a linear trajectory for miles into the desert, but unfortunately could not be adjusted.

However, there was something lucky about his circumstance. Jack could tell the diesel powered truck needed to make it back across the tracks, and in fact it was moving toward them. He ascended a small step-ladder to a platform located over the nose of the train—the cow-catcher area. With his arms on the railing, leaning forward so he could get the best view, he waited.

Chance sometimes favors the well prepared. Only a hundred feet ahead, the military vehicle was driven diagonally across both sets of mainline track, right through the beam of light extending from the train. It was too bright for Jack to read any lettering or capture identifying marks, but the type and class of vehicle was unmistakable. He recognized the two-and-a-half-ton style truck used in the army, with sets of double wheels in the back, all driven by the engine in a six-by-six configuration. He saw the outline of the driver and passenger in the cab.

Not many average Joe Citizens were taking that type of vehicle to a coffee shop, or on their daily commute to work.

“I’ve got you now,” Jack whispered. He resolved then and there to pay a visit to every person in the county who owned one; couldn’t be a long list. He also considered another factor in this equation. He was going to need some help, a local guide of sorts. It needed to be someone tough, assertive and energetic like he—the complete opposite of his train companions—who knew the area well.