The Saboteur

Rippling heat waves distort the view of the desert expanse. From down here even the weeds are blurry. My face is planted in the dirt as I slowly open my left eye. The sunrays have already begun burning my skin.

I ease upward like a stiffened board as orange sand flakes off my sweaty cheek. In front of me, a vast canyon of layered rock, scattered trees, and far away riverbeds. Behind me, black smoke engulfs the carnal wreckage of mangled iron and warped steel. The bodies of former passengers paint a trail from where I lay to the blazing train cars of what used to be Royal Rail.

It was dawn when it happened. I prop myself up just enough to kneel, and check my pocketwatch; broken. I hold my hand high to shade my eyes, estimating the time to be near noon. Another train is due to pass this afternoon, but their route will be blocked indefinitely. I stagger to my feet and turn my back on nature.

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen passengers, I count, on my way back to the crash. An additional three black-coated bandits are among them, and the conductor, with hat and head missing. I’m either the only survivor, or any other living souls have taken their leave down the rail hours ago. But I’m not leaving. Not yet.

The rear car door, miraculously still on hinge, abandons integrity upon a light push of the hand. I clamber my way into the upturned train car to find nothing but ash and more passengers. A few benches hold their mount on the floor, now upwards to my right, while most everything else lay scattered and burnt across the crooked corner where the wall meets the ceiling. Even some desert brush has protruded through the broken windows.

The next car is free of the stench of death, but stings of broken perfume and burnt leather. Mounds of open luggage lay before me. Waves of linens, coats, socks, dolls, jewelry, all manner of personals flow up and down like an ocean of forgotten things. Brown case, red patch. A needle in a haystack. I’d better get started.

Each cloth I grab leaves a red handprint as I toss it behind me. My eyes grow heavier with every passing minute. For the first time, I see myself reflected back at me in a small folding mirror; my left side smudged with minor wear and tear, and my right bloodied with matted hair, black burns, and broken cornea. My face is painted near perfectly down the middle.

I throw the mirror away with exhausted effort. The hills of luggage have only grown as I’ve dug through their bottomless pits. I grow tired, and my shoulder leads my body down to lay upon a dirty pillow. Just a minute…to shut my eyes. A trickle of blood leaks down my cheek like a tear. Its tickle opens my eyes for one last look before falling asleep, and that’s when I see it: the brown case with a red patch.

The traincar’s rooftop hatch, blown open from the crash, is now a window out onto the vast desert. Just beyond, amidst the sand, is the case, gripped in the arms of a sizzled bandit.

I viciously grip the rim of the hatch and pull myself over the edge, tumbling out into the sun like a ragdoll. A tuft of grass holds my head as I lay motionless, mustering the will to reach my prize. I feel my shirt go wet at my neck. Blood. My blood. My legs spin, forcing me onto my stomach as I stretch my arms into a crawl.

Three meters. Two meters. One meter away. Cuh-click. I freeze, inches from the case. To my left, a bandit sits lazily against a boulder; one hand pressing his wounds, the other on the trigger of his revolver. He’s as beleaguered as I am, but I’m no match without a weapon, let alone in my condition. I stare at the barrel, then at him.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” I whisper. He breathes quick breaths, eyes piercing, grip firm. I close my eyes tight as I prepare for the inevitable, and then- click click. I cautiously peek to see him pulling the trigger over and over. His rounds are out.

His arm gives way and plops to his side, followed by a final breath as his head leans back to face the sun forever. In turn, my own eyes close and everything goes dark.

I awake on the floor of a rumbling train surrounded by a circle of curious passengers. The smell of squeezed limes, harsh whiskey, and roasted peanuts make my stomach roar. A nurse tends to my head, and wipes my face with a wet cloth. She exhales a sigh of relief as I open my eyes. A hefty state marshall suddenly enters my view, upside-down from where I’m laying.

“Helluva scene back there, son,” he said.

“Where am I?” I ask. The marshall scoffs, pulling a pen and pad from his breast pocket.

“We’re headed back east,” he said. “Took the conductor some convincing to drive backwards.” He gives a meek smile through his red beard, but I pay it little mind. I turn to face the window. “What happened?” I close my eyes again and say nothing. The thumping of the train makes my head throb harder and harder. The marshall relents, and sits in a chair beside me. “Along with you, we picked up some luggage, maybe one of ‘em is yours. If you can tell me anything-”

“Bandits,” I say. “Dead now, I think. Heard some shootin’ before the crash.” I answer some more questions, and the marshall jots down some notes. “My name’s Jimmy Burle,” I say. “My case is brown with a red patch. If you have it.” The nurse and marshall help me to my feet, and usher me to a private cabin for further rest.

The lock of the cabin door is more relieving than the nurses wrapping work. I crack the window, sit on the velvet bench, and rub my hands rhythmically against the brown case. I let out a long and tired breath and turn its coded lock until I hear it click. My eyes cautiously glance at the cabin door as I lift open the case to reveal its warm glow; twelve gold bars and a note. It reads as follows:

“Jimmy, if all goes well you’ll be reading this while on your way to God-knows-where with a new life. I hope Benji’s gang of idiots didn’t give you much trouble, especially after the crash. Two-timers don’t take kindly to being two-timed. I estimated your car would be the least mangled, albeit by the slightest of comparisons, so I pray you aren’t too maimed from the derailing. If you are alive, and find the inclination to visit, please do. I wouldn’t say no to a ‘thanks’ after all my work, a fancy meal, or help on a down payment. You are, after all, my richest friend. Your pal, Hank.”