We both grab for Skippy. The second I unzip the sleeping bag, I instantly regret existing.
A thin rivulet of… something… slides out and trickles across the carpet toward the bathroom.
“Oh come on.”
Skippy’s abdomen is round and tight like he swallowed a beach ball. His shirt buttons strain, one hanging by a thread. His neck’s swollen. He’s seconds from popping like a goddamn piñata.
Saint gags. “I’m going to vomit.”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me cut his arm off. Fucking deal with it.”
I sling my rifle case over my shoulder while Saint throws open the cabin door, weapon up, sweeping left, then right. No threats.
She storms off anyway, shouting over her shoulder, “Get him upright and in the hall!”
I mutter curses in three languages and grab a dry corner of the sleeping bag. I’m dragging a human soup pouch into the hallway when Saint marches back toward me pushing—a goddamn baby stroller.
She parks it beside me like this is normal transportation for corpses.
I stare at it. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s better than carrying him,” she says. “He’s wet.”
“Fucking fantastic. Let’s get this over with.”
We wrangle his soggy body onto the stroller seat. His head lolls. His belly bulges. The stroller wheels give a sad squeak. Saint cinches a bungee cord across his chest. I test the rig by rocking the stroller hard.
It holds. “Huh, not bad.” I hate how impressed I am.
Saint heads toward the back of the car, gun up. “No assassins,” she calls. “For now.”
I move to the front to check the connection between our car and the others—and get my answer.
“We’ve been separated from the rest of the train,” I call back.
We’re drifting alone, slowing, until the tracks drag us to a final, inevitable stop.
Saint stomps back down the hall, pushing Skippy’s stroller like she’s taking him for a polite afternoon walk. “What a great lookout you turned out to be,” she snipes, parking Skippy off to the side.
She kicks open the rear door and steps onto the platform, staying back from the edge.
“Oh, it just gets better and better,” she mutters.
“What?”
“It’s a fucking hot dog factory.” She’s furious. Almost offended. Then she looks back at me, deadpan. “You’ll be thrilled.”
I pull back on my gun and check the round chambered. “Let’s just find another car to steal and get the fuck out of here.”
REDRIBBON PROVISION CO.
Quality Meats Since 1949
Family Owned & Operated
Agoddamn hot dog factory.
Just my fucking luck.
