The Rails

The train rallied down the tracks through the mountains and Jacks body swayed limply to its rythym. He had been hung over for what seemed like days. The movement nausiated him and he moved in and out of consiousness. It was better to be passed out than feel the way he did. The sun shone bright throught the moving car and burned his eyelids. Jack sat up and slumped against the wall. Back and forth, back and forth. He could feel the sick coming over him and his body instinctively moved to the open door of the moving car. He heaved and heaved. He lay on his belly and for a while he thought he might rest again. But his guts rebuked him. It went on like this in cycles for a few hours as if her were purging weeks of drunkeness all in one afternoon; which he probably was. By evening he passed out again. This time it seemed a calm kind of rest. But it didn't last long. He was awoken to the sound of the sudden screeching of breaks. The constant sway of the train had stopped. He lay still and opened his eyes. Not far off, he heard voices. Train-car slammed open and shut. The sound of hushed voices and rustling grass like people running through it. Jack knew there were other rail riders; other stowe aways, but until now he hadn't heard any. Why were they all leaving? He was about to find out! Then, the flickering lights from lanterns and the sound of loud banging like a baseball bat against the metal. I was getting closer, louder until the sound came from just outside of the train-car Jack lay in. Jack froze in the middle of the floor. Just as the door flug open someone grabbed him and pulled him backward, deeper into the dark and in a moment he was covered in hay. He laid still and passive as did the body that pulled him into the hay. All at once lights covered the interior of the train-car. "No One in here. They all made off in the woods. Check the next one!" The voices and lights moved on. Once they could no longer be heard. Jack knew he was not alone. "Who's there?" He whispered There was no answer. Again and this time louder, "Who's there?" This time there was an answer. "Shut up! You wat to get us both beat?" Suddenly from down a ways there was indeed the sound of a man being beaten. Jack counted the number of clubs to the gut the poor soul was recieving. 9-10-11-12. "Dear God! Are they going to kill him?" Jack whispered. There was a silence. Then finally, "Naw, they ain't gonna kill him. They teaching all the rest of us a lesson!" Jack could gather the gist of it: He reckoned a stowaway had been found and was being beaten. He also gathered that the soul who had pulled him off into the hay before he had been found was the closest thing he had to a friend. So to save his skin and that of his new commerade he bit his toungue and said not a word more until he was spoken to later that night when the nameless stranger lit two smokes and handed him one. "Names Bud." he said. "what's yours?" "Jack. Jack LeGrande" Answered Jack "LeGrande, Huh?" Bud took a look at Jack from top to foot. "We'll see I guess!"