Munition
A cold mist hangs over the city’s munition plant. The sun was long gone, leaving the source of light to be flickering street lamps. Despite the nighttime haze, the towering factory still showed signs of ever-lasting activity. Thick, dark smoke hurried out its chimneys. A harsh, shade of orange lighting shines through the windows, giving it a sort of forbidden feel. However, all feelings of uneasiness were pushed aside for this night, as it was hands-on for an overnight assignment.
A shadow drifted across the gravel pavement outside the plant. If one had spotted it, they would have thought it was a creature from another world as it was elongated due to the distortion of the lights. The shadow followed a tall, stoned-faced fellow dressed in a green military uniform. He glanced around at his surroundings, eyeing for any oddity, before taking a spot next in a line of similarly dressed men. All perfectly still, and all observing.
On a platform nearby, a group of workers were hauling wooden crates of firearms, explosives, and various chemicals, as a foreman stood by shouting orders. The crates were loaded into a special rail boxcar disguised as a black baggage car with red trims, while four other similarly designed cars were being loaded the same, and a single passenger carriage lined behind them. Connected to the train up front was a blue Berkshire locomotive named Marklin. The steel beast stood restless, its headlight shone brightly toward the west, illuminating the curtains of fog that surrounded him. Its blue boiler hummed with heated water, as its four large driving wheels hissed with wasted steam.
Nearby was the crew, Weston and Jacques. Or what others say behind their backs, the Abbott and Costello of the railway, and it was clear from a first glance why. Weston was the shorter one, his skin a dark shade of brown, and his hair a mess of coal soot that he didn’t know was there until he took a shower after a long day. Jacques was much taller, though his rail-thin body contrasted against Weston's more brawny build, with his skin tanned and blistered from working over a roaring fire most of his days.
The two spoke to one of the foremen, while Weston downed his second cup of coffee, and Jacques went through a pack of cigarettes that was meant to be shared with Weston.
“Alright, you two, this is an important deal,” The foreman said, his mid-western drawl trimming with each word. “I know this might seem extreme to Y’all, but it should be no different than your usual freight work.”
“Well, it’s not every day we get assigned a munition train. It almost caught us off guard. Though, It seems surreal now that we see those gentlemen over there with the guns.” Jacques said, before going into a small coughing fit that caused puffs of smoke to come out of his mouth.
“Yeah, I think those are some sort-of guards,” Weston said, eying one of the men as they walked past. “Now that I think about it, we do have a carriage hooked onto our train. Is the guards riding with us?”
The foreman nodded. “Of course. We prioritize the unconditional safety and protection of our cargo. We don’t want to risk losing our contract with Fort Worth because of damaged or missing cargo.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’re pretty good at this kind of stuff,” Jacques said proudly. “Even our Locomotive has a good performance. Better than any diesel, I might add.”
A loud alert horn blared through the air, startling Weston and Jacques. The Forman nonchalantly checked his watch and nodded to himself. Workman hurried away with empty dollies and forklifts, as the doors to boxcars were shut with a heavy slam. The guards assemble in single formation as they move towards the lone passenger carriage, the conductor already waiting there with a lantern in hand.
“All ‘board!” The Conductor commanded, and on cue, all the guards began to pile into the rail car.
The Forman tipped his cap towards Weston and Jacques, giving them a small smile. “I think it’s time for you fellows to hurry along. You only got a few hours to reach the drop-off point at Arkansas.”
“Understood,” Weston said, as he stepped back. “We’ll make sure to radio once we reached Hot Springs.”
Weston tapped Jacques's right shoulder to signal their departure from the conversation, which the other man followed as they both hastily walked to their locomotive.
Climbing into the locomotive’s cab, Jacques shoveled a batch of coal into the firebox, watching the sparks spluttering from the inferno. Weston took off the brakes, a loud metallic click confirming the transaction. Two short blasts of the engine's golden whistle, a deep tone akin to a riverboat echoing through the night air, signaled it was time for the train to begin its long journey.
Weston pulled the throttle towards him, and a large blast of grey smoke bellowed from the locomotive’s funnel. Its golden side rods began to pull on the groaning wheels, pulling the engine forward an inch, before the train was a mile away from the platform. A guard from a nearby tower watched as the train approached the main gate to the plant. The locomotive headlamp reflected off the iron bars, as the barrier crept open with a horrible squeal, letting the train through as it descended a small slope that connected to the mainline.
Weston watched the gauges needles move as the locomotive picked up speed, its chuffing gradually turning into a mighty roar. The engineer peered at his pocket watch, noted it was only eight-o’clock. Oh, it was going to be a long ride.
Weston turned to his friend who was sitting lazily in his chair with his cap tilted over his eyes, “Hey, you brought that pack of cigarettes? I might need one or two for the first leg of this trip.”
Without moving nothing but his right arm, Jacques tossed Weston a red carton from the pocket of his overalls. Weston caught it, but notice how it felt lighter than usual. He opened it, and only was met with one lonely stick.
“What in the hell,” Weston said, his teeth grinding together to keep himself from yelling. “Where the rest of them go?”
Jacques only responded by making a V shape with his fingers, putting his lips between them, and exhaling as if smoking an invisible cigarette. This just made Weston more mad than before.
“Oh, you get on every bit of my nerves. You better hope that this station in Hot Springs at least have chewing tobacco,” Weston said. “Or next time this locomotive needs a wash-down, you’re cleaning out the smokebox.”
The train continued down the line towards the Memphis-Arkansas bridge, unknowingly passing by two cars parked nearby on a hill. The driver of the first car smiled, as he reached for his walkie talkie.
“It’s go time,” The man said, his voice rough and slightly horse from years of chain smoking. The cars sprung to life and pulled off down the hill, following the long trail of black smoke far ahead.
End of the first half of the prequel.
