Blood Vivicanti (9781941240113) by Becket

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The Red Man and I
fled.
    We left Wyn and Ms.
Crystobal behind to fend for themselves against Lowen and his army
of Sleeper Devils.
    We flew through the air in
the Red Man’s spaceship at supersonic speeds until we found
ourselves in the middle of a deserted place, surrounded by scores
of long forgotten railcars.
    The place had been called
Junction Station in the Old West. The name was unofficially changed
long after it became a cemetery where broken, disused, and
generally forlorn trains went to die.
    Gashes to gashes, rust to
rust, I thought.
    By the time we arrived, it
was called the Locomotive Deadyards.
     
     
     
     
    We got out of the spaceship
and we explored.
    On the first night we
stayed there, we heard all sorts of strange noises, like the sound
of an old ship rocking at sea. Turns out it was all those trains,
groaning and creaking and snapping as they settled into decay and
fossilization.
     
     
     
     
    I started calling the Red
Man just, “Red.” It seemed proper.
    And he seemed to like it
too, or maybe he just failed to mention that he didn’t like
it.
    But then again, how could
he? He didn’t have any vocal chords.
     
     
     
     
    He and I surveyed what
would become our new home.
    It was an interesting
transition for me. My life had begun in the house of a lower middle
class family, next I’d move into the luxurious mansion of the
inventor of a new race of blood drinkers, and then I ended up
living with a red alien among dead trains.
    My story bore a striking
resemblance to Vonnegut’s theoretical graph for the plot of
Cinderella: The girl’s life begins pretty badly, it gets somewhat
better, and then it plummets into utter wretchedness. The final
pages outline the girl’s ascent toward a catatonia of
happiness.
    My ending might be a little
different.
    Beware of
twists.
     
     
     
     
    Right about then, things
seemed to be getting worse – or at least curiouser and
curiouser.
    Like the age lines in an
old oak tree, you could tell the age of the Locomotive Deadyards by
the kinds of trains encircling us.
    The outer ring was composed
of early 20th century trains.
    Closer to the heart the
Deadyards were the older trains, such as the Lancashire Witch, the
Coppernob, the Puffing Billy, the Fairy Queen, the Evening Star,
the Invincta, and so on. These were mostly gothic boilers,
otherwise known as 19th century steam engines.
    Their whistles still
worked. Blowing them was like listening to hoots of antediluvian
monsters.
     
     
     
     
    Red and I had expected Wyn
and Ms. Crystobal to catch up with us the next day. But that did
not happen.
    Our disappointment turned
into mild concern. So we decided to wait one more day.
    It reminded me of the time
I got lost in the mall. I was a preschooler. I should have stayed
where I was until I was found. Instead I hid under some coats in
some men’s department while someone was calling my name over the
mall’s intercom.
    After a time, I wasn’t
really lost. I just didn’t want to be found.
    Something similar could be
said for Ms. Crystobal. She felt her purpose was not ready to be
found just yet. So while I was gutting out a passenger car, she was
hidden in a quasi-dimensional wardrobe.
     
     
     
     
    A few more days went by.
And still, Wyn and Ms. Crystobal did not come to us.
    Our mild concern became
unease.
    Red started pacing back and
forth like a caged tiger.
     
     
     
     
    He and I got to know one
another while we waited.
    We tried communicating by
making signs and writing symbols in the sand, but that only
frustrated him since he was designed to communicate most
efficiently through the act of drinking blood and sharing Blood
Memories.
    Pragmatism on other planets
is worlds away from ours.
     
     
     
     
    A few more days passed and
still there was no sign of either Wyn or Ms. Crystobal.
    Our unease was quickly
becoming fear.
    Red grew more and more
vexed by our inability to communicate.
    One night, his vexation
reached a