The locos pulled four passenger coaches in a similar shade of brown. Although the coaches were vintage pre-World War Two heavyweights with turtleback roofs, their windows had been retrofitted with modern shaded glass. It was impossible to see inside.
The locos slowed as they passed over the stream and entered the tight S-curve. And then the train was gone, again enveloped by wilderness. Henry left the camcorder running to capture the retreating whine of the F7s. He was pleased. They’d gotten what they’d come for.
“You’re trespassin’. This is restricted property.”
The three of them whirled. A man wearing a backpack stood in the trees behind them, garbed in camo like the earlier watcher. A holstered pistol hung from his belt. Tall and lean, he had a pale complexion, short-cropped red hair and a thin mustache. He sounded Scottish, or at least the version of Scottish that Henry had grown up hearing on TV. But there was another accent in there as well, maybe something Eastern European.
He wore a faint smile. Henry had the impression he was trying to contain amusement at having startled them.
“We were just shooting the train,” Henry babbled. “We’re from Railmasters of Milwaukee.”
“Sorry to hear that, mate. You carryin’ firearms?”
Henry vigorously shook his head. “No sir, absolutely not!”
The man whipped out the pistol and pointed it at them. “You’ll be comin’ with me.” He gestured toward the woods, motioning for them to walk in front.
“What about our cameras?” Loren asked.
“They’ll be confiscated.”
Greg stood his ground. “Confiscated by whom?”
“Special Security Service.”
“I’d like to see some ID.”
“Shut up and move your asses.”
Greg took the lead, followed by Henry, Loren, and their captor. Henry felt sick. They were going to be arrested. Even if he evaded prison, he’d have a criminal record. The brewery would fire him. Without steady income, he’d go bankrupt, lose his apartment, and end up living in the gutter.
Greg’s boot snared a vine. As he leaned over to untangle himself, Henry realized he’d faked the mishap in order to slip a hunting knife from an ankle sheath. Greg pocketed the knife and whispered in Henry’s ear. “This guy’s not right. There is no Special Security Service. Only US Marines guard Tau Nine-One. We may have to take him down.”
Henry’s dread reached new heights. Take him down! Oh, God, this isn’t happening!
“No talkin’,” the man barked. “Keep movin’.”
They reached the top of the steep ravine. The man ordered them to turn around at the edge. He spoke into a small mike on the lapel of his jacket. Henry noticed he wore an ear bud. Considering the area’s lack of reception, it must be a radio rather than a phone.
“Kokay, we’ve got a little problem. My location, on the double.”
The man studied each of their faces before settling his attention on Henry. “OK, video man. You going to tell me what you chaps are really doing out here? And no rubbish about watchin’ trains.”
“But it’s the truth,” Henry said. “I swear, that’s the only reason we’re here! Honest, we didn’t mean to trespass.”
Loren nodded vigorously. The man turned his attention to Greg.
“You don’t look the part, mate. Not an anorak?”
“Anorak?”
“Railway nerd.” The smile radiated no warmth.
“He’s our guide,” Loren said.
Henry struggled to remain calm and not give in to escalating fear. Loren looked more indignant than upset, probably concerned about their cameras being confiscated. Whatever Greg was feeling, he hid it well. His attention remained riveted on their captor.
A second man, the one referred to as Kokay, emerged from the trees. He was the figure who’d ducked under the bridge. Dark-skinned and with the build of a linebacker, he had several electronic devices hanging from his belt. Henry had no idea what their function was.
Kokay scowled. “Hell of a mess, Nobe. Whadda we do now?”
The newcomer had a deep Southern drawl. The left side of his face didn’t move when he spoke, as if some of the muscles were paralyzed.
“The Clerk will decide,” Nobe said. “Watch ’em.”
Kokay drew his sidearm. Nobe retreated a few paces into the forest and got back on the radio. Henry couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Nobe finished the call and returned. “The Clerk’s gonna send a shadow.”
Kokay gazed uneasily into the surrounding woods, troubled by the impending arrival of the shadow. Whatever that was.
Henry made another attempt at convincing their captors of innocent intentions. But Nobe wagged his finger, warning him to be silent. He clamped his mouth shut and waited.
A few minutes later, the space between Nobe and Kokay darkened. A strange figure took shape, hovering several inches above the ground. It appeared to be a man in jeans and a pullover sweater. His face was hidden by what appeared to be a cheap version of a King Kong Halloween mask.
Henry squinted, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. The ape-faced figure was partially translucent. Bits and pieces of the forested background occasionally became visible through his body. Was it some newfangled kind of hologram, a 3D image transmitted from a distant location?
Nobe spoke to the mysterious figure over the radio. “Trainspotters. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
Henry could see the man’s lips moving under the mask. Although he heard nothing, it was apparent the figure was responding through Nobe’s ear bud. Hearing only one side of the conversation elevated Henry’s fear.
“I agree… Uh-huh, not a problem, we’re far enough from Tau… Consider it done.”
The ominous dialogue ended. Nobe turned to Kokay and gestured to the electronic gear on his belt.
“Get what you need?”
Kokay nodded.
“Take off. Encrypt everything and upload the data.”
Kokay gave a wary glance at the spectral figure before sprinting into the trees. Nobe returned his attention to the three of them.
“Well now, mates. We need a volunteer to get things off on the right foot. Any takers?”
“Takers for what?” Loren demanded, planting hands on hips and glaring at Nobe. Henry had seen such behavior by his friend in the past. You could only push Loren so far before he became blustery and indignant.
Nobe smiled. Then he lunged forward and landed a brutal kick to Loren’s midsection.
One moment, Henry’s friend was by his side. An instant later he was flying backward off the ravine.
Loren frantically pirouetted his arms as he fell. Twenty feet down, his head slammed a rock with sickening force. A series of violent somersaults followed. He landed face up amid thickets at the bottom. It was obvious from the way Loren’s neck was twisted that he was dead.
Henry felt faint, unable to process such madness. He wanted to sit down, wanted to eat something, wanted to ask why the world had stopped making sense. But he was too frightened to speak. His vocal cords refused to shape words.
Greg whipped out his knife and fell into a defensive crouch. Nobe aimed his pistol between Greg’s eyes.
“Not too smart. Drop it.”
“Rot in hell.”