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  For some odd reason, this stranger almost had the loping gait of a bull, as if scuttling forward on all four limbs the way the head drastically bobbed. And before the captain could puzzle over the man’s immense size, he recoiled and gagged from the vile reek of rotting death that seemed to engulf him with a gust of wind.

  Fitzsimmons turned back towards the company of men behind him, hoping their stern faces and composure would reassure him back into sanity. Though their expressions were impossible to discern behind the hoods and scarves, Fitzsimmons could hear their murmurs of distress while the wood and metal of their rifles began rattling to attention. Even snow-blind and fresh with inexperience, they too could sense that something was wrong.

  Beneath all the sounds of frenzied preparation, a syncopated booming of racing feet rhythmically played like drums with increasing volume. The captain remained facing away from the visitor, frozen in place not by the cold but by dread, too afraid to learn the stranger’s identity.

  When the galloping abruptly ended, a piercing howl sounded immediately behind Fitzsimmons. The screech was accompanied by a rush of air cold enough to actually freeze the tiny hairs on the back of his neck beneath his winter wear. As the noise now tapered back to silence, the sound was almost peaceful to the captain, not entirely unlike the melancholy wail of some bagpipes playing at a funeral.

  Fitzsimmons now closed his eyes, content with the knowledge of a perfect truth amidst the chaotic gunfire and screaming which erupted about him: The stranger was not a man.

  Chapter II

  While Riding a Train through India

  The ice rattled together with a loud clink. Combined with the translucent walls of the short glass into which they were poured, the cubes looked like ghostly stones, murky reflections of the air like something between the physical and the imagined, between life and death.

  Brown whiskey poured over the ice to create a series of cascading waterfalls across the miniature mountains, then pooling into the bottom of the glass. The ice groaned and cracked in a tiny melody of decay. It shrank and crumbled from the warmth of the dark liquor.

  Private Baxter Griffin plucked up the glass and downed the entire drink in an unbroken chain of gulps as if dying from thirst. He capped the successful completion of the drink with an embellished sigh of gratitude, then wiped some liquid from his lips with the back of the sleeve of his bright red uniform. He stared at the empty glass to study the tiny frozen rocks remaining at the bottom. He took one into his mouth and chewed on it and winced at the chill. Generally he hated drinking, but depending on the environment, he could relish it.

  “Marvellous thing, isn’t it?” he remarked to no one in particular, though a large, pitted bartender was closest. The dour server privately grit his teeth and concentrated on polishing an already clean glass so as not to endure any further blather from this drunk. He was only forced to endure this obnoxious African because the lout was also a soldier of the British army.

  “Ice,” Baxter said dreamily, swishing the remaining chunk around in the glass as it slowly melted into oblivion. “Here in the comfort of this trolley, which is probably, what, a cosy 25 degrees, wouldn’t you say?” The bartender ignored the direct question, and Baxter didn’t care. “And yet it snows like Hades all about this warm vessel. Something cold in something hot in something cold.”

  Baxter sighed and finished the drink completely. Then he slammed it down on the wooden countertop. “We can control the elements to the point where we can have ice on a train in the mountains. Would you not agree that is quite impressive?”

  Baxter raised his voice in an open and hostile call for conversation. None of the other passengers noticed, or at least cared to appear to do so. Secretly they were all watching the large black boor with a mixture of great interest, hatred and fear.

  Baxter’s mirth died at the lack of fellow enthusiasm. The dark shades of night sky and scenery rattled by in the windows to make his head spin that much more. He shook off the encroaching nausea with a slurred grunt and some wet spittle. After surveying the rest of the quiet crowd in this lounge car, Baxter’s inspection ended with the bartender, who quickly turned away at the shame of having been caught in the midst of eavesdropping.

  Glaring ferociously at the cowardly bartender, Baxter reared back his lips to crunch some ice loudly between his teeth. He lifted up the empty glass then slammed it profoundly down again on the wooden bar. “Drink,” he announced joylessly.

  After a brief wait, the bartender looked up at Baxter, now with more blatant disgust than before. Then the man dutifully snatched the glass with alarming velocity as if he was stealing it. As a show of retaliatory aggression, the disgruntled servant slammed his tin scoop into the ice bin in retort to this idiot’s antics.

  The animosity made the black soldier smile appreciatively.

  “And one more for the lady,” Baxter announced, swinging back into a tone of gentle pleasance. He turned towards a young woman sitting down the row at the bar. She busied herself with reading a red leather book while leisurely smoking a cigarette. Like the other passengers aboard the carriage, she too was trying her best to ignore the rude brute.

  Baxter slid to her side. “Ma’am,” he said politely, holding a hand to his thick, curly hair as if to doff an imaginary cap.

  Despite the pleasantries, the woman refused to acknowledge him. A sharp thud announced a drink being slammed upon the bar beside Baxter, which diverted his attention back to the bartender.

  Unfazed by the aggression, Baxter asked politely, “And the lady’s?”

  “I don’t know if I see enough ribbon on that coat to make me get another drink for the likes of you,” the man sneered, the words delivered in a strange and unfriendly Eastern accent. Then the server leaned closer to reveal a sick smile of broken black teeth. “Especially not for your ilk, you savage,” he hissed at Baxter with a muzzle blast of stench.

  While this man was a sturdy build and height, perhaps even surpassing Baxter’s own impressive size, Baxter was not frightened. It would be impossible for a railway bartender to compete in combat with him.

  In half a blink, Baxter had the rude attendant by the crown of his balding head. The two combatants were able to exchange brief looks - the man stunned and afraid, Baxter malevolently happy - before the quick slam of skull against wood. The noise of the collision combined with the bartender’s pathetic whimper roused the other patrons from their feigned ignorance. Women gasped in terror while the more dignified men issued small harrumphs of protest. All were aghast at such violence in the elegant splendour of the railcar. Yet when the culprit was a large black soldier, they all wished they had not instinctively objected to his ruckus.

  Baxter watched the unconscious bartender slide back off the bar from the weight of his immobile torso, leaving a trail of blood and black teeth on the countertop as a souvenir of the encounter.

  After sliding the drink over to the horrified woman with a dignified, “Milady,” he then fetched the bottle of liquor for himself and took a long, victorious drink.

  Baxter liked to think that he was above the racism, that after a lifetime of hatred, it no longer bothered him in the slightest. After soldiering across three continents from his native Sierra Leone and now to the North-Eastern edge of India, he had convinced himself that there was no new variety of prejudice which hadn’t already been inflicted upon him.

  Beyond people’s hostility against Baxter’s skin, it was the disrespect for the uniform which drew more of his ire. “I’ve campaigned across Africa, Europe and now Asia, you dolt,” Baxter boasted to his fallen foe. Then he turned to the captive audience to further explain himself. “I’ve been shot and stabbed more times in more places than I can remember,” he said in address of them all, “so that all of you unappreciative snobs can gawk at me over your tea and lager. The service has made me do abominable things, so that you don’t have to. Am I not owed your respect?”

  Baxter drank another heavy slug of liquor, angrily spying on the gall
ery of pale faces made paler by his outburst. This was one of the moments where he particularly despised the British. They lorded over the world as all-powerful gentry with their collection might, yet were such puny cowards individually. Behind their soft eyes and trim moustaches or beneath their lace bustles and colourful hats, they were a cruel and weak people. No doubt offended by this ruffian’s lewd etiquette, they silently screamed their indignation at Baxter, though neither their mouths nor fists offered any formal protest. Not a one of them would ever do a thing about it, no matter how lawlessly he behaved. Only behind the safety of closed door would the men tell the women how close they were to fisticuffs to silence the scoundrel. Likewise, the women would relate how the appalling conduct almost made them faint with disgust. And if there was any one thing which the two-faced British loathed beyond rude manners, it was to do a thing about it. He did not enjoy hating his fellow man, yet their behaviour made it impossible not to. Though Baxter baited them with rudeness, he still felt they were guilty of disgraceful behaviour, the inability to act upon their convictions.

  “Fancy a drink, milady?” he asked again of the vexed vixen. The young woman had neat brown hair tucked under a wide, white cap to match her clean white dress, indicating to the inebriated pursuer that she was both rich and virginal. Yet she handled her drink and smoke unlike an amateur. While she was not exactly his style in appearance, he enjoyed the naughty delight of having the already stunned crowd further flummoxed by the outrageousness of this white princess being accosted by this black blackguard.

  “No thank you.” Her dainty mouth crumpled with anxiety. Her unblinking eyes were paralysed with fear.

  He advanced closer with a coy smile. She leaned an equal distance away in her stool, almost ready to topple from it. “And why’s that, milady?” Before she could even think to answer, he topped off her cup with a splash of liquor from his bottle. “Would it be because you are of a bigoted mind?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, shocked enough to be ostensibly ashamed at the suggestion.

  He watched her squirm like cornered prey. “Then prove it.”

  Baxter was only inches away from the woman, where neither soul was aware of anything else in the entire compartment beside the other. Studying him so closely, she noticed that his face was actually quite handsome. His eyes did not seem to stray with any drunken stupor, but twinkled with a keen intellect.

  Still she pushed him away. “No matter what your colour, sir,” she said while calmly returning her attention to her book, “it is a personal policy to refuse association with all intoxicated barbarians.” Baxter was startled by the bold gesture, but still impressed. Her svelte index finger confidently tapped some ash off her simmering cigarette. Then he noticed an odd smell from the smoke, something foreign. Perhaps this prim feline was dabbling in some exotic intoxicant popular amongst the hoity-toity of the Indian region. “Good eve,” she said nonchalantly, and the smell of the smoke made his nostrils sting.

  Then his easy demeanour vanished. He never enjoyed the next part, knew within his heart that it was wrong, yet still he proceeded. With an anguished sigh, Baxter grabbed her small wrist in his large palm.

  The lady’s bluff had failed, and slowly an undeniable dread began to distort her prettiness.

  Another hand quickly clamped over Baxter’s own wrist, surprising both him and the woman. The white-gloved hand emerged from the gold and crimson sleeve of an army officer’s pristine coat, which was ornately decorated with a legion of medals on the breast. From the collar of the jacket stuck a powerful neck and grizzled face, whose rough skin but light blue eyes made the countenance look simultaneously younger and older than its actual years. A peppery black moustache evenly covered the stiff upper lip.

  Baxter studied the tell-tale decorations before addressing his superior. The accolades were in stark contrast to his plain uniform. “Corporal,” he said dutifully, releasing the woman while being equally freed in turn from the grip of Corporal Conrad Murray.

  “Private,” Conrad acknowledged in reply. The two stood face-to-face for a moment before Conrad’s gruff voice growled, “I’m willing to overlook this transgression due to the evils of the bottle. But you best vacate my sight before I not only toss you off the train, but out of the royal employ as well.”

  Conrad’s voice was replete with an overwhelming gravitas, yet the sentiment was betrayed by an amused smirk. “Why would that be, sir?” scoffed Baxter. The private aggressively strained forward to intimidate the corporal. “So you can have her? Another white officer capitalising on my work?” Baxter’s robust size eclipsed Conrad, with the private possessing a visible advantage in youth too. But Conrad was neither small nor old.

  “You drunken scoundrel, back down now,” Conrad hissed authoritatively.

  The woman studied both men. While the corporal was a well-built athlete, his better days were long before embarking upon this train ride with his greyed temples and wrinkles on his eyes. The few extra inches of height and pounds of girth made the muscular black private appear even more menacing in comparison to his opponent. Sensing disaster, she blurted out, “Please, sir, do not--”

  Conrad shushed her quickly, “Do not alarm yourself, ma’am,” he said with a dip of his cap in respect. “I can handle this savage.”

  Baxter sneered like a disgusted animal. By the time Conrad had turned back around, Baxter was already delivering a massive right into the corporal’s jaw. The recipient of the blow stumbled backwards, but stayed on his feet.

  Enraptured by the violence, the spectators gasped in horror and delight.

  “Officers.” Baxter advanced, the knuckles of his meaty right hand crunching into a club. He flung the fist forward, but Conrad successfully ducked beneath the blow.

  From his crouching position, Conrad fired upwards with a stiff uppercut, his arm ending in a triumphant and statuesque point to the ceiling. Baxter’s head tilted backwards with such velocity that his body stumbled along beneath it to keep him upright.

  The galley cheered at the heroic retaliation.

  The two leered at each other, a few feet separating them. Both were temporarily satisfied to study their antagonist and plot their next move. A bump in the tracks made them wobble. Conrad rested a hand on the bar to steady himself, and the woman reflexively hugged the nearby limb to stabilise herself at the jumping ride. “You might want to retreat back a bit, ma’am,” Conrad warned the woman.

  “Thank you,” she said dearly. She released the corporal to cautiously step backwards to the end of the cabin.

  He smiled at her and was slammed backwards by the charging private. Tackled at the waist, Conrad was driven past the woman into the wall behind her. The two men crashed against the railcar and knocked a large oil painting to the ground with a clatter.

  While pinned to the side, Conrad drove an elbow squarely down into Baxter’s broad back.

  After a brief grunt of pain, Baxter roared, bending back upright and now lifting Conrad into the air atop his mighty shoulders. The crowd gasped at the sudden acrobatics during this gladiatorial exhibition.

  Though midair and on his stomach, Conrad now faced the woman once again. She shielded her face with her hands, terrified to watch what might happen next.

  But despite the man’s dire circumstances, she was even more surprised by what happened next. Conrad winked, his blue pupils twinkling in an alluring yet mischievous manner.

  As if he had experienced this exact moment on countless other occasions, Conrad deftly hooked his arm under Baxter’s chin, then tucked the forearm back upwards to connect his two hands together.

  Baxter gagged at the headlock, and the old officer strained to tighten the grip further. Still suspending the tenacious corporal in the air like a lumberjack hoisting a log, Baxter whipped the man from side to side, knocking Conrad against a door and the back of the bar.

  Conrad grunted from the blows, but would not relent.

  Soon Baxter crumpled down to one knee. Succumbing further to the pre
ssure, he then fell to both knees as if in prayer. From her vantage, the woman could not see Baxter’s eyes roll back up into their sockets, but she did get a fine view of the African’s back as he fainted face-first for the floor.

  During the behemoth’s collapse, Conrad was able to release his submission. As the assailant toppled over, Conrad landed gently upright on his feet.

  The crowd clapped in applause at a magic feat that couldn’t have been better executed. They were also gleeful that the rude black bastard had been tranquilised by this mighty hero.

  A small old lady rose from her nearby seat and danced over beside Baxter’s slumbering body. She raised her heel back to kick the monster in the scalp when Conrad stopped her. “Now, ma’am, let us not devolve to his level.”

  Baxter murmured something groggily into the floor, and the old woman quickly scooted back to her seat.

  The rescued woman swooned at the heroics, her own hands locked tightly with one other while she fancied they were each clutching one of Conrad’s. A chorus of hip-hip-hoorays accompanied the triumphant soldier as he plucked a pair of bottles from the undefended bar while offering his free arm to the girl. She gladly accepted.

  While escorting her towards the exit into the sleeping compartments, Conrad noted the affection pooling in her big brown eyes.

  Chapter III

  The First Morning

  Upon the successful ignition of his cigar, Conrad reclined back into the cot and exhaled a thick plume of smoke. The dark vapours looked even heartier in the heavy rays of morning sunshine, drifting languidly about the chamber like the ghost of a belly-dancer in an Indian bordello before slowly vanishing into the ether. He looked over at the naked back of the woman beside him and smiled, gently rubbing his rough fingertips along her spine. She moaned softly from the caress.