Chapter 64 - Iron and Fire
The roar of the two converging trains was an acoustic apocalypse. The ground shook with such violence that crystal glasses in Car 49’s dining cabinet shattered against the walls.
Through the front cab windows, I watched Jonah.
He was clinging to the exterior handrail of Engine 101, his coat whipping violently in the slipstream, fifty feet above the flying ballast. Ahead, standing beside the track in the glare of our halogen lights, was the heavy iron casting of Switch Box 42—a rusted red housing bolted into five tons of granite bedrock.
If the switch remained thrown, our engine would strike the oil tankers head-on at a combined speed of seventy miles an hour, vaporizing the entire junction in a fireball visible from Lake Michigan.
"Ten seconds!" Arthur screamed, burying his face in his hands.
Jonah didn't hesitate. At twenty-five miles an hour, while Engine 101 screamed under emergency regenerative braking, Jonah leapt.
He hit the ballast in a rolling dive, tearing through the gravel and ice, his heavy frame sliding directly into the muddy depression beside Switch 42. He bounced up instantly, ignoring the blood running down his forehead, and rammed the four-foot breaker bar directly into the manual bypass slot beneath the hydraulic actuator.
From the top of Tower 18, gunshots rang out. Derek’s private mercenaries were firing wildly from the catwalk, the bullets kicking up spouts of mud and ricocheting off the switch housing. One round grazed Jonah’s shoulder, tearing the fabric of his dark shirt, but Jonah didn't flinch. He planted both boots against the granite base, wrapped both hands around the lever, and threw his entire massive weight into the throw.
"Move, you bastard!" Jonah roared, his scream echoing over the diesel thunder.
The rusted iron groaned. The hydraulic line burst in a cloud of crimson fluid. With a bone-jarring metallic clang that cut through the engine noise, the points slammed shut.
The oil train reached the junction a fraction of a second later. Its massive leading wheels hit the switch points, sparks screaming into the night as the six-thousand-ton consist diverged violently onto Track Seven, roaring past our locomotive with a clearance of less than eighteen inches. The wind of its passing tore the breath from my lungs as Engine 101 glided safely through the straight-line rails, coming to a shuddering halt fifty yards past the tower.
"Jonah!" I screamed, tearing open the heavy vestibule door before the wheels had even finished turning.
I jumped down into the slush, my boots sinking into the gravel, running toward the figure standing in the rain.
Jonah turned to meet me. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his shirt torn, but his eyes were blazing with savage triumph. I threw myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face in the curve of his neck as his powerful arms locked around my waist, lifting me completely off the ground.
"You're alive," I sobbed against his skin, trembling against the fierce, steady beat of his heart. "You insane, beautiful man... you're alive."
"I told you," Jonah murmured roughly against my hair, his lips brushing my temple as he held me close. "I'm not leaving you to clean up this mess alone."
Above us, the heavy metal door at the base of Tower 18 burst open.
Derek Taylor stumbled out into the freezing rain, his tailored overcoat drenched in grease, a nine-millimeter pistol shaking uncontrollably in his trembling hands. His jaw was hanging at an unnatural angle, drool and blood dripping down his chin, his eyes wide with unhinged, feral madness.
"You should be dead!" Derek screamed, aiming the barrel directly at my forehead. "You stole my life! Both of you! You're nothing! You're just a whore and a mountain bastard!"
Before Derek could pull the trigger, the dark silhouette of Mack appeared behind him like an avenging ghost. Mack swung a five-foot track wrench in a flat, whistling horizontal arc.
The iron struck Derek’s wrists with a sickening crack. The pistol flew into the ditch, and Derek collapsed face-first into the muddy ballast, howling in agony as Mack planted a size-twelve steel-toed work boot square between Derek's shoulder blades.
"Quiet down, little boy," Mack spat, pressing his boot harder until Derek’s face was shoved completely into the icy mud. "The grown-ups are working."
Jonah set me down gently, his eyes hardening to flint as he walked slowly toward Derek. He didn't raise his fist. He simply stood over my disgraced ex-husband, casting a shadow that swallowed Derek whole.
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"Take him up to the dispatch console, Mack," Jonah said coldly. "He's going to flip every switch between here and Chicago with his own broken fingers."
***
