Train Running

By Kyler Hood

Kyler Hood has released a page-turner novella, Train Running. The story paints a colorful picture of life in India through the eyes of Mackenzie Riehl, an imaginative young woman who attends her sister’s wedding in Bombay, burdened with a terrible secret. But it’s no secret that Riehl wants the wedding to fail. Her wish quickly becomes mired in family conflict and the overwhelming squeeze of life in the city. Riehl gets some respite as a nurse on the trains and frequently paints, but she finds herself most drawn to her new job as a train runner. The illegal job fills her with a fresh joie de vivre, charm, and an unbending survivalism as she winds the tracks to fantastic places. Along the way, her choices challenge and change her so that she becomes someone she could have never imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whispering Pine Press International, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781598085143

Kyler Hood

Author Kyler Hood hails from Spokane in the Pacific Northwest. He began writing fiction in a creative writing class in Florence, Italy and never stopped. He writes short stories, screen plays, and now, novellas. His latest work is a novella, Train Running. The setting of his novella is inspired by a visit to India for his sister’s wedding. Kyler also blogs and freelances for the Spokesman-Review, The Pacific Northwest Inlander, Red Alert Politics, Elance.com, Catalyst Magazine, and for Radio America when he worked as an editorial fellow for the National Journalism Center. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from the California College of the Arts in San Francisco and International Relations and Philosophy Bachelor of Arts degrees from Gonzaga University.

Book preview

Train Running

Kyler Hood

Published by:

Whispering Pine Press International, Inc.

Your Northwest Book Publishing Company

2510 North Pines Road, Suite 206, Sales Room

Spokane Valley, WA 99206-7636 USA

Phone: [phone] | Fax: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

Publisher Websites: www.WhisperingPinePress.com

www.WhisperingPinePressBookstore.com

Blog: www.WhisperingPinePressBlog.com

SAN 253-200X

Printed in the U.S.A.

Published by Whispering Pine Press International, Inc.

2510 North Pines Road, Suite 206, Sales Room

Spokane Valley, Washington 99206-7636 USA

Copyright © 2015 by Kyler Hood

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, including electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the publisher, Whispering Pine Press International, Inc.

For sales outside the United States, please contact the Whispering Pine Press International, Inc., International Sales Department.

Manufactured in the United States of America. This paper is acid-free and 100% chlorine free.

Book and Cover Design by Artistic Design Service, Inc.

Spokane Valley, WA 99206-7636 USA

www.ArtisticDesignService.com

Library of Congress Number (LCCN): 2014903628

Hood, Kyler

      Title: Train Running

      p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-930948-42-6       case bound

ISBN: 978-1-59808-507-5       perfect bound

ISBN: 978-1-59808-508-2       large print edition

ISBN: 978-1-59808-509-9       audio downloadable recording

ISBN: 978-1-59808-510-5       audio compact disc

ISBN: 978-1-59808-513-6       E-PDF

ISBN: 978-1-59808-514-3       E-PUB

ISBN: 978-1-59808-515-0       E-PRC

First Edition: April 2015

1. Suspense (Train Running) 1. Title

Dedications

To my family.

To my readers.

Prologue

Red, White, and Blue

Whore, my attacker belched, muttered my name, Mackenzie, Mackenzie, pulled my hair.

The Amtrak train was lurching, stopping or starting, I couldn’t be sure.

All I saw was the crack in the ceiling swimming like a Van Gogh or a Matisse.

It was the drug. Whatever he put in my coffee.

The light burned my eyes. I felt sticky.

I closed my eyes and pictured myself on the waterfront. Stars. It was beautiful.

He bit my nipple so it bled and punched me in the ribs.

I couldn’t speak. I rolled to the side and wondered what it felt like to die.

He wriggled his hips, his excitement dancing up my thigh and along each hip.

Fluid, like the way he did the worm, a floppy fish sort of break dance when everyone stood in line for train tickets.

The stunner display had sparked conversation.

How many times had it worked? I wondered.

I breathed, and braced myself to push away. But his excitement grew. His undulations slowed.

Die. Die. Die. went the voice inside my head.

Easy. Slow. Easy. Slow. said the man.

These actions all happened in a manner of minutes or seconds, but lines are nothing in these moments.

Or maybe not.

Reality hit.

A steady thu-thunk of wheels on rails. The scent of Febreeze and sweat.

Someone was outside the door.

Refreshments! a man called.

That triggered the memory part of my brain.

Dad asked for another cup of coffee.

Dad was bald and had polymyositis and Sjogren’s that hit him like the double Whammy’s he ate once a week at Dick’s in Spokane.

A hand covered my nose and mouth.

I thought of all those summer’s around Liberty Lake trying to get rid of hiccups either by a scare or a breathless minute with my sister Jett.

But this wasn’t fun. The stranger straddled me again. Almost. He fell back on my knee.

I breathed, a gust, and tried to worm away. But it was only a slight turn of my body.

The drug had wrecked me.

Like dad’s hips.

Was this the way one died? A jumble of life or maybe it was my neurons or maybe that was life. I hadn’t decided yet.

Stupid.

Or maybe I was remembering something. I made that my mission. To find what I didn’t know I was looking for. I clenched my eyelids.

The man fell back slowly and adjusted himself. We faced each other sideways.

We both had a mission.

But I had something important. It had to be. Coffee. With dad. A few days ago.

I want a red spaghetti strap dress with white trim, I had told him about my plans for the sister-sister shopping spree in Portland, Oregon, sans sales tax.

The man was tapping my forehead now.

Can’t control my eyes, I thought defiantly, surprising myself.

Dad had acted strangely about my shopping wish, staring down at his feet.

Look, the man said, repeating and slurring his words.

It’s raining, dad had said.

You’ll do this or, the man relished the pause.

Dad’s phone had rang, Hiya Jett,

Die, he said, yanking me by the hair.

Dad had laughed nervously, coughed, but father-daughter eyes collided—quarks flew, quasars spun.

I could see everything.

Jett and Raj, the high school exchange program guy were getting married.

How old are you? the man said,

Jett had a way to make chickenshit gold, but this was different.

The man traced his newfound knowledge, a sloppy 25 on my belly.

Mackenzie your table is available, said a pleasant voice over the intercom.

I tasted tears.

Train Running

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Publisher Page

Copyright Information

Dedications

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Confessions of a Train Runner

Acknowledgements

Whispering Pine Press International, Inc

About the Author

1

I returned to Bombay from two weeks of tourist indulgences to a sunny surprise.

Ay-ay-ay! a brother’s cry fueled drums and laughter. Red, purple, and gold saris shimmered. Arms and legs shook—cousins, grandmas, mommy, auntie—danced. Rupees twirled.

The wedding procession burst onto the street, stopping cars, drawing stares—a blue tangle blast with a hint of coriander. The Conductor met my eye for a moment. The tempo lurched forward faster and faster. My hand rattled to the beat of the drums. Sweat trickled down my face. My legs locked in step to the tempo. I was doing it. I rolled my shoulders, leaned in, out, eyes on me.

My heart throbbed to the beat. Alive. Free. Hell yeah.

The drums stopped. Where? Where? Heads wandered. People chattered. Cameras flashed.

But the momentum stopped like the wheels of the train car as it screeched into the train station behind us.

A man in great green pajamas stepped out of a nearby car.

The man’s cheekbones looked ashen. His eyes scanned the crowd slowly the way an old metronome searches for a pulse.

Something was not right.

The man, Rajeev Kumbhar, held his turban in one hand and twirled its peacock feather distractedly.

With a remarkable briskness for a 60-year-old lady, the Conductor moved with determination, grabbing relatives in the crowd, hooking and crooking them with her stout arms back into the hotel lobby adjacent the train station.

Refreshments! Refreshments! she clamored.

It was in this way Raj saved embarrassment. But the next day, I learned the complete absurdity of his reaction.

The Conductor disclosed the information to me after watching me at work painting a canvas of the train from the platform’s vantage. You should know painting was my life’s ambition, but being a nurse was my life, and I learned everything from the Conductor. She was my boss. A fresh Queen Arthur. She eyed me askance and approached me the way you might a handmaiden, greeting me in the perfunctory way, with a pat on the head and a reminder to be ready at the usual time in the Good Samaritan train car tomorrow.

I nodded.

But she stepped forward abruptly, unable to contain herself any longer.

I bet you want to do some more train running. Our going lingo for children’s medical care without the annoyance of government bureaucracy.

I kept quiet, I’d been overspendy on time and supplies lately, going far outside our service area.

But my silence only intensified her vehemence.

It’s the law I follow, she said, Ancient law you couldn’t possibly understand. You must, however, obey.

This time I nodded, and quickly inquired about the wedding party.

The jerk saved mention of the bride, the topic most important to me until the end of her report. Apparently, besides the 30 or so relatives, a North Korean man and two women, a Canadian and a Mexican, would attend dinner that evening, but I ought to Stay on track.

I cracked a malicious smile.

The Conductor diverted me with more trivial talk.

Finally I learned that my sister Jett suffered from a nasty intestinal bug that made her unable to eat, stand without getting dizzy, or shit in a controlled manner, so the wedding was postponed.

Perhaps I could turn this circumstance into an opportunity, I thought, but didn’t dare mention my intent.

2

A couple hours after my nap, more folks of the wedding party arrived from a stroll around the India Gate. The Conductor had her arm around an effeminate looking man with tawny skin, apparently the North Korean. They had cameras around their necks and a playful bounce in their stride the way children often do. The Conductor wore a musketeer hat and used a cane resembling a candy cane straight from the board game Candy Land. She didn’t look cute or virile, just stupid.

The groom, Rajeev Kumbhar, trailed them, carefully studying his notes from the day’s appointments with the various kingpins of the once and never wedding: the photographer, the florist, the musicians—he checked them off in his head, nerves a throttle, no doubt thirsty for cane juice to forget the accursed wedding bills multiplying like college loans.

I also learned from Rajeev’s half sister more about the darling Canadian, Janelle Havalier, who had been a good friend of Rajeev when he lived in New Mexico.

I had already met this darling, a nickname apparently given by Raj himself. When I visited my sister in Portland during my Unemployment Bog, I struck up a conversation with the Canadian about the usefulness of trains in India vs. the U.S when the Mexican interrupted.

While the Canadian stood tall and pale, the short Mexican had a Latin chica’s allure with a large rump roast and a body you wouldn’t call petite, but it certainly couldn’t be called fat either. Her green eyes shone with fury, yet they were