The Tribe of Ishmael

By Heather Heffner

Ishmael Abajian has always been a play-by-the-rules kind of guy, so when he stows aboard a train to escape from dangerous pursuers, he figures his guardian angel will overlook it. Except each train car appears to represent one of the Seven Deadly Sins. And the demon conductor informs him that he is no longer alive, deepest condolences. Not to mention the accidentally-going-to-Hell part—tough break. Too bad there’s no better luck next time.

Now trapped in a dark authoritarian world embroiled in power struggles and dreams of liberation, Ishmael teams up with a girl who may-or-may-not be a murderer in order to recover their lost memories and escape. However, as a free soul condemned neither to Hell nor Paradise, Ishmael is something that some demons have been waiting for, while others will stop at nothing to destroy: change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Heffner
• Release date: Aug 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463442050

Heather Heffner

HEATHER HEFFNER was born in Seattle, Washington, where she grew up being dragged along on endless hikes by her well-meaning parents. Luckily, her brother was forced to come, too, and they ended up storytelling to entertain themselves. Heather's never given it up since, and now she can't think of anything better than imagining a thousand-page-long epic (and maybe even going for a hike, after).Heather is the author of the dark epic fantasy book, THE TRIBE OF ISHMAEL (Afterlife Chronicles #1), about a boy who accidentally boards a train bound to Hell, and the urban fantasy book, YEAR OF THE WOLF (Changeling Sisters #1), about a girl who faces off against supernatural evil in Seoul, South Korea. You can read all about her adventures, or more likely, misadventures, on her blog:https://heatherheffner.blogspot.com/

Book preview

Excerpt from Ishmael’s Letters

February 30th. Year of the Miser.

Sunday?

9:00 am. No, might as well say 11. I’m never up early on a Sunday.

I’m going to die someday.

I don’t know when I became particularly aware of this. I could have been five and heard about my grandparents passing away in faraway Armenia. I could have been nine and our fourth grade teacher broke down in the middle of class, struggling to get out the word cancer. We don’t know how it will happen. We don’t know when. We only know why. Our bodies are fleeting. Our time on this Earth will be as well.

I will always love my mother. Especially since the older I get, the more I realize just how crazy she was. For example, she never let me ride roller coasters. Chinar Abajian didn’t trust any man-made machine without a perfect safety record, which is probably why it took her forever to get anywhere.

She also believed in guardian angels. I blame Father Adonis of our third church, who convinced her that guardian angels follow us around, scribbling down our every misdeed, or Tweeting it for the amusement of the Heavenly Host. If you did dangerous things that threatened the sanctity of life, aka, pogo-sticking, then you threatened your chances of getting into heaven.

So how many dangerous things can you do before they won’t let you in? I’d asked. I’d fancied my guardian angel (who wore a Yankees cap and munched on a never-ending supply of candy corn) enjoyed the side adventures Mother didn’t know about: double-dipping on movies at the theater, trading a pair of her earrings for a baseball card, staying up past twelve on a school night. Yep, I was a badass.

She’d mussed my hair. When you become a monster, Ishmael. When you look in the mirror and don’t recognize yourself. Monsters don’t belong in heaven.

I didn’t ride a roller coaster until I was sixteen.

What my mother didn’t tell me was that things tend to come in pairs. We have Heaven and Hell. So it follows that there’d be guardian angels…and monsters. The kind who do the opposite of your guardian angel. The type who enjoy screwing up your hard work, who trip you right before you’re about to cross the finish line. It’s easier to destroy than to create.

Or so my own personal monster tells me now.

Prologue

-INCUS-

All aboard?

Check.

Even Cyprus? She got away from you last time, Incus.

Incus scowled. Just get this lot on the tracks, Ortio. I showed her to the compartment myself.

Ortio raised his hands. Alright, cool it, big guy! I’m just saying: they blame both of us if we don’t come through, you know?

Incus grabbed his scanner and clomped back toward the passenger cars. I’m already stuck here with you, what more could they do to me? he muttered.

Part I: The Train Ride

Here they were; the drunks and the sinners, the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time spenders, the skirt-chasers, and all the jolly crew. They knew where they were going, of course, but they didn't seem to give a damn.

-Robert Bloch, That Hell-Bound Train

Chapter 1: The Stowaway

-ISHMAEL-

I knew I shouldn’t have stowed aboard the train when I hit my head on the luggage rack.

My long arms propelled backwards like an octopus doing the backstroke, and I clocked an old Jewish lady over the head. The verbal tirade of seismic proportions, including: Can’t you see out of those squinty Arab eyes of yours? and Just because you’re as hairy as a donkey does not certify you as a bulldozer! was enough to knock me back to my feet, but there were more pressing problems to be had.

Excuse me! I called to the bustling train car. It was like trying to bring a bunch of pit bulls to attention. Has anyone seen a black case?

A case that’s black? someone mocked. Could you be more specific?

My temper strained. God, this train car was insufferably hot. It’s long, black, and it isn’t yours.

You looking for this?

The man speaking had a Brooklyn accent and a face that looked like a smashed sausage pizza. He might have been military personnel of some sort, judging from the arrow-straight collared shirt and his air of alertness, like that of a dog hungering against its leash. His boot rested on my slim black rifle case.

Yes. This looked bad.

The man leaned forward so his legs flanked my innocent luggage.

What’s a kid like you doing carrying a rifle case on board a train?

Dude, it’s none of your business—

He flashed me his badge. A detective. Off-duty. But keen as hell on making a Good Samaritan arrest.

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: Well, it was the only thing long enough to carry it—

"Is that a gun?" One redheaded girl near the window decided to fill in the blank for me. She would have been cute if she hadn’t been wearing a grimace of horror, as if witnessing the arrival of the Antichrist in olive-skinned, curly-haired form with a too-big shirt that said: "What part of don’t you understand?"

"Ohmygod, you don’t think he’s a terr— Jesus, he’s Middle Eastern-looking—"

Actually, I’m pretty dark for someone of Armenian background. My deep olive skin tone comes from my Italian father, a descendant of the southern Sicily region. I also inherited his green eyes like sea glass, which give me the look of a wise seer, according to my friends, or, from the unkinder ones, some blind dude. When I was younger, I used to feel guilty that I reminded my mother so much of him.

Hoping I struck the former, respected figure, I spread out my arms before whispers of the T-word, started. Please, guys. I don’t have a gun. That’s an early-century Hebrew clerical staff for my mother.

Everyone stared at me. Someone asked, The fuck is a clerical staff?

It’s a birthday present for my mother. She’s really into old church artifacts. Please don’t— It’s made of crystal, highly fragile!

The detective rattled the case around until the latch fell open.

Light rebounded within the staff’s crystal body and gleamed from the eyes of twin snake-things I called them, for lack of a better word—dragons, serpents, whatever—that wound around the headpiece, crafted of jade.

I’d been tracking the auction for a while. My mother could give the Catholic Church a run for its money with her obsession over religious artifacts. She inherited a scribe pen and ink holder from her mother in Armenia and has added a scarlet silk altar curtain, a chalice, and several bronze crucifixes to her collection since then. I knew she’d love the staff, particularly deciphering the Hebrew inscription the serpents guarded.

The detective reluctantly handed the staff over. Tell your mother happy birthday.

Tension leaked from the over-boiling hate pot, and I swear, people whistled through their teeth in disappointment.

There came a hiss from the front compartment door, and I jumped. I stood staring stupidly at the powerful man standing in the doorway: the conductor. Maybe the trouble started now.

The conductor was two times as wide as me and cast a shadow twice as long. However, there was more off about him than that. Those powerful arms wound down into spider-leg-thin fingers. His nose was too pointy. And his eyes, two blue pinpricks, jumped erratically over the glowing screen of the scanner he held, as if he were being shocked by electricity.

Not yet. I couldn’t get kicked off yet.

So it’s ticket collecting time, huh? My voice cracked during my chuckle. The detective cocked his head, a cloud of confusion descending over his face. Great. Was it possible to be any more suspicious? I headed for the back.

I didn’t have a clear plan of how I would stay aboard the train. Ideas jumbled around in my head, and I discarded them just as quickly. Stow away in the bathroom? Bad smell. Bribery? If the conductor was enough of a cheapskate to accept five bucks. Make a friend who could cover for me? Yeah, I had a likeable face. It was one that had been accused of terrorism, but hey, someone had to be feeling guilty over that.

And running. Running was always easiest.

Pretending not to notice the mean little eyes following every swing of my black rifle case, along with one’s hilarious wisecrack—Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out—I emerged from the car into cool, fresh air. Scratch the making friends part. God, what the fuck was wrong with those people?

It had to be my imagination. Rumor of a gun on any form of public transportation would spark some fear. Or, I thought, glancing toward the large brass W on the door, spark a fight with the people of Car W.

This was karma. Some people are on her radar, and some aren’t. Take my cousins: the twins Alessio and Aris. Alessio breaks into cars and leaves them in tow away zones for his brother to pick up. You’d be amazed at how much money they make off of it. Alessio’s specialty is Ferraris. The twins would never admit to the set-up, of course, but when you walk through the lot of A&A’s Big Toe, the sunlight bounces off enough butterfly doors to make a kaleidoscope. True to the family name, they love Italian cars. The worst thing that’s happened to them is being forced to share a Maserati after Aris crashed his into an ex-girlfriend’s house. Me, I catch a ride on earth-saving public transportation and nearly end up paying for it with my mother’s birthday present.

My name is Ishmael.

Chapter 2: What’s in a Name

-ISHMAEL-

I can still vividly recall the day the well-meaning welfare lady asked how my mother came up with my name. My eight-year-old self fidgeted in my too-tight shoes while my mother wrung her favorite hand-dyed shawl and told the wretched story of how I was the only good thing to come out of a decade-long abusive relationship with an Italian mobster. Her ticket to freedom, she called me.

After I was born, my father’s wife sent hitmen to kill us.

You might have thought my father’s wife had been childless; that had contributed to her Pharaoh-like pronouncement to hunt down the slut-on-the-side who’d stolen the honor of bearing the firstborn son. She wasn’t. But her child was a girl.

I’d just put my darling down in his window-side cradle. My mother’s voice lowered dramatically at this part. Years of rehearsal had honed her skill; she had the wide-eyed look of an innocent lamb, and her voice stirred the soul like that of a bottomless lake, promising that if you dove deep enough, you’d discover all of her secrets.

"The neighborhood was quiet for that time of night. Suddenly, a bright light flooded the bedroom. My little baby started crying. He didn’t like the light, so I took him into the kitchen. Then a car drove by and shot up the house.

Now. She delicately folded the pink shawl once, twice, and then draped it over her knee. She didn’t need to look up to know she had her audience hooked. "If we had been anywhere else but the kitchen…"

While the room was still cold with the welfare lady’s shivers, the Bible came out, and my mother asked the woman about her familiarity with the famous Abraham, forefather of the line of David. My mother is a fantastic actress. You couldn’t tell that her affair with religion had come about recently, upon escaping my father’s suffocating presence.

Do you know the first child born to Abraham? she demanded. No, it was not Isaac. It was Ishmael, begot by the slave girl Hagar. Abraham’s wife, the barren Sarah, was jealous of Hagar and sent her away into the wilderness. Hagar and her son might have perished, if an angel of the Lord had not appeared and told her that God had heard her prayers. She was not to fear: a great line would arise from Ishmael. And they found refuge and were saved.

She always hugged me very tightly at this point, and I smelled sharp citrus. She promised I would do great things one day. I would become a great line of my own. The welfare people got out their checkbooks. I puffed out my cheeks and blew at my curly hair, wondering if the next neighborhood we moved to would have a baseball field.

I know little about my father except his name, Basilio Maldini, or as he’s more commonly referred to, da Bas man by my cousins Alessio and Aris. It might be his real name; it might be one he fashioned for himself after a round of too many drinks the night of his initiation into the mob world. It means king in Italian, and he certainly has a frightening grip of control on all of his family and friends. Only my mother ever escaped by threatening to take me back to Armenia, where he could be certain never to lay eyes on his firstborn son again.

He plays the waiting game with her now, like an enormously fat tomcat gloatingly watching the mouse gorge itself on the decadent favors of American life, sniffing its way closer and closer back to the shadows. At his insistence, we have to suffer the presence of Alessio and Aris every third Sunday of the month for a family dinner, and less unpleasantly, hangouts with the daughter of da Bas man himself: Beatrice. I call her Bice for short.

Alessio and Aris are old hands at covering their shit-strewn trails, so my mother approves of my outings with my half-sister, hinting that the right information could be enough to end my father’s illegal activities—and him—for good. She doesn’t know that Bice and I stopped seeing each other as enemies a long time ago. The Bice I know is wild and unapologetic; she’s flared up at her father more than once and has the scars to prove it. However, if we mismatched siblings have any hope of escaping the domineering forces in our lives, then things have to be handled—smartly.

Like Sherlock Holmes smart. I remember her standing in the dim rain outside the club on the Hudson, her fingers shaking as she struggled to light her cigarette. Don’t fuck this up, Abajian.

I won’t. I just wonder…if I’ll have the chance, you know?

Bice didn’t know, cursing as she dropped the burning Muratti on her leather boot. The heavy winds blew her chestnut-colored hair sideways as she fumbled with the next pack.

I continued musing to myself: If I’ll have the chance to see our father’s face. My entire life, I’ve felt like I was running from a ghost.

Don’t—! Bice raised a finger at me, but was silenced as wind slapped hair across her face. Trust me, Iz. I’ve seen enough of him for both of us. Christ, my boobs are frozen! Weren’t we going to get shitfaced tonight? We’re doing a pretty crappy job of it.

I glanced toward the thrumming night club. Do you need money for a cab or anything?

You’re cutting out early? She stared at me in amazement.

I gestured helplessly. It’s my mother’s garden party tomorrow.

Your mother’s—

You know she’s been feeling under the weather lately. I shrugged. This will mean a lot to her.

Only the wind and I succeeded on leaving Bice speechless on a regular basis. To hell with that! All those girls in there and you’re thinking about your ma’s troop of nuns from church? Saggy Tits and the End Prophet?

Yes, they’ll be there. I smiled. I find experience and zealous premonitions of the end times exhilarating.

She looked at me for a moment, and then laughed so hard that she nearly spit out her cigarette. You’re one of a kind, Iz, she told me. This is why I’ve never been able to set you up with a girlfriend.

"Let’s see. Klara? Wanted to watch Jersey Shore. Mirabelle? Couldn’t locate Armenia on a map. Justine? Um…had very elaborate role plays she liked to act out…um…in the bedroom… I stopped as Bice began to snicker. You knew! God, the whinnying! It’s impossible for a girl to like horses that much!"

"I was running out of options! What, do you expect a woman out of Charlie’s Angels?"

Actually, I was thinking someone more along the lines of Anna Kravinoff.

Who?

I hurried on before she lost interest. "She’s a BBC journalist on the frontlines of the conflict between Palestine and Israel. She’s extremely insightful and diplomatic but always adds a touch of humor to her reports— She’s been on The Daily Show twice."

Bice poked me in the chest. You, Iz, are such a snob. Now come get one more drink with me so you can stop pretending you’re so much smarter than the rest of us.

By the time our empty glasses clinked on the bar, I knew Bice was in a bad way.

Already empty, and I can’t remember what it tastes like! She laughed and fiddled with the glass. Once we go through with this, it will be the same. We won’t remember how it was before. Everything will be forgotten in the night. A bad dream.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I gave her wrist a quick squeeze. And you’ll be free to come to church with us like my mother always wanted.

Her laughter hung over garbled conversation, the neon lights of the dance floor, and the musk of aftershave mixed with dreamy perfume. Thanks, Iz. How am I related to you again?

Well, for one, we look so much alike…

She favored me with another smile—a real one, not the big, fake ones she wears in public, sealed with apple-red lip gloss. It felt safe to leave her in the pulsing, multi-colored shadows of her techno kingdom.

I’d just slipped off the stool when her voice, suddenly sharp and cold, cut through the alcoholic haze: Ishmael.

Yes?

If anything goes wrong… Her finger wiped the lipstick stain off her glass. You have to run.

Chapter 3: The Seven Cars

-ISHMAEL-

I ran.

The next train car was an absolute furnace. I grabbed onto an overhanging rack to steady myself as I nearly tripped over sprawled legs and scattered luggage. It was strange to see so many people crammed into this one car, but maybe they knew how hospitable their neighbors were. Rows and rows of people slumped, their mouths dangling open like an orchestra of snoring catfish. One balding man stared at a quarter that had rolled away from him, his fingers outstretched as if willing the coin to float back into his hand.

Here you go.

The man’s eyelids fluttered as he accepted the quarter. He gave one intelligible mutter and then rolled over to go back to sleep. I glanced around uneasily. One man watched a fly land on his nose and crawl across his cheek. The woman next to him was attempting to braid her hair, but her fingers kept slipping away after the first weave. Across the way, a trio lay prostrate on self-reclining seats. Every one of them panted and stared at the closed window, longing but unwilling to open it. They all looked extremely unhealthy.

I licked my dry lips. I would have called the conductor about air conditioning if I wasn’t running away from him in the first place.

Hey. I got a few disinterested glances. Hey! I clapped my hands. There’s a car next door with more room, cooler air.

The man with the fly on his face gave a supreme yawn in my direction. I watched the fly enter it and turned away, disgusted.

Fine. Stay here. Suffocate. No reaction. An odd sensation crawled up my spine as I surveyed the lifeless car with its occupants slumped over their armrests like discarded dolls. I was too afraid to touch any of them, as if they would suddenly spring to life and attack me for disturbing their slumber. I wove in and out of the jumbled legs toward the next car. There was enough of a crowd in here to hide from the conductor, but I doubted I could feign a coma well enough to blend in.

A breath of cold air greeted me in the corridor, and I collapsed into it gratefully.

What had been wrong with those people? Why had they sat there without complaint, as if moving was worse than being boiled alive? Did the summer’s humidity have that much of a hold on the people of Car…S?

I glared at the brass letter labeling the door. I hated it when things didn’t go in alphabetical order.

I glanced out the window, my hand automatically reaching for the black-rimmed glasses I kept tucked in my pocket. In recent years, my eyesight has settled into a comfortable near-sighted range (I blame it on computer screens and the addicting Bioshock franchise). However, I didn’t have as bad of eyes as most, I supposed, because today, the brilliant sunshine illuminated rows of black skyscrapers perfectly.

Just as clearly, I could see the conductor in the neighboring snore-fest car, checking off passengers much too quickly.

I swung my sole luggage case up to my chest. I hugged it against my pounding heart once, twice, until the pressuring panic evaporated.

I would make it to my mother’s birthday today. I might be late. But I would make it.

When I opened my eyes, two birdlike old ladies stood before me. They looked so much like Saggy Tits and the End Prophet (damn Bice for refusing to acknowledge their real names—Mary? Miss Polliana Popindick? Good God, if her last name had been that, why’d we bother inventing a nickname?) that I wanted to hug them.

What are you standing there for, young man? Saggy Tits barked. She had the hearing aid. Is the dining car not open yet?

Erm— I might have answered, but their necks bobbed about so curiously that all I could imagine was a pair of talking geese. Then the dining car door slid open, and a heat wave of the most glorious smells rushed our senses.

The old ladies badgered through the crowd, and I marveled from behind: a huge log of Stromboli—pizza turnover dripping with cheese and pastrami juices—sat like a centerpiece between plates of calzones and Polish sausage, while salted pretzels and kebab turned on grease-stained skewers. The hot dogs were piled with so much onion that it made my eyes sting. Steam from the famous Manhattan clam chowder enveloped my face in a cloud as salty as the docks, and I smelled sizzling clam cakes hot off the fryer.

There was Waldorf salad, too, but Saggy Tits looked at me with such disdain that I added another Eggs Benedict to my plate. Then craned between elbows to grab some bratwurst; there were too many people swarming the buffet. No cashier! Meal price must have been included in the ticket. Now I knew I wouldn’t have been able to afford a ride on a fancy-pants train like this; the food wasn’t half-assed pop-a-can.

That was until I tried it.

It tasted like worms. The crispy bratwurst, the gooey Eggs Benedict, all of it—I got the impression of cold, wormy gunk slithering down my throat. I threw up in my mouth, felt my stomach clench, and then threw up again. Saggy Tits and the End Prophet might have helped, but they were too busy gorging themselves like it was the Last Supper.

Don’t eat the food, I muttered to the person behind me. It turned out to be the pretty redhead from Car W, come to grab a bite with her friends.

You’re funny. Everyone knows the food here is the best. She laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. But her skin was smooth porcelain and her eyes cornflower blue. I instantly backtracked on my no making friends policy.

Ladies? Would you care to join me?

I guess. It was said in an offhand tone, like she’d had nothing better to do anyways. Would you like to come to Switzerland with me? I guess. Would you mind giving me a blowjob? Might as well.

Her friends giggled. We all squeezed into a tiny booth together. I sat uncomfortably with a full plate of food in front of me, watching the girls dig in.

Are you, like, vegan or something? the chubby one asked me. This food is bomb.

Are you kidding me? It tastes like worms.

"Jezus. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I thought the redhead was directing the question at me, before I realized she was shaking her palm-sized pink phone toward the window with a vengeance. Still no reception! Who built this train? Cheap-ass Chinese sweatshop workers?

I started to retort that it could be the metal of the train that was preventing reception, not the laborer’s hard work, but I’ve managed to ostracize myself many times by coming off as a Know-It-All too early on. The cornflower blue eyes swung to me.

Sorry about believing you were a terrorist earlier, the girl said.

It’s okay.

My name is Holly.

Ishmael.

She stared some more. So your mother wanted a weird religious stick for her birthday? Are you like a Jew or something?

Not really like one, no.

You’re from India, another high-pitched girl surmised.

No.

Afghanistan?

Nope.

Brazil, the chubster said calmly, as if she had an eye for these sorts of things. I clicked my finger in her direction.

Bingo!

She nodded and went back to her meal.

Why are there so many old people here? the high-pitched friend complained. They always take forever to get their food.

And they’re such eyesores. I hope I die by age fifty, before I look like a canned prune— Damnit! Holly yelled, pounding the table as her cellphone refused to cooperate. She tossed it across the table, where it slid like a hockey puck to the very edge.

I saw it happen before it did. All of the other passengers had lapsed into blank, zombie stares, treading on shoes or fingers if it would get them a step closer to the beckoning Stromboli log. The End Prophet had just ducked beneath an elbow, quite an agile move for an old lady, and whacked Holly’s cellphone into a steaming cup of Seattle’s Best coffee.

Shit on a stick, the chubster mumbled.

What?

There’s a reason we call her ‘Hotheaded Holly’. Never within earshot.

To my astonishment, the End Prophet proceeded to drink the coffee, absorbed with licking up every last drop from the Styrofoam sides. She placed the cellphone-in-a-cup before Holly rather triumphantly.

Don’t put your things where they can get wet, dear.

One of Holly’s hands slowly closed around the destroyed cellphone. The other slapped the tray from the End Prophet’s hands, splashing Manhattan Chowder everywhere.

"Don’t put your face where it can get beat! Holly leaped up, shoving the frail Prophet. You think because you’re old you deserve a free pass? That was an eight-hundred-dollar phone you ruined!"

Saggy Tits continued to shove food into her mouth, completely ignoring her friend’s plight.

Hey, whoa there, I said. In her anger, Holly had scratched the phone’s screen and hadn’t even noticed. I tried reasoning. Look, she’s an elderly lady. She’s obviously not all there—

Even Alzheimer’s patients have bank accounts! Holly bellowed, an ugly red flush staining her cheeks. You’re paying for this!

Yes, yes. End Prophet lowered herself, knobby knees knocking, toward the red chowder stain. "Just need to eat…a little bit more… It’s so good." And she began to lick the chowder off the floor, giving contented burps now and again.

The high-pitched friend gave a shriek of eerie laughter that sounded like a jackdaw. Surprisingly, it did much to calm Holly, her lips curving up into an identically cruel grin.

Guess you didn’t need the tray after all, she said and then bumped the full coffee pot off the table. Screaming, the old woman toppled over, clutching scalded elbows.

I jumped as if the coffee had burned me as well. Something was breathing down my neck, and its breath was hot and carried the scent of rotten eggs, like sulfur. I turned to find the imperious conductor standing behind us, his eagle eyes ice blue. He looked mildly irritated.

Do we have a problem here, ladies?

Nothing that hasn’t been solved, conductor, Holly said satisfactorily.

I’m sure she would beg to differ, the conductor replied, helping the old woman up from the ground. There you go, ma’am. Take a seat. Now, sit here and enjoy the rest of your meal. As for you, he said, turning back to Holly, you will enjoy your meal as well—but in your own compartment. Allow me to escort you.

Holly looked for me, but I was already backing away, losing myself in the milling throng around the buffet. My breath came hard and fast as I stared at the people around me. Not one head turned toward the disturbance. Every single one, captivated with their greasy feasts.

The interweaving aromas arose in a great gust that blew across my face. It smelled of rot.

Gagging, I dashed blindly into the next car, and everything plunged into blackness. I was in a bunk bed car, and every curtain was drawn.

Hello? I stumbled through the car, trying to ignore the curtained moans and throaty grunts that vibrated with every bump in the tracks. One entwined pair smacked into my rifle case. I prepared myself for a sickening crack, but thankfully, the staff held its own.

A hairy hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. Stella, baby, that you back from the dining car? a deep voice purred. "I know you brought me something good to eat."

No sausages today, I managed, tearing my hand away. There goes my innocence, I thought, avoiding two flailing arms and a kissing couple to stagger into the next car.

Countless hungry eyes, narrowed and calculating like a cat’s, fixed on me.

Good afternoon, all. I made the fatal mistake of unzipping the case to check on the staff’s condition.

Where did you get that? one young man haughtily demanded, leaning closer to catch a glimpse of the jade serpents that emanated with a shimmering evergreen light.

I zipped the staff up and hugged it to me. There might be a lot of messed-up shit happening on this train, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose my mother’s birthday present to it. I did not like the way this man was eyeing my staff, his fingers unconsciously flexing like bird talons set on snatching their prey.

EBay, I lied, trying to slip past.

The man stood. Green’s my favorite color.

Bully for you. After four cars of crazy people, my patience was wearing thin.

It’s a beautiful staff. I bet you get lots of girls curious about it.

Well, it’s not all the staff.

Oh? Then you don’t need the staff, do you? I want it. You don’t deserve it.

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

It’s a really beautiful staff, the man repeated and took a step forward. The hungry cat look was in his eyes again. Abruptly, his flexed fingers swung up. Give it to me.

No. You stay the fuck away from me. All of you! I swung my finger around, but an absence of reason met me in every face. The only person anyone on this train was interested in listening to was themselves.

What is going on here? I don’t understand! I seized my head, attempting to wake up, but the clacking of the train only grew louder in my ears. I opened my eyes and spotted the conductor’s shadow looming in the sliding glass door.

I ran.

The train floor shrieked and moaned as it shuddered over the curvy tracks, and I struggled to keep my balance as I flew down the red velvet corridor, not daring to stop, not daring to make eye contact with anyone aboard this asylum. This was insane. I half-expected it to be a joke. I half-expected to sit up swearing and sweating back in my dorm room at CUNY Staten Island, except I wasn’t waking up. That scared me the most.

The familiar clomping echo of the conductor’s boots reached my ears. I gazed around desperately. I was near the back of the train now. There were only two compartments left: a private car to my left, and the caboose at the end.

The caboose gave me an eerie feeling. Its door slid back and forth of its own accord, and all I could see inside was blackness.

I can’t get off yet, I reminded myself. Some train for the permanently demented, no matter how bizarre, is not going to ruin that for me.

Then I ducked inside the private car.

Chapter 4: Riley Cyprus

-ISHMAEL-

The train had picked up speed. Now skyscrapers flashed by in a black blur. I wobbled my way over to a cushioned seat and collapsed gratefully. I was done running. I’d just have to take my chances and hope I’d ran far enough.

Two people shared the compartment with me. One was a red-haired child, who was one of the first kids I could remember seeing aboard, actually. He was sitting crisscross by the window and humming nonsensically to himself as he read a comic book. Spiderman. Nice. He didn’t look up.

The other was a girl around my age. She seemed rather sullen, but I supposed she might be pretty if she smiled. Her features were dark and pointy, her choppy hair brown, and she had flat, gray eyes that gave her an air of wintry aloofness. Her fingers tapped on the armrest in time to her music. She glanced over at my flushed skin and raised an eyebrow.

Rough crowd out there?

Yeah! I did a double take, unable to believe someone agreed with me. "Have you been in the other cars?"

Caught this train in Pittsburgh yesterday, the girl said. I decided they assign you a specific car for your own good. I could have stolen a wallet from any person in the Slug Car and they would have been too lazy to run after me. And the screamers from the front Haywire Car will keep you up all night.

Slug Car? Haywire?

I nicknamed all the cars. Those slugs up near the front literally never move. The haywire people in the car ahead erupt in tantrums so often I’m convinced they forgot their meds. Then there’s the Lovebirds, she said thoughtfully, and I coughed.

That’s putting it lightly.

She gave an amused smile. It should be kept G-rated for our young friend here.

The boy looked up from his comic with a benign grin, sunlight dancing in his red curls.

I grinned. Well, I’m glad I found the Normal Car. I’m Ishmael.

Riley.

Where are you headed, Riley?

She blinked so quickly I almost missed it, if I hadn’t seen that expression recently. It was the same puzzled expression the detective had worn when I’d mentioned tickets. However, the girl swiftly masked her confusion.

Whatever stop’s next, I suppose, she said, looking out the window. I just need to—get away from home for a while.

I gave a nervous chuckle. I know what you mean. Back in good old Brooklyn, I would have spent the summer wearing a fake scratchy mustache and selling croissants to tourists. I mean, can you blame me for leaving?

Riley gave an uncertain nod, and I got the feeling we’d both left home for very different reasons.

What about you? What’s your stop?

I was momentarily distracted as a shadow appeared in the cloudy glass door. Oh, erm, end of the line. Miami. Hey, would you do something for me?

Riley stared at me, wordless. I took a deep breath.

Would you hide me? I don’t have a ticket, you see.

No ticket? Riley repeated slowly.

Well, I had one, I lied. I’m sure the stub’s in here somewhere. I made a sorry show of searching my pockets. The little boy stopped reading to watch me.

I have money though! Five bucks. I can pay both of you for hiding me, I tried miserably. The door began to hiss open.

His hand, the boy said suddenly.

What? I demanded, but Riley shoved me down. Quick! Into my luggage compartment!

The latch slapped down on top of me just as the door slid back. Black boots marched into the room and halted, blowing a sulfurous cloud in my face. I held my breath.

Car P. We have a Miss Riley Cyprus present?

Yes.

Excellent. I heard the beep of the scanner. I see our guest of honor is here as well. Little X.

The boy’s red converses waggled an affirmation.

Well, we shouldn’t be much longer until our final destination. We’re making great time, the conductor said, turning to leave.

Excuse me, sir. I’d like to check if my friend’s boarded yet, Riley said suddenly, and I cursed under my breath. What was she up to?

Of course. Your friend’s name?

Erm—Ishmael.

The conductor didn’t even skip a beat. No, I’m afraid he must have missed the train, Miss Cyprus.

Oh. He was supposed to have boarded at the last stop.

New York? Well, we picked up quite a few there, but I am certain no Ishmael was expected. Good day to you. And he was gone.

I immediately scrambled out from the luggage compartment, my ears ringing. Why would you ask him that? Now his suspicions will be up—

Did you see that? Riley cut me off. He didn’t ask for a last name. Didn’t check the scanner list at all. Very interesting.

Whacked. It’s like he had the entire passenger list memorized. I looked at the boy. Why is a kid called X anyway?

The little boy hid behind his comic, snickering. Your hand, he said again.

I examined both of them. A little scraped up, but that was normal. Then I turned them palm-side up and jumped. There, on my left hand, was an ominous red spot.

"What is that?" I whispered. It was a perfect crimson circle, like a hardened ink blot. I couldn’t recall ever seeing it before.

As I said, it’s all very interesting, Riley replied. She hesitated. Yet right now…I’m more afraid of what ours mean.

Two palms flipped up toward me. On the boy’s palm, glistening in the same scarlet ink, was an elegant 665. Riley’s was a 666.

Chapter 5: Food Fight

-INCUS-

What did she say?

Something about a friend of hers expected to catch the train. An Ishmael. Incus flipped ash out the window, gnashing his teeth. These cigarettes were a waste. They went out with one drag.

And there’s no Ishmael we were supposed to pick up?

No, Ortio. Hell. He’s probably some guy she expected to meet up with. Maybe someday she will. If he’s involved with Cyprus, he’s bound to be living dangerously, Incus replied, grinning.

I don’t like it.

You don’t like it because it was Cyprus who brought it up. If it were any of that lot in Car S, you wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

Ortio was unconvinced. I’m taking the speed up another notch, just in case.

***

-ISHMAEL-

I stood with arms folded and watched Riley scrub at the sink.

It’s not going to come off, she said again.

Let me. Impatient, I shoved her out of the way and began rinsing that queer red spot. It leered back at me through the soap suds. If anything, the hot water caused it to expand and harden.

Riley watched pityingly. Ishmael, if this was a prank we decided to play on you, then what would be the point of it?

I looked at her stone-serious face. It was true; Riley didn’t seem the practical jokester type. I just don’t understand how it got there, I muttered. I must have hurt my hand—

HEY! Someone thumped on the bathroom door. How long does it take to squeeze one out? Shit your pants on your own time; you’ve got a line out here!

One of the Haywires escaped again, Riley remarked, rolling her eyes. Look, you want proof the kid and I aren’t playing some joke on you? We aren’t the only ones with marked hands. Watch closely.

A six-foot-tall police officer stared down his nose at us, his eyes masked behind sunglasses even though we were inside. I tried to warn Riley to book it, remembering my last run-in with law enforcement with a wince, but she boldly grabbed the man’s hand and flashed it palm-side up. I saw the scarlet 610.

You’ve got one second to release me, young woman, the officer barked. To my shock, I realized the man had been allowed onboard with a wickedly gleaming Taser.

Aww, leave the cute couple alone, the woman behind cooed, who seemed to think it was bikini season. They obviously wanted a private spot to get cozy. She smoothed her hip-length sarong in our direction suggestively.

Sorry we couldn’t include you, Riley said to the officer with a perfectly straight face, and it was enough for him to pull up in shock. Fighting a smirk, I grabbed her hand and dragged her into the safety of the dining car.

I never told you thanks for hiding me. I hesitated. And now since there seems to be an awful lot of dislikeable people aboard this train, I’m glad I found one of the few trustworthy ones.

Riley snorted, grabbing a ham sandwich. Now remember: you’ve got nothing but a dot on your hand while the rest of us are labeled like cattle. I mean to find out why. Do you want anything?

Definitely not. I watched her chew, trying to blank out the cold, wormy crunch from my mind. Doesn’t that taste…different to you?

Listen, I’m not picky, rich boy, she said, but she talked mostly to the sandwich. Haven’t had a proper meal for a while now, so I don’t care if it’s spam.

You think I’m rich?

Who else carries around a jeweled scepter thingy? Unless you’ve got a thing for medieval conventions…

My face grew warm. The staff was currently locked securely in her luggage compartment, but it was still more trouble than it was worth. It’s for my mother. I guess you could say I have the choice to be rich…if I do my father’s way of things. But…

It’s your mother you bought the birthday present for. She took a particularly vicious bite of her sandwich. There’s always a parent you were born to oppose. Take my father, for example. If he were here, he’d be taking this 666 a lot less calmly than you.

Well, it’s just a number. I felt a trifle of unease. X and the rest of the passengers are, ah, branded, too.

"Not with a 666. It’s the devil’s number, you know. Father read me the exact phrase in the Bible: ‘His number is six hundred threescore and six.’ Book of Revelation."

I snorted. So? It’s not like you’re invoking the devil or anything.

In the verse, it states that 666 is the devil’s name in number form. Those who bear it have sold their souls to him. Riley gave a soft laugh. Revelation isn’t something you’d expect a young American girl to know a lot about, is it?

Your dad was a pastor?

"Practically the pastor. My hometown would disappear in your neighborhood." Riley offered me another small smile. I saw her eyes drift to my palm, and I held it up, wondering.

Can’t make out a number, Riley said, frowning.

Well, I was never meant to be aboard this train, I said, turning the spot so it hit the light. I just slipped on.

There was silence, and I realized Riley had frozen.

Ishmael, help me out here, she whispered. What do you remember about boarding?

I was on a platform. It was night. Lots of people were standing around, so I knew a train had to be coming soon. When the train came, it was odd; everyone seemed to ignore it. No one got off; just a group down the way got on. A door opened before me, however. I was in a hurry to get out of New York, so I took it.

He watched me leave.

I shook the thought away. That was a dark and unpleasant memory I didn’t care to face right now. I found myself with your Haywires and was trying to get settled when the conductor showed up.

Well, Riley said slowly, I suppose there’s no hiding this any longer… Ishmael, none of us aboard, not the little boy nor myself, have tickets for this train. In fact, Ishmael, I can’t remember how I came to be aboard this train at all.

I stared at her. I thought I’d found someone to help me out of this crazy mess. Now it seemed like she needed help much more than I did. Special help.

At the same time, I remembered how the detective had worn the same baffled look as Riley when I’d mentioned tickets. I couldn’t deny that something bizarre was going on. The peculiarities of the passengers, the organization of the cars, the mysterious red marks…

I woke up in a hotel and knew I had a train to catch. Riley continued, looking at me helplessly. I came to the station and there it was, waiting for me. I got on and didn’t question it, any of it, really, until you burst into my car and started blabbing about paying for a ticket and where your next stop was. I told myself to play it cool, to not let anything show, while all the while realizing those were questions I didn’t know the answers to.

When did you notice the red mark on your hand?

After the last stop. Riley looked at me, flat-eyed. It gets bigger all the time.

I swallowed. I wanted to laugh at her mysterious compulsion to board the train. However, more was stopping me from fleeing Riley’s side. The conductor hadn’t asked for a ticket. He’d addressed Riley by name, off a pre-determined list… Hadn’t he dismissed the possibility of an Ishmael being onboard without a glance at his scanner?

I don’t think you should eat the food, I said, shoving the plate away.

Riley looked at me calculatingly. You think something’s in it?

I think there’s something going on, and we can’t trust anything aboard this train, that’s for sure. Since they weren’t expecting me, we’re gonna trust my judgment. I nodded toward the sandwich. It tastes like worms anyway.

Riley blinked, and then her face smoothed over. I got the impression she didn’t like being surprised. She gave a casual nod over my shoulder. That ugly guy’s been watching us.

I turned, catching a glimpse of a familiar pizza-smashed face before a badge blinded the hell out of my eyes. Oh shit, I groaned.

You know this guy?

He doesn’t like me and has sausage breath.

She snickered. He’ll fit right in with this lot.

The detective plopped down and helped himself to Riley’s chowder. MmmmMMM! Damn, that’s good! So, boy, looks like you aren’t a weird loner after all. Got yourself a lady friend. Well, you can let her know I saved your ass. You owe me.

For what, exactly? I watched several dribbles trickle down his stubbly chin.

The detective shrugged. "Might have noticed you fleeing the scene back in Car W—or fleeing from someone in particular. I covered for you. Did a damn good job of convincing the conductor you were my grandson; he completely believed such a horse’s ass would lose his ticket."

I think he just insulted me, I muttered to Riley.

She gave a grim smile, which looked more like a leering of teeth as she leaned across the table. Listen, old fart: we know you didn’t convince the conductor of anything. None of us have tickets.

I knew that. The detective leaned back to examine her and put his boots up on the table. He didn’t. Can you blame me for trying to milk more out of him?

I’d be pretty desperate for info, too, if I realized I had a number on my hand that wouldn’t come off, I said pleasantly.

"Finally caught on about our marked palms, did you? Too bad your cute remarks won’t help you when it happens."

I exchanged troubled glances with Riley. When what happens?

SYSTEMATIC EXTERMINATION! the detective roared, pounding a fist on the table. This is an Islamic plot, funded by the Chinese government. They’ve compiled a list of America’s best and brightest, he said, waving his 667 in our faces, and they’re hustling us off train by train to the border. Once we’re in Mexico, they’ll be able to do anything to us!

Riley hunkered forward. "The one problem with that: they labeled you. How did you earn that badge again?"

The Brooklyn detective glared at her. I’m starting to think you’re on his side.

She shrugged, and I felt a sudden surge of warmth toward this strange girl staring down my former carmate. She’d no reason to stand beside me. I couldn’t give her answers about the odd train or the red mark. In fact, it was inviting danger into her life to hide a stowaway, and yet she’d taken the risk. She reminded me a bit of Bice, actually, and of how much safer I felt knowing someone had my back.

These kids giving you trouble, Detective? someone yapped in my ear. Wincing, I turned to find the police officer who’d accosted us outside the bathroom stall earlier, standing with tray in one hand and butter knife in the other. He loomed over the detective like an over-protective mother bear. One military man always looks out for another.

Come off it, I