But I’m not willing to sell my soul for it.
Most of the individuals I’ve encountered are running from something. I find, more often than not, a lot of them allow pride to keep them from turning back. The people I meet along the way, I wonder what their families are like. Do they have a mother and father who miss them? The only person to miss me is Amara. If I return, I will forever be marked as damaged, consider me draped in a scarlet letter. I’m not even sure if I would be allowed to return at this point. I’m most likely excommunicated from them all. My name added to the list of the tainted, the damned, and the unredeemed.
Life on the rails hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned along the way. The biggest thing is to avoid the freight-only stations. Which is exactly what I didn’t do on this last catch and what landed me here in no man’s land. Catching out, as it’s called, is lifting a ride off a train. It takes a special skill of timing and balls of steel. While freight rides are safer than the passenger cars as far as getting caught, the necessities for life are harder to come by.
I was desperate to get out of St. Louis, so I hopped the first train I could, not paying attention to the cars. Now, I’m in the middle of nowhere at a freight yard waiting for another engine to roll in and take a load to another place of nothing. Eventually, I hope to land some place like New Orleans where I can easily walk from the freight yard to the passenger station and get back into the land of the living.
On a passenger train, if I’m smart, I can manage to get a full meal in my belly and even a shower. Never, ever sleeping in a guest quarter room because that will most certainly get me caught, I have learned the way to survive. Just borrow the unoccupied room long enough to refresh, reset, and then hide out closer to the caboose.
The last four years have been trial and error, successes and failures. I take notes from the people I meet along the way too. I try to avoid the gangs. As much as friendship, family, and loyalty all have their appeal, the cost to join isn’t something that appeals in the least bit to me. For a while, I spent some time with a small gang, but when I found out the cost to join, I simply couldn’t do it. Having sex with multiple people doesn’t appeal to me.
I long for what my life could have been but will never be.
As the rain pours down around me, my own sorrows consume me. Currently, I’m tucked under a tank car in the backend between the wheels. The rain can’t hit me from the sides like it was with the metal wheels sealing me in on both sides. The gravel and the tracks under me are far from comfortable, but there aren’t any other options here.
The office to the freight station is locked up, and there are only three tanker cars on the entire lot. This is one of the smaller stations I’ve rode through in my life on the streets, but like always, I’ll make it work. Given the state of things, the station isn’t manned but rather the conductors and engineers have a key for when they pass through.
My stomach growls as I fight off the hunger pains, readjusting my pack to better support my neck where it lays under my head. If I can manage an hour of dozing, I will be happy. My body has learned to live off adrenaline alone. I don’t want to fall into a deep sleep on the off chance a small train rolls through. Laying here with nothing to do but dwell on how bad my situation is doesn’t help the dark corner of my mind that tells me to give in. Really, what am I living for anyway? No one will miss me. It’s not like I can call Amara regularly. When was the last time I checked in? Three, maybe four months ago? Mentally, I try to sort out what day it is and when was the last time I touched base with my sister. My head begins to pound. In time, my eyes drift closed and the world stops turning for just a brief moment.
The vibrations wake me first, then I hear the sound of an approaching locomotive. In an instant, my blood begins to flow faster through my veins as my heartrate increases. Adrenaline fuels my every move as I get up from my hiding place and begin to watch the engine car roll in on the tracks beside me before coming to a stop.
Waiting.
Watching.
I assess the situation. One conductor and one engineer come off the train. The conductor walks the length of the locomotive, checking each boxcar while the engineer goes into the office of the station to check in. Over the years I’ve lived this hobo life, freight trains often run with either a single engineer or an engineer and conductor. Before advances in technology, on the older locomotives, a team of brakemen would also accompany the pair of leads for the massive machines. But now, it takes two, at most. On passenger trains, they have additional staff to keep the guests occupied, but as a train hopper, if I stay out of sight, then it doesn’t matter how much staff is on board.
Once the conductor finishes his cargo evaluation, I make my way to the locomotive. Knowing they are stopping here just to break and then continue on, I find a boxcar with no lock and make my way up and inside. Catching out, the term people like me use for catching a new ride. Inside the car, I see pallets of what looks like huge bags of dog food or rice. As I close the doors and reset them in place, I take a minute to let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the car. Carefully, I begin to move about the space. Climbing up and over, I aim for the back corner where I see a gap I can slide down into for the ride.
I’m about to slide down the top of the final pallet when I notice a movement in the dark shadows. Right as I begin to descend down the pallet to the floor below, the shadow moves and a set of wide eyes open, locking to mine.
Shock.
Fear.
Adrenaline courses through me as the body shifts in time for me to land and pin us both in the small space between the bags and the wall of the boxcar. The eyes blink in front of me as I try to size up my opponent. I’ve had to fight in the past, and while I’m not prone to violence, I will defend myself.
The figure is my height, brown eyes, plump lips against fair skin, and feminine features let me know the person before me is a woman.
“I—I—I…” she stutters, and I shake my head.
“Shh, the conductor will walk the train once more,” I whisper. Pushing at the pallets, I get nowhere, but I find some give on the bags to our left. I push on those gaining us a few precious inches more. Somehow, we both manage to sit side-by-side and lean against the bags.
Only when the train begins to move do I speak again. “I’m Talia,” I introduce.
“Katie,” she replies softly. Her tone is laced with fatigue and desperation, both of which I recognize in myself.
“Where are you from?”
She sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”
Well, it really doesn’t, she has a point, but who knows how long our ride will be; might as well spend time getting to know one another.
“Do you live like this?” she prompts, and I nod. “Are you alone?”
Again, I nod. I don’t really know what to say. I’m not the typical traveler.
“You don’t travel with others?”
I shrug. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” I try not to, but there are situations where it’s unavoidable.
She leans her head against the wall looking defeated. Everything in her demeanor screams she’s a rookie at this. Closing her eyes, she mutters to herself, “There’s no place like home.”
Oh honey, we are far from being in Oz, nowhere near Wonderland, and Prince Charming doesn’t exist, so there is no one coming in on a white horse to save the day.