We bought tickets on the Valley Steam-Comet, which left St. Charles at noon. We’d pass through Santa Fe at nine this evening, then on to Deming and end up in Tucson at eight tomorrow morning. Malachi and I bought tickets to a private compartment while Hermosa paid for a berth in the women’s Pullman.
I looked out the window, fascinated by the vista as we rolled south, amazed at how the region looked a hundred years before my birth. My mind’s eye stuttered as if I was watching scenes unfold from The Time Machine. What I knew as Interstate 25 became the Valley Highway, then State Highway 1, then the valley road, then the Ute Trail.
I had bought a couple of gazettes to help fill in the blanks about what had happened to the United States that I knew. The big change was that the Civil War had dragged into a stalemate, which bankrupted both the North and the South, and ended with the Armistice of 1866. The war-weary and impoverished Union fell apart. Texas left the Confederacy to become its own sovereign republic (again). California had split in two, the northern part joining Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, British Columbia, and Yukon to form Cascadia. The New Mexico territory also divided in two, the northern part naming itself Mogollon, the southern, Arizona. Likewise, Mexico had broken into pieces. Sonora and Baja California joined Mogollon, Arizona, Southern California, and Nevada to create a new nation in the southwest: Aztlan.
Besides reflecting on how much the political landscape had changed, I thought much about my situation as a vampire. Chief Flaco had cautioned about revealing my undead self to others. The problem was that here, unlike in the other world, my companions were human. I had to be more cautious. I couldn’t remember if I had asked the chief if the Araneum existed here. Or maybe I had and he answered, but that detail didn’t stick in my mescal-addled head.
Malachi sat opposite me in the compartment, munching on a sandwich and drinking coffee he poured from a vacuum flask. He had offered to buy me a meal from the diner car, but I was still full from last night’s blood meal so I declined.
I did accept a cup of coffee and it rested in my hand, as warm as the camaraderie I shared with my friend. Hopefully, if the day arrived that I had to reveal my vampiric side to him—and Hermosa—the news wouldn’t affect our friendship. When the coffee turned cold, I dumped the brew out the window and returned the cup to Malachi.
He finished his sandwich and tossed its newspaper wrapper into a small trashcan. After whisking crumbs from his mustache, he dug into his coat pocket and flipped a large coin to me. I snatched it from the air.
He said, “I’ll bet you this. We’ll run into trouble before the night’s done.”
The coin was a silver dollar. “You know something I don’t?”
“If I noted anything worthy of my attention, you think I’d be in here talking to you?” He stretched his long legs across the floor. “Consider it a professional hunch adjusted for the law of averages.”
“All right. Why not?” I pocketed the coin. “But if something does happen, it’ll be me who gets us out of trouble.”
“Deal.” Malachi lit himself a stogie.
The door slid open and Hermosa scooted into the compartment. Without asking, she plopped beside me.
“I thought you wanted time alone,” Malachi said. “Catch up on some reading.”
“That was the idea,” she replied. “Until one of the girls in the sleeper car decided to entertain a man in her berth.”
“Can’t fault a couple for seeking true love,” he said.
“Love had nothing to do with it. She was charging him two bucks. Said she’d split an extra three if I joined in. No thanks,” she added with a sneer of disgust.
The train paused in Castle Rock, then Colorado City, Pueblo, and Trinidad. At each stop Malachi and I left the compartment to stand in our car’s vestibule and survey the people milling outside. A few passengers disembarked, others climbed on. Hermosa mingled her way through the other cars to troll for gossip. In the afternoon our train finally began the climb to Raton Pass, Malachi and I returning to our compartment, Hermosa remaining at large.
A spur curved away from the mainline. Armored cars on the tracks pointed the long, slender barrels of rifle cannon at the sky over the border with Aztlan. A placard on the closest car read: U.S. Army, 11th Anti-Airship Artillery Brigade. If it flies, it dies. Apparently, relations between the U.S. and our neighbors to the south weren’t always cordial.
As we rolled into the train station at the top of the mesa, we passed a large sign that welcomed us to the nation of Aztlan and the state of Mogollon. In English and Spanish the sign advised us to have visas or passports ready.
A jolt of concern made me sit up straight. I had neither. Malachi reached into his coat and removed his billfold. He plucked a five-dollar note, creased it lengthwise, and held it between his fingers. He raised an eyebrow at me, seeming to ask, What are you waiting for?
I followed his example. The train eased to a halt at the station. Soldiers in khaki uniforms climbed aboard. Their red armbands read Customs—Aduana in embroidered gold letters.
Since Raton Pass was but an entry point, not many passengers left the train. Outside the windows, vendors hustled food and drink.
Heavy steps tramped down the aisle to our door, and it was whisked open. One of the customs soldiers—a sergeant judging by the chevrons on his sleeve—leaned in, a thin mustache decorating his wide, dark face. “Papers, please.”
Malachi raised his hand, and the sergeant plucked the bill. I extended my hand, and the soldier helped himself.
“What is your final destination?” He slipped the money into a tunic pocket.
“Tucson,” Malachi said.
“And the nature of your trip?”
“Business.”
“Ah well,” the sergeant said. He fished two business cards from another pocket and gave one to Malachi and one to me. “At one point in every business trip, a man must allow himself a little pleasure.” He saluted, said, “Enjoy your stay in Aztlan,” and withdrew from the compartment, sliding the door closed.
The card read:
Doña Juanita’s Parlor of Refinement
42 Grand Avenue, City of Tucson, State of Arizona
Music. Refreshments. Beautiful girls.
This card good for one intimate handshake
or as credit toward the procurement of other entertainment.
The reverse provided the same message in Spanish. Malachi gave his card to me. “The wife wouldn’t be pleased,” he said.
We continued to Santa Fe. As I had done in Colorado—rather, the West Kansas Territories—I compared the landscape to what I remembered from the future. With only the occasional settlement astride meager dirt trails, the high desert looked more desolate than I recalled.
In the late afternoon I headed alone to the vestibule at the end of our railcar. The car behind us bucked and strained at its coupling. The wind slapped my clothing, and I screwed my hat tight on my head. I watched the sunset over the ragged llano, awed by the beauty, and the fact that I was alive in such strange circumstances.
The door opened, and Hermosa joined me on the vestibule.
“Don’t tell me,” I raised my voice to be heard over the clack of wheels, “your amorous friend in the sleeper car has another appointment.”
“She’s quite the entrepreneur,” Hermosa replied. “And noisy. Here I thought by getting a private berth I’d be getting some rest.”
I made room for her against the railing. We stood side-by-side and admired the changing view. The sun settled below the horizon and its wake of orange clouds darkened to red, then purple. Sparks from the locomotive stack zipped through the twilight.
Hermosa lifted my arm and wrapped hers around my waist. She pressed her head against my shoulder. “Romantic, isn’t it?”
I had to admit that it was. The swaying of the train, the aroma of sage mixed with the smell of burning coal, an adventure calling me forward, a beautiful woman leaning her warm body against mine.
But it was Hermosa, and a small voice beneath the swell of emotion whispered, Beware. Beware.
She removed pins from her hat and whisked it off. Strands of hair fluttered in the breeze. “It’s been a long time, Felix,” she said, in segue to what I knew would be the start of a lot of bad decisions on my part.
“We’ve done this before,” she said. “You. Me. On the train.”
“I’m sure we have.”
“What do you mean? You say that like you don’t remember.”
That was true. I didn’t remember.
She pivoted and brushed her hips against mine. “We did it like this. Outside, just like now.” Her hat gripped tight, she leaned over the railing, her dark tresses swirling like smoke from a fire. “I held onto the railing and you held onto me.” She yelled so I could hear her over the clatter of the train. “We were so naughty. So wicked.”
“You were complaining about your bunk mate’s lack of decorum,” I said.
“That is different,” Hermosa rubbed her butt against my thigh. “This is about me.”
The smart thing would’ve been to spin her around and interrogate her about her true intensions, but Hermosa’s charms smothered that small voice of caution.
She teased that fine rump against my crotch. When I leaned over her to scoop her in my arms, she guided my hands to her breasts, though they were well packaged inside layers of clothing. I nuzzled her neck and inhaled the delirious fragrance of sandalwood, lilac, and vanilla. My hands roamed down her side and gathered her skirt.
“Okay, love birds,” a voice menaced. “Freeze.”
My hands remained where they had been fumbling with Hermosa’s drawers. Slowly, I turned my head.
A man clung to the outside of the railing on the other side of the vestibule. He hadn’t arrived through the door or jumped from the car behind us. The only way he could’ve reached that spot was by inching his way along the outside of the train. The ballsy effort of an acrobat—a sniff confirmed a lupine odor—or a werewolf.
The wind buffeted his coat’s lapels and the brim of his hat. Keeping a large Colt revolver trained on us, he climbed over the railing and growled, “Tell me what you did with Cicatriz.”