powered over the landscape, was a sight to behold. As it rocked gently side to side with momentum, a smile momentarily broke through the stern gaze that Franco had cemented on his features. Each piston that pulled, every wheel that spun, the glorious machine was, in a word, magnificent. Ever so lightly brushing his fingertips over the steel surfaces, Franco showed the compassion he had for his beloved vehicle. He felt like a youngster again, witnessing its first breaths of life after being relegated to scrap, a feeling that he wished would not part ways with him until death saw fit.
As he proceeded around the carriage walkways, the thunderous roars became louder. Large plumes of steam billowed high into the air and dragged overhead with speed. The clattering of train tracks smoothly merged into the wise words from the past, words that were spoken by the only man Franco was willing to receive advice from. They patiently reminded him to treat the Gambler’s Den like a woman.
Give it the stick when it falls out of line; give affection when it behaves.
Franco’s grandfather was a man who ran on tradition and the old ways, including the archaic attitudes regarding the opposite sex. It was no wonder that his wife had left him. Still, his gravelly voice – slightly slurred by a ritualistic mid-afternoon vodka – brought comfort, just as much as they did when he was a child. Back then there was no greater mechanic. To the young Franco, there was no greater man.
‘I try, old man.’ Franco patted the carriage’s side affectionately, a weary sigh escaping. ‘I try.’
Postponement
Velencia was a once-thriving trading town, but like so many others in the region, when train tracks carved shorter routes from A to B, business slowed. For most, it was a sign that life was for living elsewhere. The most determined stayed behind until even they were convinced by the populace’s mass exodus.
Velencia deteriorated in time and eventually became abandoned. Empty businesses stood in Main Street and its residences dissolved into husks. The Sand Sea had swept in and began to erode the structures away, blistering paint and carving wood and brick alike. Large drifts piled in doorways and alleys, and over time layer upon layer of sand was deposited. Unlike Rustec, there was nobody to shift it away, leaving the town partially concealed by its environment.
When a dust-storm threatened from the north, there was no option but for Franco to request a diversion. A looming blanket of rust was seen far in advance over the horizon and all that could be done was to make haste to the nearest shelter, or the closest thing resembling one. The Gambler’s Den was still a couple of hours away from anything resembling a settlement, which made the decision easy. To be caught in the middle of nowhere by the large storm would be disastrous.
The lack of any natural formation to take shelter in – such as a gully, recess, or the like – was problematic. Exposed, the best-case scenario was that the train would have to be freed from a thick covering of sand to continue, but that was hilariously optimistic. Unlike a sandstorm, he clarified to the showgirls who asked the difference, a dust-storm normally carried much more violent winds. Franco had witnessed a good few of these first-hand and was right to secure the locomotive for its impact.
With no other option they would need to take refuge in the remains of Velencia.
When the Den pulled up to the broken platform that was, remarkably, still intact, everyone got to work. Large canvas covers were fastened around the train, protecting anywhere the sand could cause a nuisance. Already the breeze had picked up, attempting to wrestle them away into the air. The girls and even Franco himself bolted the ropes to the train’s frame tightly, double-checking for any signs of slackness before retreating inside.
Watching from one of the exposed windows, each of them observed a mass of orange plumes swarming in the distance. It hung silently, arching, almost motionless. Surrounding tumbleweed that dotted the landscape lurched sideways in unison, quickly consumed in quiet ferocity. Day descended to night, with the wind rattling though every air vent. Misu busied herself lighting the oil lamps, flooding the carriages with subdued illumination.
‘Best get comfortable, everybody,’ Franco proposed, relieving a bottle of red wine from a wall rack. Its cork was stubborn but not enough for someone with hours to kill. ‘It’s a nasty one out there. It looks like we might be a little late for our next show.’
Few spoke. It had been a while since they had seen a storm this large and violent; they knew between them that all that could be done was to wait it out. The suggestion was made to play cards to pass the time, a few of the girls partaking in a few hands while the time idled away. Victories were not cheered for fear of setting off the tinder atmosphere between the two most imposing presences in the room.
Hours trickled by, but whenever Franco suggested something new to pass the time, Misu loudly sighed, distracting herself with whatever was at hand. A coin. A coaster. Her fingernails. Everything held a sense of fascination when it competed with Franco’s voice, thanks to their quarrel. Sure, there were other cars she could retreat to, but that took effort and there was a risk of inadvertently bumping into that stowaway in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents.
The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting.
Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept.
Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather.
Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid.
* * *
As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence.
How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do.
Vehicles littered the yard too.
Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.
All
