Night fell, and the world turned white.
The Behemoth chewed up the tracks, climbing higher into the Cascade Mountains. The blizzard outside was blinding—a wall of horizontal snow that slammed against the armored glass.
Inside, the train was a warm, vibrating womb of noise. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. The rhythm was hypnotic.
Jason walked through the cars. He checked the map room.
Albert Einstein was asleep, his face pressed against a topographical chart of Snoqualmie Pass. He looked fragile. An old man in a tweed suit, dreaming of equations while riding a bullet through hell.
Jason gently covered him with a blanket.
"Rest, Professor," Jason whispered. "We need your brain in the morning."
He moved to the dining car. It was empty, save for O'Malley, who was cleaning his shotgun by the light of a chemical lantern.
"Quiet night," O'Malley muttered.
"Too quiet," Jason said, pouring himself a cup of stale, black coffee. "The Timber Barons blocked the road. They know we're here. They won't just let us pass."
CRASH.
Glass exploded.
A harpoon—heavy, rusted iron with a chain attached—smashed through the dining car window. It embedded itself in the table, inches from Jason's coffee cup.
"Contact!" O'Malley roared, flipping the table for cover.
Outside, in the swirling snow, shadows were moving.
Running parallel to their track was a secondary line—a narrow-gauge logging rail.
Emerging from the blizzard were machines.
"Log-Walkers!" Jason yelled.
They were crude mechs. Steam-powered, two-legged walkers designed for forestry. They were open-cockpit, driven by men in heavy flannel coats and steel masks.
But they weren't carrying logs. Their manipulator arms had been fitted with massive, spinning circular saw blades.
ZZZZZ-ZZZZZ.
The sound of the saws cut through the wind.
Another harpoon smashed through the window. Then another.
The chains went taut.
"They're grappling us!" Jason drew his pistol. "They're trying to slow us down!"
THUMP. THUMP.
Heavy boots landed on the roof.
"Boarders!" Hemingway's voice crackled over the intercom. "Roof hatch! We have boarders!"
Men were zip-lining from the mechs onto the top of the train.
"Hold them off!" Jason ordered. "I'm going up!"
"Don't be an idiot!" O'Malley grabbed him. "You'll freeze or get sliced!"
"If they breach the engine, we stop," Jason broke free. "And if we stop, we die."
Jason kicked open the rear door of the car. The cold hit him like a physical blow.
He climbed the ladder to the roof.
The wind was screaming. It threatened to rip him off the train.
Ahead, on the slick, icy roof of the map car, Hemingway was fighting.
The old writer stood wide-legged against the gale. He held his shotgun in one hand and a machete in the other.
Three boarders—Timber Barons in fur coats and welding masks—charged him with chainsaws.
BLAM.
Hemingway fired. The lead boarder took the blast in the chest and flew off the train, disappearing into the gorge below.
"Come on, you bastards!" Hemingway roared, laughing. "Is that all you got?"
A second boarder swung his chainsaw. Hemingway parried with the machete—sparks flew—and kicked the man in the knee. The boarder slipped on the ice and slid off the edge.
Jason pulled himself onto the roof. He raised his pistol.
He fired at the third man. The boarder dropped.
"Nice shot, kid!" Hemingway yelled over the wind. "But we have a problem!"
He pointed to the side.
A massive Log-Walker mech had grabbed the side of the engine car. Its hydraulic claw was clamped onto the window frame.
It wasn't letting go.
The mech was heavy—ten tons of iron. It dug its feet into the parallel track, acting as a brake.
The Behemoth groaned. The speed dropped.
80 MPH. 70. 60.
"We're losing momentum!" Hughes screamed from the engine room. "The drag is too high! We're gonna stall on the incline!"
Jason looked at the mech. The pilot was safe behind a cage of steel mesh.
"I can't hit him!" Jason yelled. "The cage is bulletproof!"
The mech raised its other arm. The circular saw spun up. It lowered the blade toward the engine coupling.
"He's going to cut the train in half!" O'Malley shouted, climbing up behind Jason.
Suddenly, the side door of the engine car flew open.
A black shape stepped out.
Gates.
The iron giant didn't climb. He walked. His magnetic feet locked onto the swaying stairs.
He looked at the mech.
The pilot inside the Log-Walker revved his saw. He swung the blade at Gates.
Gates didn't dodge. He caught the arm.
SCREEEEEE.
The saw blade ground against Gates's iron palm. Sparks showered the snow. Gates's hand didn't cut. It clamped.
The hydraulic servos in Gates's arm whined.
He pulled.
Metal screamed. Bolts popped.
With a terrifying CRACK, Gates ripped the saw arm off the mech.
He tossed the spinning blade into the gorge.
The pilot froze.
Gates reached out with his other hand. He grabbed the pilot's cage.
He squeezed.
The steel mesh crumpled like aluminum foil. The pilot screamed as the cage collapsed inward.
Gates shoved the broken mech away.
It tumbled off the tracks, crashing down the mountainside in a ball of fire.
The drag released.
The Behemoth surged forward, regaining speed.
Gates stepped back inside the train and slammed the door.
"Jesus," O'Malley whispered. "That's not a soldier. That's a trash compactor."
Jason climbed back down the ladder, shivering violently. He tumbled into the warm car.
"We're clear!" Jason gasped.
"No," Einstein's voice came over the speaker. It was panicked. "Jason! The map! The bridge!"
Jason ran to the map room. Einstein was awake, pointing at a red circle on the chart.
"Snoqualmie Pass Trestle," Einstein said. "My calculations... the bridge is gone."
"Gone?"
"The Timber Barons blew it," Einstein said. "Look!"
Jason ran to the front window.
Through the blizzard, he saw the gap.
The massive steel trestle spanning the gorge had a hole in the middle. A fifty-foot section of track was missing.
Below was a thousand-foot drop into darkness.
"Brakes!" Jason yelled.
"Brakes are gone!" Hughes screamed. "The ice! We're sliding!"
"We have to jump it," Jason said.
"Jump?" Einstein looked at his slide rule. "At this speed? With this weight? Impossible. We will fall short by ten meters."
"Ten meters," Jason muttered. "How much weight is that?"
"Five tons," Einstein said. "Give or take."
Jason looked at the train manifest.
"The caboose," Jason said. "The armored car. It weighs six tons."
"Drop it," Jason ordered. "Uncouple the caboose!"
"Wait!" O'Malley grabbed his arm. "Hemingway is back there! He went back for ammo!"
Jason froze.
He grabbed the intercom. "Ernest! Get out of there! Get to the main car!"
Static. Then Hemingway's voice. Breathless.
"I'm a little busy, kid! There's three of them on the hatch! I'm pinned down!"
"Ernest, run!" Jason screamed. "We have to drop the car!"
"If I open the door, they get in!" Hemingway yelled. "Just jump the damn train! I'll hold them off!"
"We can't jump with you attached!" Jason shouted. "You're too heavy!"
Silence on the line.
Then Hemingway laughed. A dry, calm chuckle.
"Too heavy, huh? Story of my life."
"Ernest—"
"Cut me loose, Jason. Make the jump."
"No!" Jason grabbed the release lever. But he couldn't pull it. His hand shook.
"I can't do it," Jason whispered. "I won't leave you."
A metal hand reached over his shoulder.
Gates.
"PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL INCREASED TO 99%," the machine said.
"Don't!" Jason yelled.
Gates didn't hesitate. He shoved Jason into the wall.
The iron hand grabbed the lever.
CLUNK.
The coupling released.
The train shuddered as the weight dropped.
Jason scrambled to the rear window.
He watched the caboose drift away. It slowed down on the tracks.
On the roof of the detached car, he saw Hemingway. The old writer stood up. He racked his shotgun. Three Timber Barons were climbing toward him.
Hemingway raised a flask to the departing train. Then he turned to face the enemy.
The Behemoth hit the ramp.
The engine roared. The wheels left the track.
For a second, they were flying. Seventy tons of iron sailing through the snowy void.
The gorge yawned beneath them.
Jason held his breath.
CRASH.
The front wheels hit the rail on the other side.
Sparks exploded. The train fishtailed violently. The rear wheels slammed down, catching the track by inches.
They careened forward, safe.
Jason slumped to the floor.
"We made it," O'Malley whispered.
Jason didn't answer. He stared out the back window at the darkness where the bridge used to be. Hemingway was gone. Left alone in the frozen mountains with an army of killers.
The radio crackled.
Not Hemingway.
Music.
Violins. The Ride of the Valkyries. Wagner.
The signal was strong. Coming from the east.
A voice cut through the music. German. Precise. Cold.
"Herr Prentice," the voice purred. "I watched your jump. Impressive aerodynamics for a locomotive."
Jason grabbed the mic. "Who is this?"
"You know who I am," the voice said. "Come to Chicago. The ovens are warm. And bring the machine. I have so many questions."
Adolf Hitler.
Jason stared at the radio.
They had escaped the frying pan. They were heading straight into the fire.
The Behemoth roared into the night, leaving a trail of smoke and ghosts in its wake.