The Perdition Score (Sandman Slim 8)

Eventually, we make it to the yard without being eaten, a good omen if there ever was one. I wish I believed in omens.

“What now?” says Bill.

“How do you like the look of that train over there?”

He squints through the windshield.

“It looks like Lucifer’s iron cock.”

I see his point. A lot of machines down in Hell might work like Earthly machines, but they’re not exactly based on the same aesthetic. The locomotive is a hundred-ton tube with steam pipes that look more like bloated arteries stretched across diseased and pockmarked flesh. The front of the train is a leering skull with smokestacks recessed into the eyes. About fifty freight cars stretch out behind it.

I look at Bill.

“Ever drive a train?”

“Every Sunday after church.”

“You’re being sarcastic and that’s okay. I’m nervous too.”

“Thank you for your permission. Now, what are we doing here?”

I get out of the car. Bill follows.

“I just said it. We’re stealing a train.”

“You plan on driving it by those brutes?”

“Nope. You are.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Not right away. After I distract them.”

“Going to dance a monster can-can, are you?”

I head for the train.

“Let’s see if we can get it started.”

Bill and I climb up into the engine.

“Do you know anything about trains?” he says.

“Nope.”

“Then how are you planning on running it?”

“Magic, Bill.”

“Show me.”

The train’s drive panel looks like the interior of a rocket to the moon. There are enough gauges, dials, and knobs to make Neil Armstrong blush. With a little luck, I don’t need 99 percent of them.

I point to a lever on the side.

“That’s probably the throttle. Help me find something that might be a brake.”

Bill looks over my shoulder.