Country of the Snake

A little excerpt from my current work in progress, a short story titled “Country of the Snake”. I derived the title from the inscription on a plaque found near a geocache in the Uwharries, not far from Asheboro, NC.

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A faint, distant rumble told the Switchman the train was coming. He plucked his old pocket watch from his tattered vest, glanced at its ornate face, and slipped it back into his pocket.

3:30 p.m.

Right on time.

With a groan, he drew himself up from the wooden bench inside his makeshift shanty. The desert sun pummeled his face like a hot iron fist as he peered around the door and down the tracks. There it was: the faraway plume of smoke in the east, gradually moving closer.

There was never any whistle. No signal of its approach. But it was never a minute early, never a minute late.

Mr. Lancaster's private train.

The Switchman shuffled across twenty feet of sand and gravel to the switch lever. He spat on his palms, grasped the flesh-scorching metal handle, and tugged. With a scrape and a clank, the switch rails slid and locked into position to send the train onto the diverging track. He released the lever and stepped back. The approaching wave of sound swelled and washed over him.

The huge, black locomotive roared past and veered to the right, onto the northwest track. Apart from the engine and coal tender, there were only three cars. Most times, curtains in the windows blocked any view of the inside. On occasion, though, the Switchman might glimpse a random figure or pair of eyes peering through a murky pane. He never knew anyone on the train. He didn't know Mr. Lancaster or anything about his business. He didn't care.

The Switchman had only one job. To put the train on the right track, and then return the switch to its original position. This was what he did. This was what he lived for.

As the train thundered away into the endless northwestern desert, he took hold of the switch lever and dragged it back to its original position. With what sounded like a sigh of relief, the steel points swung back into place.

For a moment, the Switchman peered after the train, as he always did. Only Mr. Lancaster's train ever went that way. Once it diverged onto the northwest track, it might as well no longer exist. He had no idea where it was going. He had never known.

He did not want to know.

The Switchman ambled back to his shanty and sat down on his bench to wait. In exactly twelve hours, when he and the desert sun were long asleep, the train would return. Tomorrow at this time, he would throw the switch again.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and was gone.

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A few minutes ago, I went into the vault upstairs to find a certain book. Didn't see it, so I grabbed a random book off the shelf, opened it, and two dollar bills fell out. There's a shit ton of books in there. I guess I know what I'm gonna be doing the rest of the evening.