“Okay, Judd,” said Reggie, his voice sounding old and gravelly. “Let me guess: you’ve been hearing a train at night. Am I right?”
Judd couldn’t speak again. Indeed, he was having a hard time processing what he’d just heard.
Reggie stepped forward and spoke again: “And only at night, too?”
Judd still couldn’t speak, and so he nodded. He didn’t know if the man in shadows could see him nod or not, but he didn’t care.
Reggie continued, “And, further, you’re also the only one who can hear this train?”
More nodding. Leaves crunched as Reggie drew closer still.
“And not only do you hear it, but it sounds like it’s going to blast straight through your brain?”
Nod, nod.
The man stopped just before him. “You’re not the only one, Judd, nor will you be the last, I’m sure.”
“Then you hear it, too?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t hear it, but others have. Come on. Let’s get into the light so we can at least see each other.”
The old bum stepped past Judd and led the way through the trees. Judd didn’t move. Not at first. His bike, he knew, wasn’t far off. And Reggie seemed really old. If worse came to worst, Judd would run for it, grab his bike, and high-tail it home.
For now, keeping some space between them, Judd followed the old man through the scrub trees. Shortly, the trees thinned and Judd found himself near the train tracks, which glowed dully in the moonlight.
What’s happening? he asked himself. What’s going on?
Reggie was heading toward an old, rundown building off to the side of the tracks. A light hung from the door. Judd stopped. There was no way he was going into that building. No way. Heck, that was the spookiest place he’d ever seen. Reggie must have sensed something was wrong because he turned and looked back at the boy.
“It’s the old train depot. This is where I spend most of my time, believe it or not.”
Judd believed it. A creepy old man hanging out in a creepy old building made sense to him. He still wasn’t going to go in.
“C’mon, Judd. This is where everyone waits for the train. You might as well wait for it here, too.”
That got him moving. Everyone? How many had come looking for the train? He didn’t know, but he soon found himself moving again, trailing behind the old, stooped man.
The train station seemed to be in a world of its own. From what Judd had gathered about upscale Orange County, it wasn’t a place that let old buildings like this exist for very long. Old buildings like this got destroyed in the name of progress.
“The way I figure it,” said Reggie, stepping onto the wooden platform that surrounded the wooden building, “is that folks in these parts pretty much forgot about Depot 77—that’s its name. It’s far enough off any road not to be an eyesore, and I can verify no funny business is going on here, certainly nothing that would attract the cops. It’s all but forgotten, which is the way I like it.”
Judd stepped onto the wooden walkway as well, which creaked loudly under his sneakers.
Reggie went on, “The windows are all busted out and most of the furniture’s gone, but it was never really much to start with. Still, it’s home to me, and in case yer wonderin’, no, these tracks haven’t been used since I moved in, seven years ago.”
Resting underneath the hanging lantern was a long wooden bench. Reggie motioned to it. “Have a seat, kid. And don’t look so nervous, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Famous last words, Judd thought, but he sat anyway. He suddenly felt very, very far from his home. Far from his bed. Far from his mother. It all might have been a world away.
Reggie sat, too, at the far end of the bench. There was plenty of space between them. Reggie, no doubt a devout member of the Holy Order of the Homeless in Fullerton, found a crooked cigarette in his huge Army jacket and lit it.
“You fight in Iraq?” Judd asked before he could stop and think.
Reggie exhaled a billowy plume. “Yup.”
“My dad did, too.”
Reggie squinted, although his eyes were mostly hidden in shadows. “He didn’t make it home, did he, kid?”
Judd shook his head.
“A lot of good folk didn’t.”
“Well, I never got to meet him. We don’t even have home videos of him, just photos. And my dad’s dog tags. They found ‘em near a bombed-out building and sent them to my mom. She had them silver-plated—cause I am allergic to most other metals—and she gave them to me at the MIA memorial service. She kept the flag. It’s in our living room in a triangle box with glass in the front.”
“Silver, huh?” Reggie said, cringing. “I don’t like me no silver.”
“I wasn’t offering them.” Judd clasped the dog tags through his shirt, jingling the matching silver ball chains, his talismans.
“Magic, aren’t they?” Reggie said, not unkindly.
“You keep him alive in your memory by wearing the dog tags,” Reggie said. “But silver.” He shuddered.
“Do you have anything to eat?” Judd asked, deciding to change the subject. “I accidentally dropped my sandwich in the dirt.”
Reggie laughed, his blackened teeth letting loose a stench that took Judd aback. “No, I find my own food when I’m hungry.”
“Like hunting?” Judd asked.
“Something like that. I don’t really eat. It’s more like...drinking.”
Judd’s eyebrows went up. “Like beer and stuff?”
“No, no. Reggie don’t drink beer no more. More like...blood.”
Judd’s heart nearly stopped. He fell silent, thinking hard. The crickets weren’t, though. They were loud near the old train station, filling the silence. Judd thought he heard the sound of frogs, too. There must be a pond nearby.
A slow realization took over Judd. He put his fingers over his dad’s dog tags, squeezed them hard.
“Like people’s blood?” he asked and drew the silver dog tags from inside of his shirt and held them up to Reggie, who shrank from them.
“No, small animals. Rats, rabbits, even. I certainly wouldn’t drink the blood of children. I got my standards. And I wouldn’t wish this existence on anyone. Especially not the son of a fellow soldier who died in Iraq. That’s just too much pathos.”
“What’s pathos?” Judd asked.
“Tragedy.”
Judd nodded and returned the silver-plated dog tags inside of his shirt.