D: L&L - Part 42 | Narrator: Not with Polish but with Blood

The sun was down now in the endless ocean of corn. The day was won and done, and Oli Phant Cob settled in, his back pressed against the cold iron door of the coal burner, hidden away from the world in the cab of his darling, the black and red Yellow Brick Express engine car. The bodies were burning in a great pile a few yards from a freshly dug grave that would one day sprout ears of corn.

He was as done as everyone else around him, he thought. Well, not quite that done, but close enough. If there would be more a-comin’, he knew, he wasn’t likely to be up to the task. And then he’d find hisself back with Smalls, riding the old YBR in the sky, no doubts. Yanking on the whistle cord, pulling the brake, calling on Smalls for more coal so they could drive right through the clouds as fast as his old girl would take them.

Cob squeezed the shaft of the shovel, smiled a tiny smile, and knew that what was left of his best bud Smalls was with him til the end. The Unnamed God hadn’t stopped them, but he and Smalls had. The spade had been with him all day as he swung and swung and swung in the hot sun, throwing caution to the wind, throwing every curse his moms had never heard him utter, throwing sand and dirt and coal and flesh down to the ground.

He sighed, feeling the exhaustion take hold, hoping that there would be no more of any of it. He’d seen enough devilishness in one day, and he hadn’t even understood what was going on. They’d just kept coming and coming with wild eyes and open mouths, pouring out of the corn like so many great migrating weevils. He could smell those little sickly Munkinlanders before they ever got close to him, but it was the groaning that got to him the most and made him want to run.

He’d tried to talk to them, scolding them at first for being on the tracks and destroying his beautiful train. It’d take months of work and hundreds of laborers, Munchkins or tall men, with beasts and great scaffolds of wood and pulleys with rope to get the train straightened out, if it could ever be fixed – he’d never heard of or seen a train wreck before. Great swaths of corn would have to be cut down to make way for all the construction, and the ground would have to be tilled and packed with sand and mortar to build the structures for righting the train. All because a few silly Munchkins were lolly-gagging on the tracks!

But they hadn’t listened, hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

And his man was dead, his best friend. Didn’t they see what they had done? Not to mention how many people in the cabin cars were hurt or dead. Were they going to say anything? Were they going to go back and get help, perform a rescue, call for some doctors or bring some food and drink? Even some wine would be good right about now!

But no, there was nothing but moaning and drooling and eyes that only saw him. It was as if they didn’t see the train at all, see the smoke still pouring from the engine’s stovepipe, see the overturned cars behind it, the dust still rising, the ripped earth and shredded corn rows. They didn’t see or hear or feel. They just came on, walking so slowly Cob could have turned circles around them. They moaned as he yelled, tears streaming out of his eyes, his hand gripping Smalls’ spade tighter and tighter until his face was red and his knuckles was white, and his sobs turned to snarls, and his eyes red with fury.

They clamored up onto the engine, and he pulled away, jumping back to the coal car and climbing to the top. He yelled and pointed. They came on, driven by only the Unnamed God could say, scrambling up after him, reaching for him, mouths and eyes now eager and hungry and rotting.

Cob turned and looked up into the sky just as the first zombie Munchkinlander made the roof of the coal car. He gripped the well-polished spade with two hands and sniffed. “Keep it sharp, Smalls. Keep it sharp for me,” he whispered and turn and swung.

He could feel the heat from the fire even though it was some distance off. The bodies were burning and the world stunk. The sun was gone now, and there was no moon. Even the stars were gone, shrouded by the smoke. Cob was too tired to care. He was too tired go back yet and check on the rest of the train. That would have to wait until morning. It was too dark and too dangerous. More of those things could come, and what he needed now was to sleep, if he could.

He’d killed people all day, little men and women that barely came up to his armpits, little people in gay dresses and fezzes and top hats and clogs. He’d killed them and killed them, reluctantly at first, tears streaming out of his eyes, and then with a kind of horrible joy, laughing and screaming at them, Smalls lying on the floor of the engine car egging him on, until there were no more little Munchkins moaning, scrambling, reaching, threatening to tear him apart. He killed them all, and the spade gleamed in the sun, bright not with polish but with blood.