Track Lines

Writing prompt from a group on Facebook.

We were asked to give the title of the book for which this image was given as the cover.

Source
Thanks @rebeccabe

I gave the title Track Lines and in the conversation after my suggestion, I said I'd write a story to go with it.

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He stood by the side of the train lines, one hand in his pocket, the other one holding a cigarette. A brief flicker of a smile touched the newcomer’s lips and a couple of lines from Alanis Morissette’s song hummed through them.

The boy’s attitude stank of aggression and the newcomer’s smile returned to stay a while longer.

“Have you got the money?” the boy asked, his head lifting up in a backward nod, challenging the newcomer.

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed and suspicion glinted in them as he studied the punter. That suspicion kept him and his crew alive. Dangerous business traded on the track lines and the unwary, gullible and trusting visitors didn’t live to see another dawn.

“Is that her?” the newcomer asked.

The boy turned to look. “Why? Don’t you like her?” He turned back to the punter and took an involuntary step back. The punter had closed in fast and silent.

“She’ll do, I suppose. I thought she’d be younger.”

“Take your hat off,” the boy said, reaching for the newcomer’s hat. The newcomer leaned back and slapped away the hand.

“I’ll keep it on, thanks. Let’s get down to business.”

The boy turned and nodded to the girl. She turned and walked toward a brick-built shack, avoiding the light from the pylon. She put a little sashay into her walk and turned her head to watch the punter. She gave her hair a flick every time she turned.

“I suppose you think that’s seductive,” the newcomer said.

She frowned. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Until now. Stop doing it, he obviously doesn’t like it,” the boy said. He pushed her shoulder as she entered the shack and he nodded to another boy. The punter took in the surroundings before entering the shack.

A dim light from a solar-powered garden flashlight flickered in the corner, adding more shadows rather than more light. The girl sat on a made-up sofa-bed, legs dangling over the end. The punter took time to study the surroundings and dipped at the waist to check under the bed.

“Yeah, it’s not appearing on Cribs anytime soon, but it serves a purpose,” the boy said. “Money.” He held out his hand.

The punter’s tongue flicked out once, on both sides.

The girl shuddered. “Well that’s creepy.”

The punter stopped counting and looked at her. “That’s nothing.”

The arrogance on her face melted at the two words. “Now wait.”

“No, you wait. I negotiated for thirty minutes of your time. Creeped out, even grossed out means nothing to me. I’m paying for your presence, not conversation, not opinion. Shut up, will you? Your voice is putting me off.”

“He’s being rude,” she said to the boy. She crossed her arms in an offended manner and refused to look at the punter.

“Rude? Is she new to this?” The punter stopped counting again, folded the notes up, held open the jacket and made to put away the money.

The boy stepped forward, hand raised, threatening to back-hand her. “No, she’s not new to this. Shut the fuck up and do as he tells you.”

The boy turned his back for a second and the punter’s hammer sank into the base of his skull, not killing him, knocking him to the floor, injured and unconscious. The hammer embedded in the shattered remains of the skull, pulling the handle out of the attacker’s grip as the boy slumped to the floor.

The girl’s eyes almost popped out of her head and she scuttled backwards up the stained fold-a-bed mattress. Her vocal chords paralysed, unable to scream. “Uhn, uhn…”

The punter grabbed her flailing legs and jerked her towards the end of the bed, back where she’d started.

The act of levering the handle to release the claw of the hammer from the shattered skull killed the boy. With an expert flick of the wrist, the hammer turned in the punter’s hand. Bits of bone, blood and grey matter splattered the girl’s skin as the hammer hit her arms, her bare legs and finally her face. She managed to get out one screech of terror before her jaw shattered under the frenzied onslaught.

The look-out came into the shack at a run and caught the claw side of the hammer right in the nose, splattering it and embedding deep into the boy’s face.

The girl’s agonised groans from the bed were drowned by the grunts of shock from the look-out and grunts of exertion from the frenzied punter.

Once the look-out was dispatched, the punter turned back to the girl.

“Thirty minutes of your time.” The punter’s tongue flicked out on both sides, just once.

The police arrived at the shack by the side of the abandoned train lines.

The first one through the door came stumbling back out, hand over his mouth in an attempt to stop his vomit erupting over the crime scene.

Flies, other insects, rodents and smaller carnivores had long-since picked over the corpses.

“Oh jeeze, why does he always go in first if he knows he’s gonna puke?”

“Because he’s the Chief. It’s his job and he thinks he has to lead by example.”

The two cops watched their boss as his tongue flicked out of his mouth twice, once to each corner.

“He always pukes, you’d think he’d be used to this by now. And that nervous tic he has, that’s just creepy.”