Chapter 10: Trail of Damned

The chosen stage was Solthéria, a mountainous scar on the Cinnabar map, riddled with abandoned mines and crisscrossed by a web of iron rails that the former national company had allowed to rust. Deep sea-valleys, stations swallowed by undergrowth, dark tunnels, a perfect setting for secrets and clandestine operations.

The seed for the coup was planted by Rat. Not with announcements, but with carefully leaked fragments of information: a "stolen" internal memo mentioning secret transfers, a drunken prison guard "confessing" to seeing lists of important names, an old railway map with "confidential" notes. Rumors spread like wildfire in the right circles:

The government (which one? No one knew for sure) had secretly reactivated a section of the Solthéria line. A special, heavily guarded train would transport political prisoners, disgraced nobles, traitorous officials, and financiers with dangerous secrets, to secret facilities on the north coast. A one-way trip, before they were... definitively "processed."

The news would never be official. The train was a ghost. But for families who had no news of a missing loved one, for lawyers whose clients had disappeared in custody, for rivals who wanted to confirm the downfall of an enemy... the rumor was a desperate anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

...

Myrtle, the archivist of the impossible, dove into the bureaucracy of fear. Using as models real documents from the Vermillion Order and obscure ministries (some obtained by Rat), she forged transfer orders with plausible sequential numbering, fictitious medical reports certifying the "health" of prisoners for transport, and lists of names that mixed real missing public figures with invented names that sounded important. Each document exuded the cold, impersonal authority of the state.

Goose, the master of practical scenography, located two freight cars and one passenger car in a forgotten siding. With a small team of local helpers paid in cash and with the promise of mutual oblivion, he transformed them. Not into luxurious cells, but into somber metal boxes with bars that appeared newly installed, smelling of cheap disinfectant and mildew, and light chains that clanked eerily. Goose, the master of practical set design, prepared himself with a look of blatant displeasure on his face. Occasionally, he adjusted his shirt collar and stepped back, breathing heavily as if gasping for air. Kid noticed this, and he even asked Myrtle if the plan would work this time. The steam locomotive, an old wreck, was restored enough to run, smoke, and whistle eerily.

Kid, the special effects technician, prepared the sensory arsenal: dense smoke generators to simulate fog or steam, acrid-smelling oils to give the aroma of old machinery and neglect, and small pyrotechnic charges to simulate sporadic gunfire or sparks from short circuits—all to heighten the sense of danger and precariousness.

Rat, besides planting the initial rumors and providing material for Murta, was the eyes and ears. He mapped real patrol routes so the train could avoid them, identified the most desperate or wealthy targets, and planted physical "evidence", a military uniform button near a track, a torn diary page mentioning a "transfer", to reinforce the legend.

And Safo... Safo adopted the persona of "Inspector Varro," a supposed low-level official in the feared (and fictitious) "Internal Security Bureau." A nervous, bespectacled man, he spoke softly, constantly glancing over his shoulder, as if he himself feared the system he represented. He didn't sell freedom directly; he sold information and possibilities.

He visited targets in discreet locations, presenting fragments of Murta's lists.

- Your brother, the Colonel... his name came up in a transfer order to the northern line, Operation 'Reaper.' It's classified, of course. If that information were to leak... - He let the threat hang.

- But perhaps... perhaps an administrative error could occur before boarding.

- Bureaucracy is flawed, you know? But speeding up or correcting these errors... requires considerable 'rush fees.'

Or:

- Your rival banker is on tomorrow's transportation list. Valuable information, isn't it? Knowing he'll be... neutralized. But imagine if, during an unscheduled technical outage, he managed to 'escape'...

Safo sold fear, hope, and opportunity, all wrapped in the same rhetoric of secrecy and danger.

...

In the darkest, foggiest dawn of the week, the damned train departed from the abandoned Curve-Stone station. The whistle of Goose's locomotive tore through the stillness like a lament. Dim lamplight flickered in the cars, casting dancing shadows from the bars on the windows. Kid released extra smoke, shrouding the train in a ghostly shroud.

Inside the wagons, some hired extras (actors from bankrupt troupes, desperate for work) moaned softly or stared blankly into space, playing resigned or terrified prisoners. The "guards" (other extras, dressed in worn-out uniforms obtained by Rat) patrolled the corridors with rehearsed brutality or convincing nervousness.

The train wasn't moving fast. They made "unscheduled" stops at remote locations, a collapsed tunnel, a rickety bridge, a forgotten detour. It was at these moments that the real transaction took place. A hooded figure would emerge from the shadows (a client). They would hand a heavy package to a "guard" (a disguised gang member). Moments later, a simulated gunshot would be heard by the Kid, a scream, and a silhouette would be seen running into the darkness, the "rescue" or "escape" staged. At another stop, a "guard" would desert, carrying with him a sealed envelope delivered by a client moments earlier, a letter to a prisoner that would never be delivered.

Rat is already paranoid, anxious, and pessimistic. Now, he was on the verge of a panic attack. When the performance began, he no longer displayed the terror and despair expected of his character. It was his sincere terror that ultimately led the crowd of deceived people to animosity and greater faith than expected. In the end, Rat's weakness was a blessing.

Some paid to confirm that an enemy was on board. Others paid for an "accident" that would prevent someone from reaching the coast. Still others paid for a spot on the train, believing it to be a clandestine escape route out of the country. The gang accepted anything, adapting their performance to the demand.

One night, a royal patrol of the Vermillion Order appeared on the tracks ahead. Panic smothered. Goose slammed on the brakes. Kid triggered multiple mechanical failure effects, steam hissing, sparks, lights going out. The faith was the Suppression Sigil would do it and block any divination. The train stood motionless and dark in the night, looking like just another abandoned carcass, until the patrol, disinterested, continued on its way. The collective breath only returned when the patrol's lights faded.

...

After four nights of intermittent and lucrative travel, the train of damned reached its final destination: a station swallowed by sea and vegetation, where the tracks ended abruptly in a cliff above the waves. The literal end of the line.

The extras were paid handsomely for their silence and disappeared into the mist. The train was left there, the car doors open, empty, like a cicada's shell.

When the inevitable official investigations began (spurred by confused families and deceived nobles), they found nothing. No official records of the reactivated line, no missing prisoners (or, in many cases, any), no deserting guards. Just an abandoned train on a dead line and a wealth of contradictory local testimonies, some swearing they heard gunshots, others seeing mysterious lights, others speaking of hooded figures (courtesy of Rat's rumor mill and the especial effects of Kid).

The train of damned never officially existed. But in the collective memory and whispers of Solthéria, it became real, a dark legend about the invisible and relentless hand of the state, a ghost tale on rusted rails.

...

On a hill above the cliff, watching the waves crash below in the dim moonlight, Sappho and Myrtle shared a rare silence.

- We sold smoke again. - Safo said, his tone less triumphant than usual.

- But this time... the fire they feared was very real. That fear of the government from the last war, of the door slamming in the middle of the night... we profited from it.

Myrtle drew on her cigarette, the orange embers punctuating the darkness. The smoke mingled with the sea mist.

- The state does these things, Safo. Maybe not with a secret train, but they disappear people. They silence them. We merely created a stage for their paranoia. We gave them a chance, however false, to tilt at the windmills of power. It's no worse than what they did in the war. Nor worse than what many of them would do if they were in our place.

- But does it bother you? - His question hovered, genuine for a moment.

She shrugged, an almost imperceptible gesture.

- Stealing from those who rob or oppress? Not fundamentally. - She paused, looking out at the dark sea.

- It just bothers me to think that, with our intelligence, our organization... perhaps we would be useful in a world where justice wasn't blind, or bought, or simply... absent.

He let out a low, dry laugh, his mask back in place.

- Useful? Maybe. But, Myrtle... what fun would that be?

A sarcastic smile appeared on Myrtle's lips.

- You're no good.