Broadswords and Blasters Issue 7: Pulp Magazine with Modern Sensibilities (Volume 2 Book 3) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-14T22:00:00+00:00

Between

by Z. S. Reynolds

Z.S. Reynolds is a lifelong armchair adventurer based in Cleveland who recently decided to become serious about creating adventures of his own. He dwells in a glorious sanctum of fiction with his wife, four cats and two dogs.

Constance adjusted the strap of the shotgun slung over her shoulder, trying to ease the gnawing tingle from her arm. Not that it would help much, she mused, glowering at the catwalk beneath her feet as it vibrated in concert with the rattling of the train’s wheels over the tracks. The soles of Constance’s feet throbbed in protest at each not-so-subtle bounce as the wheels clattered over the joints between track pieces, her hobnailed boots doing nothing to cushion the jarring. Constance glared ill-temperedly down the crowded, utilitarian length of the train car she stood within. Bare metal gridwork made up the catwalk she stood on, rough wooden crates visible below the decking, with stacks bordering either side to the ceiling, netting slapping gently against them with the motion of the train. Rather than a cargo car she imagined a plush Pullman with thick piled carpets and gilded trim on rich wood paneling, a well-tailored uniform made of soft velvet, and a damned padded rifle strap.

A hard jolt broke her from her thoughts. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth when she saw Abigail, the roof guard, jarred out of her dozing and grab the ladder to the roof for support. Abby glanced around in embarrassment, looking first down toward the rear of the car where Liza was stationed, then up toward the front, giving Constance time to hide her smile by pretending to check her safety harness and lifeline. By the time she looked up, Abby had returned to her snoozing with one arm draped over the rung of the ladder. Constance rolled her neck, trying to work out an ache and removed the shotgun from her shoulder hoping to return circulation to her arm.

Once more her mind wandered to that fictional train, a cushy posting on a wealthy businessman’s personal Special, with its luxuriously appointed Pullman cars heavily armored and well provisioned. The boss didn’t need to be Rockefeller or Morgan, but anything was better than defending some random cargo car on a milk run from Philly to Frisco. Constance smiled to herself. A milk run my eye, she thought. Better a guard on a cargo train than a simple workshop girl, never seeing more than a dirty factory floor and the inside of a boarding house, waiting for a husband to come along and take her away from it all. See the wonders of a world undreamed of, the booming industrial grandeur of America in eighteen ninety five, risk life and limb in defense of the lifeblood of the nation, the railroad. Sounds better on the handbill, she mused as she looked around at her surroundings.

Constance was pulled from her thoughts by the tinny jangling of the alarm bell. She grinned, slapped a drum magazine home in her shotgun, and passed through the gap between crates to the side of the car.

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