The Spectral Express

  Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Copyright © 2022

  The Spectral Express

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and the copyright owner.

  Enter the Katverse:

  https://nicholaswoodesmith.com/kat-reading-order/

  The Spectral Express

  A Kat Drummond Short Story

  By

  Nicholas Woode-Smith

  This short story is set after book 3, Devil’s Gambit, and before book 4, Necrolord. It does contain minor hints to the contents of previous books but is generally spoiler free. Enjoy!

  1

  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  Doesn’t matter how many new tricks you get up your constantly immolated salamander coat sleeves. You’re still gonna be using them on the same pests for the same measly paycheck.

  Which works for me just fine. So long as the price of noodles doesn’t go up.

  “Tendril on your right, Kat!” Treth, the voice inside my head, called out. There was less panic in his voice. This had become routine.

  Treth sure did save my skin a lot. I had to hand that to him. Ever since the knightly ghost entered my mind, I’d not had to watch my own back. Had spectral help for that.

  Which made hunting hell hounds a walk in the park. Albeit, a decimated and ash-filled park.

  I ducked under a blackened tendril, wreathed in black and dark red flames. The hell hound let out a rumbling growl, snapping forward with a wide maw that looked closer to a crocodile than a mutt.

  I spun my sword, an enchanted wakizashi, so that the blade faced the ground, and drove it with all my force into the hapless demon’s maw.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought the hiss of steam and smoke to have been a yelp. But, hell hounds were closer to pure evil mounds of coal than anything resembling a pooch.

  “Easier than the last demon we faced,” Treth commented, as the hell hound pawed desperately at the wakizashi buried in its snout.

  “Not done yet,” I grunted, taking my other sword, and levelling it above the hell hound’s neck. A tendril shot out from its haunches but recoiled as the fires of my enchanted salamander coat spat molten hot sparks towards it.

  Seems salamander fire beat demon fire. Good to know! And, a good thing I had a salamander on my side. Well, the hide of a salamander I’d killed. Still felt bad about that. But it didn’t seem to have any hard feelings.

  With a mighty overhand chop, I let my sword fall with the force of a revolutionary guillotine onto the hell hound’s thick neck. The first chop made it thrash around like a zombie that didn’t know it was dead. The next released its toothy, flaming head from its equally flaming, spiky and tendril-covered body.

  The lifeless body of the twisted excuse for a demon dog still thrashed for a bit, spraying lava-like blood onto my coat. Which lapped it up like a cat does milk.

  That reminded me. Fetch milk for Alex. The little trooper deserved it! Not sure why. But one never needed justification to pamper a cat.

  “Any scratches?” Treth asked. Not that he needed to ask. He usually noticed my wounds before I did.

  I shook my head.

  I felt Treth grin. I couldn’t see my ghostly companion, but I could somehow feel his expressions.

  “That makes seven days without an injury!”

  “Tell that to Troodz. She’s still on my case after she saw the bruises from that telekinetic stranglehold.”

  Treth waved that comment aside. “You survived. And that could have gone a lot worse. You’re getting really good at this.”

  “Thanks. You…too?”

  Treth glowed with pride. Seems he hadn’t noticed my hesitance. I was being unfair on him, of course. He did help. A lot. I’d be long dead without him.

  I retrieved my wakizashi from the hound’s head and wiped it and my other sword, a dusack, down with some blessed water and a very mundane and magicless rag. Some hunters splurged for an enchanted rag, but I had it on good authority from my friend, Cindy Giles, that enchanted rags couldn’t clean ghoul shit off a metal golem.

  “So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Treth asked.

  “You really asking, Treth? You used to be dead set on crusading against the ravening hordes until dawn.”

  Treth blushed. I may have overdone it with my impression of him. He didn’t sound that haughty. Well, not any more.

  “Sorry,” I added. “Just tired. For what we’re doing…”

  I sighed. “I just want to go home, feed Alex and Duer, and put my feet up. Maybe play some games. I’m completely behind Pranish and Trudie.”

  “Why do you care if your fake monster hunter is at a low level?” Treth replied. He had only just started to understand what video games were. “You’re a real monster hunter!”

  “Oh, Treth. You still have a lot to learn. Games matter more than real life. I don’t know why. They just do. Anyway, let’s deliver the head.”

  I took a plastic grocery bag out of my backpack, holding it carefully to manoeuvre the head into the bag. My clients always wanted a head as proof. They never liked receiving one. I got paid regardless.

  Just as I was about to expertly cover the head in plastic, being careful not to touch the knobbly, grey, and lolling tongue, my phone began blaring The Chain by Fleetwood Mac. My hands jolted. An unbecoming reaction from a hardened part-time monster hunter.

  Demonic blood oozed out of the bag as plastic caught on teeth and spikes.

  Shit! Was going to need a new bag. And here I was wanting to protect the environment.

  I stood up, quickly wiping my bloody hand on my shirt, before retrieving my cell.

  Unknown number. I swallowed. Nervous. These were never good.

  But, with everything that had been going on this year, I had to pick up. Just in case the voice on the other end had answers. Some sort of indication of what was going on in this city.

  “Hello?” I asked, hesitantly as I held the phone to my ear, my gloves smelling like burning coals and guts.

  I felt Treth’s apprehension. He was waiting for this unknown, invisible foe to speak as well.

  “Hey…hello…hi!” A voice of an old man practically yelled through the phone. I had to pull it away from my ear before bringing it back and interrupting the geriatric.

  “I can hear you! How can I help you?”

  “Is this Kat Drummond? The exorcist?” the man asked, his voice still too loud. I winced.

  Exorcist? Sure, I’d eliminated a few ghosts. But I wasn’t an exorcist. Or did that make me one?

  “Yeah. That’s me,” I lied. Kinda.

  “Oh, Titan, finally! I couldn’t find your number anywhere.”

  I raised my eyebrow, glad that he couldn’t see my incredulity.

  “I’m on MonsterSlayer. You could send me a job request through the app.”

  “App? Appointment? Do I need one?”

  “No, app. Like for a cell…never mind.” Explaining technology to an older generation was often a lost cause.

  “Anyway, how can I help you?” I continued.

  “I am the community rep for Harfield Village. I’ve got a job for you.”

  I simultaneously felt a spike of excitement and a tinge of regret. I really did want to relax. But money was money.

  “Shoot. What type of monster is it?”

  “It’s not actually a monster…” the old man finally went quiet. Hesitant. As if embarrassed.

  “What is it then?” I asked, growing impatient. Treth probably would have told me to respect my elders if he could understand that the voice was from a human and not just a ghost that lived inside my cell phone.

  His progress in understanding the modern world was uneven.

  “A train,” the old man finally said. “We need you to exorcise a ghost train.”

  Well, it seems this job could still surprise me.

  2

  I met the community rep of Harfield half an hour later. He was far softer spoken in real life than on the phone.

  Normally, a phone call or job listing on the MonsterSlayer app was sufficient. But, for a job like this, I needed to meet the client face to face. Not just to discuss details, but to confirm that it wasn’t some sort of prank.

  “So, what do you mean ghost train?” I asked, after the mandatory pleasantries of free tea and being sat down in a cosy, doily-filled living room.

  “Some of the younger residents call it the spectral express,” the rep, who finally introduced himself as Charles DuToit, added.

  I repressed a sigh and took out my notebook. I’d started carrying one after meeting a detective straight out of a noire novel.

  “Please describe the apparition.”

  Apparition. Was that too heavy? I wasn’t really an exorcist. Did they say stuff like that?

  Charles seemed satisfied, as he leant forward, brown skin somehow going pale.

  “We haven’t slept a solid night for days. Every night it comes blaring past, booming its horn. The rattle of its wheels sounds like the apocalypse itself!”

  “And how do you know it’s a train?” I asked, brushing over the dramatics. “

There hasn’t been a functioning train in Hope City since, well, since it’s been Hope City.”

  Charles looked offended. “Think I faked these grey hairs, missy? I was around when there were trains. Great trains that took you from north to south and back in a fraction of the time it takes now. Didn’t need to dodge trolls or mage-gangers back then. Good old days!”

  Well, besides the political repression.

  “So, it sounds like what you remember a train sounding like. Has anyone ever seen it?”

  Charles nodded, but then hesitated. “Some of the houses near the old tracks have seen it.”

  “And, what does it look like?”

  He shrugged. “A train.”

  Very helpful. Treth, however, seemed enraptured. He’d heard about trains before. I’d not been able to tell him much more about them. I’d been born long after the last train was turned into magical scrap.

  “Is the train manned? Has anyone seen anyone driving it?”

  Charles paled. I had to wonder how he became a community rep. Politics in Hope City was hard. You needed men and women of grit to represent neighbourhoods constantly under threat by undead and demonic hordes.

  “They say it is driven by spectres. Ruthless spirits that will cut down all in their way.”

  “Has anyone been hurt?”

  “No,” Charles replied, sheepishly. “But, we can’t go on like this! None of us can sleep through the night. And what if it stops at the old station? What if the spectres come looking for us?”

  “Spectres can’t hurt you,” I replied. “Well, most of the time. They’re relatively harmless unless you attack them first.”

  Most likely scenario: the so-called ghost train was actually a pack of joyriders blaring some new-age electronica through some overpriced speakers.

  “You have to do something about it regardless, Miss Drummond,” Charles insisted. “If you can exorcise this spirit, we can reward you with $250. That is the standard rate for non-dangerous exorcisms, correct?”

  “I thought it was dangerous?” I asked, suddenly regretting my big mouth.

  “You said that spectres are not dangerous, though,” he replied. “And, for a renowned exorcist and monster hunter such as youself, it will be a walk in the park.”

  I bit down a retort. I’d walked into this. Last time I give info to a client. They pay me so they can remain ignorant. That was the deal. And it seemed Charles was far sharper than his previous doddering façade suggested.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter much. I’d catch the joyriders, give them a good hiding with the flat of my blade, and be home in time for some late-night game time with my favourite cat and pixie.

  3

  “I hope it comes by soon! A real train…” Treth couldn’t contain his excitement. “By the Lady, I can’t believe it.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s probably not real. Another figment of Hope City’s collective over imagination,” I replied, suppressing a yawn as I kicked rocks into the rusty remains of a train rail at the old Kenilworth station.

  It hadn’t changed much since I had been here earlier this year. No reason to change. The weyline here was dry. No magical businesses or even wizarding conveniences to be had when all the magic was going into Claremont across the tracks.

  This was a relic of the old world. A neighbourhood in constant flux as Hope City went through its persistent stages of overpopulation and depopulation. And neighbourhoods like this remained in a diseased half-life, too expensive for slum dwellers and the homeless, but too covered in shadow and decayed memory for the middle-class.

  I sighed. Treth, however, was still holding onto hope. I could feel his excitement. He was like a kid bouncing in the car on the way to the zoo. Like Trudie going to see unicorns – before she realised she hated those horse wannabe bastards.

  But even Treth’s bright-eyed, ghostly enthusiasm wasn’t enough for my pessimism.

  “Why are you so sure there’s no train, Kat? We’ve faced far weirder things before.”

  I shrugged. “There hasn’t been a train running in Hope City since the Cataclysm. This is the first I’ve heard of one. Ghost or not. There are many other things it could be. Pranksters, illusionists, a noisy demon. But, a ghost of an entire train? I find that hard to believe…”

  I didn’t recall jumping out of the way, but next thing I realised, I was rolling down the banks of gravel laid out along the old train tracks. A mournful, deafening horn filled the air, screeching as it announced its existence. All the while it barrelled past me, as my mouth hung agape.

  “You were saying?” Treth asked. I could sense that bastard’s smug grin as if it was plastered all over Table Mountain.

  The train sped past, chugging, and spewing out translucent, glowing smoke. Its cars glowed a faint, greenish white.

  “So, are we boarding?” Treth asked.

  Hesitant, and still a bit dumbstruck, I managed to pull myself to my feet. My coat flared. It anticipated a hunt. I wasn’t sure how a hunt with a train was going to go.

  Well, I’d been paid for the job. Might as well see it through.

  I caught a railing as the train seemed to slow and pulled myself into a passenger car. I immediately regretted my decision as my arm was almost pulled out of its socket. But I lived.

  I tried to steady myself as the ghostly, hulking metal box sped up. How did people use these things? I almost lost my footing before catching myself on a seat.

  “This place…” Treth said, awe in his voice. “It feels familiar, somehow.”

  I tried and managed to stand unaided but still had to concentrate on not falling over. I peered out of the window. The outside world was a blur of darkness and the occasional streetlights as we tore across Hope City in a way that nobody had accomplished for the last four decades.

  “Didn’t know they…” I had to stop myself from speaking as I raised my fist to my mouth, repressing a gag. I didn’t usually get motion sickness, but this was ridiculous! If I had ever desired train travel to return in the past, I wanted to keep it dead and buried now.

  I fought down my nausea and continued. “Didn’t know they had trains on Avathor.”

  “Not like that,” Treth said, sounding distant. Thoughtful. “This isn’t a normal train. It’s something else…”

  Well, duh.

  I wanted to say as much to Treth, but before I could do so, the door from the next car slid open. I froze. From the door emerged a ghastly figure, shimmering a phantom translucent white. His outfit was a mismatch of old and new. A modern high visibility jacket with an antique peaked conductor hat. He was missing his lower jaw as he stared at me with unhidden disdain.

  “Tickets…” it rasped, its voice disembodied, as it stretched out an emaciated, clawed hand towards me.

  Instinctively, I reached for my pockets. My coat flared, as if trying to help.

  “Um, I don’t have one,” I replied, awkwardly. “Can I get a season’s pass?”

  The ghost conductor let out a roar, a baton manifesting in his hand as he brought it down where I’d just been standing, denting the metal floor of the car.

  “Why can’t we ever just talk things out?” I queried, as I drew my wakizashi.

  “Careful, Kat!” Treth cried.

  “As if I need you to remind me!” I slashed at the conductor with my wakizashi. Unsurprisingly, my blade passed right through him like I’d tried to slice water. It did seem to make him angrier, though.

  I rolled backwards, avoiding another brutal strike from his baton, and hit my head on a pole. My coat ignited in earnest, scorching the metal flooring.

  “Vandalism will not be tolerated,” the conductor rasped.

  My sword didn’t work. Typical. Spirits tended to shrug off most physical attacks. Good thing I had a new weapon in my arsenal.

  I rubbed my head before springing to my feet. I sidestepped just in time, as the pole I’d collided into was turned into a modern art project by the conductor’s baton.

  “Vandalism? A little bit hypocritical, aren’t we?” I called out, sprinting to the far end of the car, and reaching behind my back.

  I unholstered my new pistol. Well, new to me. It was practically ancient. A genuine C96 Mauser Pistol, bathed in blood and torment and turned into the ultimate tool for one thing: spirit killing.

  I called it Voidshot.

 

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