Fistful of Reefer: A Pulpy Action Series from Schism 8

Groping in the Dark

Ah Puch paused, his hand resting on the door handle of what appeared at first to be another passenger car just like the last. On closer inspection, steel-backed window facades revealed a freight car had been disguised to appear as if it carried human lives. The two men tensed. The ruse meant the car carried cargo considered more precious than human life. This had to be the one.

The metal door grated open an inch at a time. Chancho glanced at Ah Puch. No angry voices came from inside. They heard nothing over the pulse of the rails beneath them and the wind whipping past.

There was no point in peeking inside. It would take several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, and under the circumstances, caution would come across as guilt. Chancho shrugged. Crushing his sombrero against his chest, he swung around Ah Puch and slipped through the narrow opening without a sound.

Chancho crouched low in the darkness and immediately felt Ah Puch settle in behind him. Senses heightening, he waited for his eyes to adjust. The scent of decay crowded him, like an open air market after the rain. Dust motes swam in the slice of light that poured through the opening. Chancho detected no threatening noise, nothing other than the expected rocking of the rails and the closeness of cargo squeaking against its restraints.

Ah Puch placed a quick hand on Chancho’s shoulder.

Chancho tilted his head and closed his eyes. Less than a few meters away, a pattern distinguished itself from the rhythm of the rails. A regular breathing, verging on snoring, rose above the din.

At a disadvantage in the relative dimness, Ah Puch slid the metal door slowly shut. Swallowed up in complete darkness, Chancho groped along the floor for his bearings. Identifying an isle through the cargo, the two men slipped further into the middle of the car until a safe distance from the sleeping guard.

“He can’t be the only one.” Chancho squatted with his back against a wooden crate and focused his eyes intently into the blackness where he knew Ah Puch’s face should be.

“At least one more at the other end.”

“What are the chances they’re both asleep?” Chancho’s eyes seized on the cumulative traces of light seeping through holes where bolts had gone missing until he distinguished the outline of his friend. “Right. So what now? I was expecting to sweet talk our way to this point.”

“Find the gold. We have to confirm its exact location.”

“Right.” Chancho pivoted his head slowly, trying to discern the best path to take through the stacks of crates surrounding them. He stopped when Ah Puch gripped his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, mi amigo. We’ll probably still need to sweet talk our way out of this.”

Chancho grinned. He could see Ah Puch’s ironic smile perfectly in his mind’s eye—a reminder to both of them they were doing what they loved. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes.” He squeezed Ah Puch’s arm. “If the devil doesn’t get me.”

As Chancho turned from his friend, the train shimmied along another rough patch of rail. Groping in the dark for balance, he gripped something leather—leather and unsecured. Losing balance completely, Chancho fell backwards, pulling the object with him. When the object jerked from his grasp, he realized he had been holding a boot.