Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ The Mighty Train Robbery ( Prologue )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.

A/N: Well, I started on this story, and then decided to delete it, to fix it...then I realized that I couldn’t write a plain and simple romance. >.< They were really hard for me. Then...watching my bro play a video game, I realized it–the missing key to my story–utter violence. LOL and odd chaos. Here it is, folks–redone.

Prologue:
The Mighty Train Robbery


All of them were wearing bandannas over their mouth and noses, and their hats were pulled low. The only thing visible were their eyes–their guns were pointed at the frightened and wide-eyed passengers, all of them fearful of their standing.

They were after the safe that the train was transferring, along with the money that was supposedly guarded under ‘heavy’ security. ‘Security’ consisted of five men that were eager to cooperate with them upon seeing their numbers and guns.

Everything was running so smoothly–there were three men with the engine operator, there were four of them covering the passenger train, and there were four of them managing the money factor. The safe was being worked on, one of the guards threatened into telling them the combination. It was only fortunate for the robbers that this particular man knew the combination. Otherwise, no amount of TNT or picking at the sturdy piece of work would have opened it.

The eleven passengers were a group of scared men and women that were obeying all instructions. Ten pairs of eyes were watching those menacing guns–ranging from shotgun to revolvers–and ten people had already been stripped of their valuables and money. As the train clacked loudly on its tracks, wood swaying and the occasional call of the engine whistle sliced through the air, everything was conducted in near silence. The windows were dusty, but the clear views of the open desert and the blue skies offered no solace to those that were being stripped of what valuables they had.

One of the passengers was under question, heavy scrutiny. The eleventh passenger that sat in the back, hunched in his seat, making no panicking or acknowledging action of the robbery taking place.

“You’re one ugly motherfucker,” one robber commented, his voice thick with disgust and an accent that no one had ever heard of. His skin was black, through, and he had a thick braid dangling from underneath his stained hat. He was no more than fifteen–his youth was apparent with both his voice and his visible features. His skinny arms welded the shotgun easily, though, handling it with every bit of confidence that his older colleagues had with their weapons.

There were three boys with the group of robbers. As soon as the engine was held, two other men from that stage moved from that open car to this one, assisting them. Their weight settled on the wood had them shifting, juggling the three boys around so that each one was covered.

Overly excited, Francis Stone was one of these boys–he was downright eager to pull off his first train robbery, working with a couple of friends and hoping for a lengthy career as an outlaw. His peach colored skin was flushed with both excitement and nervousness as he eyed each passenger, his finger steady on the trigger–his gun wasn’t loaded, though. One of the older, more experienced men had kept the three boys from carrying loaded weapons–so none of them would make a mistake they would regret the rest of their lives.

Their mission wasn’t to take lives–it was to steal money.

But the passengers didn’t know that.

The other two boys–one, a son of a freed slave, and the other, a misfit from New York–were on the same track, as well. The first was named Blayne–no last name–and the other was Aron. Aron was looking for reputation, while Blayne just wanted to be accepted by those he identified with. The group of robbers were a strange mixture of whites, Spaniards, blacks and a couple of Chinese. It certainly looked out of place to those that had never seen such Nationalities collected together in such a way.

The man in question had his shoulders hunched, and he was questionable in terms of looks. His color was sallow, yellow–it looked as if his skin was dripping right off his bones. His hat was pulled low, and his long, black hair was loose around his shoulders. He hadn’t drawn any sort of attention until the robbers caught sight of him. Dressed in a nice shirt, an expensive jacket, and a faded blue bandanna that was pulled just under his chin, he had escaped close scrutiny from those that passed by. His looks were faintly savage–that long dark hair of his instantly told others of his nationality. But they were misguided–he wasn’t a savage at all.

The young men had taken from him a book, a bag full of odd looking materials, and a couple of jewelry pieces from his fingers and neck. Currently, the bag was being investigated, and the men searching through it were visibly concerned.

A glass jar filled with a yellowish liquid was produced–in it were organs of undetermined nature. A hollow book was produced–in it was a pair of human hands; the skin mummified to a dark gray, fingers curled slightly; thin rope wrapped around both wrists. There was a smaller book, the cover and backing feeling odd within the robber’s hands–the stitches were deliberately large, and it seemed to stretch and give with odd consistency as they handled it. Inside, the pages were full of scribbles in a language no one heard of, or could decipher. Diagrams were followed with inked illustrations of creatures unknown to man–but the pictures of human devastation was apparent. The book was closed hastily as a severe chill swept through the car.

There was a tightly wrapped roll of blanket of something heavy, but it was set aside as soon as the book was discovered.

“That’s human skin!” one of the others exclaimed, in a shocked tone.

The book was immediately dropped, disgust ranging on all their faces. The bag was abandoned.

Immediately, Blayne raised his shotgun, pointing it at the man that didn’t look at any of them. “What’s your story, man?” he demanded. “What’s with all this voodoo bullshit? You some kinda witch?”

The man didn’t move–merely shifted in his seat, wood creaking under foot.

“That there is infant skin,” he finally said, and his voice produced a sort of panic quite different from that of which was apparent to the robbers. It was a sway between bass and a watery sort of differential–as he were speaking from underneath water. When his lips parted, yellow, cracked teeth were visible–his lips cracked with obvious injury as he grinned. “Quite fragile, I must say–but prettily smooth and nice to enjoy when I am memorizing my tables...”

The robbers, and the passengers were visibly taken back. The men holding the weapons didn’t care when the passengers rose from their seats to take their space from the odd man.

“Stripped from the boy of one of my many wives, back there in India,” the man continued, shifting in his seat. “He won’t be needing it–not where he is, now. Have you ever seen a child without human skin? Quite fascinating.”

No one was sure what to say–it was as if this man were going to fall apart, literally, with every movement he made. He lifted his head, and everyone pulled back–he was missing his nose, and his eyes gleamed a violent red. The pupils were dilated completely over, so that only blackness coated the entire globe–but the reddish glow was real. His eye sockets sagged so that it seemed as if something from within his skull was sucking them back–his eyebrows were nonexistent. A living skeleton with skin–he had everyone trembling and backing away from him.

“Holy shit, man, that is the most fucked up thing I’ve seen my entire life!” Francis exclaimed. His green eyes were wide, and with the way he breathed anxiously through his mouth caused his bandanna to push and pull against his lips. His gun started shaking in his gloved hands as a couple of the passengers pushed past him.

“What are you?” another robber demanded, his furrowed brow giving away his agitation.

The man gave a short chuckle, lowering his head slightly to adjust his bandanna. In doing so, he revealed the fact that he didn’t have a throat–that all that held his head atop was the stem of his spine, and a few sagging muscles and tendons. The entire passenger car went dumb silent as many pairs of eyes fixed onto this human flaw–disbelief making everyone united in their standing. Rising from his seat, the man chuckled again, a hissing sort of sound with audible lettering.

“Kee kekekekekeke...”

“Shit, man...stay back. Stay back, y’hear? You’re freakin’ us out!” Blayne exclaimed, raising his shotgun, preparing to fire. “I’mina hit you! I’ll kill you!”

The man shuffled easily to the bag that had been unloaded–carefully replacing all his items. He stared up at the terrified robbers, most of whom were barely in their teens–young boys. His eyes stopped that eery glow, and he heaved a tired sigh, which filtered out the open of his throat rather than his mouth or missing nose.

“Young’uns, these days,” he muttered impatiently, almost to himself. With deliberate movements, he finished packing everything, save for the wrapped bundle of mysterious content. He set that at his side. “So impulsive...quick to judge, or to make a mistake with their hasty decisions. You need to stand back and thing, boys. Don’t rush into a scene, thinking that big balls will get ya where you need to be. Patience–have patience. Think of your every move, rather than wasting it all on adrenaline.”

“I’m warning you...”

“What are you going to do, boy? Shoot me? Kill me? I’m already dead!” the man exclaimed, gesturing at himself. “Look at me! I’ve been dead for nearly two hundred years, son. I doubt that you can hurt me, now.”

He could just hear their brains working, trying to grasp this fact–trying hard to understand what he was saying. Trying to process it. He chuckled, lowering his head again. He rose, dusting off his pants, picking up the wrapped bundle.

“You chose the wrong train to rob, my friends,” he said, shaking his head. Touching his hat briefly as he carefully undid the ties made out of deer sinew. “I was heading into Mexico–to escape this burgeoning tyranny of corruption and laws that were made impulsively by those that don’t want to follow them. But...you’ve changed my mind. And his, as well...”

The blanket was carefully peeled away from his contents, revealing a small body, human, curled in fetal position–its skin gray and dry, mummified. Before many widening, disbelieving eyes, the baby blinked globe-less eyes, and started to fidget, mouth open with a silent mewl.

“Take a long look at him, boys,” the man whispered, inserting the tip of his finger into the toothless mouth, the baby suckling at it weakly. “This is the first, and the last, you’ll ever see of the dead that’ll rule this continent. Once he feeds on your souls, you’ll belong to him...for eternity.”

The sudden stench of rotting corpses, combined with the sudden, terrified shrieks of the men coming from the cars behind and before them struck the robbers, then. Blayne turned, seeing that the passengers that had sought safety were rapidly turning into the undead–skin weathered and began to shrink, revealing bones, an eerie green to their bodies that lit the car with as much light as it was daylight. Their clothes began to rot, revealing long made moth holes and savagely ripped areas that looked as if animals had gotten to them.

They were corpses, and they were utterly terrifying. The more experienced robbers turned their guns on them as they attacked, but the boys were too frightened to do much of anything.

The man began to laugh, a loud cackling that filled the car as shrieks and screams tore through the air. One of the boys wet his jeans, the other two too terrified to even notice.

“This train belongs to the undead, you stupid fools! We were going peacefully–but you decided to anger us with your pathetic thievery! I, myself, found myself troubled by the lengths of your crime–no matter. You’ll pay for it. You’ll add excellently to my–excuse me,” he apologized to the small babe he had tenderly in his arm, “to his army of darkness. Enjoy it–at least you’ll live forever.”

“Go! Go go go go go!” Blayne cried, shoving at the two that were staring in frightened shock at the undead that were attacking their friends.

The moving corpses demonstrated a frightening sort of strength and power that allowed them to literally tear arms and legs from torsos–as blood splattered through the air, the sound of ripping muscle, bones and skin agonizingly distinct within the small car, the baby mewled quietly with a sort of innocence common of newborns.

The screams of the dying were just as loud as those that were already dead.

The moment the boys were pushed, they began moving–shoving past the man holding the baby, heading toward the next car–the man followed their progress as gun blasts tore through the air, following the screams of the living that died by the undead’s hands.

“You won’t get far!” the man’s shout followed after the terrified boys, as they hurriedly jumped from one car to the other, seeing that this one was filled with gore–those men that were cracking the safe had been torn from limb to limb.

Each one stopped, each’s eyes wide with horror as they stared at the display–their more experienced friends lying in shambles throughout the car, their blood and gore staining the floor, walls and windows. Those five guards rose from their respective positions, spying them with their sunken eyes and their ashy skin.

Screaming, the trio turned to head back, only to see the passengers from the other car herding toward them. Tripping on the slippery intestines of a nearby robber, one of the boys fumbled for the side door that was locked from the inside–successfully jerking the lock to the side, and thrusting the door open. It settled with the wind the train created as it sped along the tracks, throwing it open with a loud bang against the outer wall. As the scenery flew by, the terrible screams and shrieks of the undead followed the boys, piercing their thoughts.

Without much thought, each one leapt from the train in hasty fright. Each landing was tough, muscles and bones jolting, limbs twisting awkwardly–grunts and exhaled breaths of anguish left each boy’s mouth as they rolled, tumbled and finally came to painful stops within the brush of the desert. As the train continued at its current speed along its tracks, it left behind a sordid stench of coal smoke and rotting corpses. The clanging metal of wheels upon rails began to fade as it continued down the plain stretch of desert, heading further into Spanish territory.

The trio took their time in recovery–hearts were still beating furiously, their heads were a confused jumble of terrified thoughts and pictures of what they’d just endured.

In the resulting tumble, hats were lost and clothes were dirty from the noon baked dirt of the West–limbs were incredibly shaky, and muscles were sore.

Holding tightly onto a shoulder that had been dislocated with the fall, Blayne spoke with a pain filled grimace. “That there was the most freakiest thing I ever did see. My entire life.”

“Am I trippin’ on peyote, again? Cuz...I really don’t think I saw...what I thought I saw.” Francis’ voice was shaky as he said this, staring numbly at his worn and scuffed boots.

“You did see what you saw,” Aron muttered, glaring down at the wet spot on his jeans. He covered it with more dirt, hoping that the others wouldn’t know he’d pissed his pants.

All three of them stared at the still visible train as it continued to lumber its way down the tracks–heading into the mountains that were still snow capped.

Blayne rose from the dirt, swallowing tightly. “What do you think he meant? By...by all that? Do ya’ll think he’s...he’s gonna do that to other people?”

“Dunno. Why should we care, anyway?” Aron asked as he rose as well, dusting himself off. His face was flushed with mortification as he realized that dumping dirt onto his wet stained jeans made them worse. “Ain’t like we kin do anything about it. We’re just three of us.”

“Yeah...who knows? Maybe it’s just passing through the territory?” Francis reasoned as he rose, legs shaking dangerously. “Maybe it ain’t gonna stick around, cuz there ain’t nothin’ much out here.”

Blayne looked troubled for a few moments, then shook his head. “Yah...you’re right. Let’s start walkin’, boys. We’ll go back to the hideout. Tell the others. And then...?”

“What we gonna do, if’n they come back, lookin’ for us?” Aron asked, worry evident in his tone. He started to follow behind the other boys as they began to long trek back to the town they’d left behind.

“They won’t. Cuz, like you said earlier–we’re only three of us. We ain’t no bother to anybody. I mean...what can we do? Seriously?”

“They made us aim with no ammo,” Francis recalled, a little sullen. “‘Fraid that we’d fire and kill somebody cuz they thought we were...too overeager.”
“That sucks,” Blayne muttered. “We were in control. Though...it would’ve helped if we had ammo. Maybe we could’ve blown them to bits. An’, like...stopped them.”

“Yeah...shoulda, woulda, coulda, I guess. Let’s just go home. Ain’t like we can do anything, like Blayne said,” Francis said on a sigh.

Traumatized, the boys headed back toward home–neither of them could ever imagine how wrong they were.

The town had already been taken over.