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He had not liked humans much when he had been a boxcar; yes, he had been built to transport cargo for his owners in the name of profit, but that hadn't been his idea. He did not have to relish the little monkeys crawling around his insides, scuffing his floorboards as they dragged and shoved crates into every available inch of space while he stood quietly in work mode without even a mouth to tell them to wipe their boots first. Nor had he appreciated being woken from a nap by unwashed trespassers weaseling inside him during a run, whether it was a tattered hobo or a gang of sweaty teenage boys trying to prove their masculinity by hopping trains. These he usually dealt with by concentrating on the brake wheels atop his roof, causing the train to slow enough for the engineer to notice and send the brake men to deal with the problem.
Now he was a caboose, and he still wouldn't say he cared for humans as a species, but one or two could be amusing and make a five-day trip more enjoyable. Of course, it helped now that he could communicate with them while in work mode.
"Lots of stars out tonight," said the human on his right, comfortably sitting on the other seat across the gap in the cupola. Joe, his brown-haired conductor, rested his forehead against the glass panes of the wagon's windows. "Nice weather for your last trip with us, Red."
Red Caboose smiled at him - or rather he used the human-shaped avatar to smile at Joe. His avatar resembled how his body looked in racing mode: same blond hair, amber eyes, and light skin, but instead of wooden panels across his limbs, a large sealed boxcar door on both his front and back, or the several decals of fallen flags he had collected from his travels, he wore a red baseball cap, a red shirt and long pants, a red jacket, and sneakers instead of wheels. It looked like a living shop mannequin. Avatars were handy for rolling stock that regularly dealt with humans. Nearly all coaches and engines had one, allowing them to serve food to passengers or alert the crew to any safety concerns. As such, when the wagon formerly known as Red Boxcar 54 had gained a cupola and human living quarters, he had also been bestowed an avatar to assist his staff on a run.
"A clear night is safe too," Red Caboose said. "All sorts of nasty things can happen on a bad night - like in Cincinnati."
Joe's tan nose crinkled. "Don't remind me. All those poor trucks..." His steel eyes grew somber. "Such a shame."
Red made his expression match the human's. "If only I had been able to save more." He shook his head, hoping he looked haunted by the ordeal.
Joe leaned over the gaping space and clapped his artificial back. "You did your best, Red. The families of the survivors appreciate what you were able to do."
Red made a show of clutching his heart, as if he was struggling not to shed a tear - which then led to a struggle not to snicker. "That's always a comfort."
The two men fell silent, both with their feet propped on the opposite seat as they monitored the sleeping parade of boxcars and hoppers ahead. A yellow dot of light in the distance trudged dutifully along as Hoggy, their engine, pulled them to their terminal. Red could hear the other human workers in the cabin beneath. Most snored in the bunk beds in his B end, but he could feel Tom Arnold tossing around, causing the bed to creak and jostle the metal frame riveted to the truck's wood. Red wished him a coma.
"So, what's this German yard you're going to?"
"Bahnhof Stadionring," the truck replied, doing his best to pronounce it with the correct accent. He then raised a blond eyebrow. "It's the one with all the train races. That Union Pacific engine, Greaseball, is the reigning champion. Haven't you heard of it?"
Joe shrugged. "My little T.V. don't pick up those foreign programs since the satellite broke." He gave the railcar a sideways glance. "You know German then?"
"I will soon enough," the wagon replied. He rapped the window on his port side where he knew a decal with a beaver hung cheerfully on the red exterior wall. "When I worked on the Canadian Pacific, I picked up French pretty quick."
Joe looked impressed. "You are a brain box, aren't ya?" He leaned back against the rear window, linking his fingers behind his cap. He stared straight ahead at Hoggy's light in the distance and lowered his voice. "You're certainly leaving at a good time. Escapin' all the drama with Simmons and that 'boose girl."
"Cherry," said the caboose, and he kept his face as neutral as possible.
"That's the one." Joe's lips thinned. "I'm as forward thinking as the next guy, but if that poor train girl was gonna get together with a human, she deserved better than that idiot."
"Don't let Hoggy hear you say that," said the caboose, shaking his artificial index finger toward the head of the train. "Engines are like ducklings. They see one human and think it's their mother."
"Well, Simmons and Hoggy can enjoy each other's company sitting up all night while we get to snooze on our mattresses." He yawned then, stretching his long arms. "Speaking of which, I need some winks. Could you keep watch for an hour?"
"Of course, jefe," said Red Caboose, giving him a salute.
Joe smiled his thanks and swung himself down to the cabin below.
Red Caboose settled back against his cupola seat, watching the line of trucks. All were no doubt asleep - once a freight truck went into work mode, he or she would pass the time napping, having little else to occupy the long hours. Trucks could sleep longer than the dead in the right condition. Red remembered a story of a freezer who had tipped over and uncoupled from her train at a stop. The car behind her had slid forward and coupled to the front truck in his sleep, and nobody had been aware she was missing until they got to the depot. The freezer herself had continued to snooze on the ground she had landed on, oblivious to the world.
That's why trains hired cabooses: they monitored the train to keep such accidents from occurring. They were also useful as a set of emergency brakes, although Red's function as a brake truck had been over before he had ever been converted to a caboose. Modern trains used air brakes, which meant rolling stock could come to a stop much faster than they would have when cabooses were in their prime.
Which is why nobody ever suspected him when a train couldn't stop.
"Night, Red," came Joe's voice from below, and the caboose looked down to see that the human had changed into a more comfortable shirt. Joe gave him a wave with a hand which held a flashlight.
Red Caboose leaned over the seat. "Hey, jefe. Are you sure there are no señoritas in this here consist?"
Joe smirked. "Why? You looking for a date?"
The wagon fiddled with his red cap, adopting a sheepish expression. "I just like to make sure ladies get the smoothest ride if they're on my run."
Joe gave him a knowing look. "Nope, just the men trucks tonight."
"Good to know. Night." He gave the human a wave, and he felt Joe step his way over to his bunk. Even as he left, Red could hear him chuckling.
He looked again toward Hoggy's light. No doubt the engine's avatar was chatting comfortably with his favorite human, who had only gotten a slap on the wrist while Cherry Caboose had been sent to another station to live. Red Caboose did not have many friends on this railroad, and he wouldn't list Cherry as among the few he had, but the woman wagon had always been decent to him ever since he had come here to work. Where the other modern steel crummies treated him like an old man and a freak of artificial nature for having been a wooden boxcar, Cherry had been polite and welcoming - and Red Caboose preferred to repay debts, not wanting to owe anybody anything, not even a kindness.
So much for diversity in the workplace, he thought with an inward chuckle, looking over the sleeping men trucks. He didn't care for hurting women. So many were mothers, and there was little fun in watching orphaned brats sob over Mommy's damaged body. Father trucks, on the other hand, Red didn't give a second thought to. Men wagons outnumbered females, so it wasn't that tragic a loss if two or twenty were sent to the scrapyard. In any case, at the rate Simmons was going, the corporate office probably wouldn't be keen on commissioning too many more lady trucks from the factories in the future.
He waited until the noises in the bunk beds diminished and stillness fell upon the cabin before he made his move. Carefully, he focused. In the old days, before his avatar, he had small control over his train body, enough to open up a door if a dirt-encrusted hobo crawled in and disturbed his slumber, but tonight his attention turned to his bogeys and - more specifically - the brake line that connected him to the rest of the train.
Just a tiny crack. For the moment. If too much air was let out, the whole train would stop. But a little at a time - just a smidgen here and a hiss there - and when Hoggy needed to brake in the oncoming mountain range, the several tons of freight trucks behind him would keep barreling forward, unable to stop.
He just had to wait - and that was something Red was good at.
THE END