Christ, he was heavy.
It’s not like it is in the movies: dragging a human body is nowhere as easy as they make it out to be in Hollywood, and loading the awkward piece of meat – all elbows, knees, wrists and ankles – into the trunk of a car even less so.
No one will see what I’m doing. Not out at The Railyards of the Hill. I know for a fact that there is a period of three solid hours in the night where this tiny rural gathering point of the trains, those giant lifeless mechanical horses, is empty and silent.
No one will see me nailing his body to the coarse crucifix I’ve fashioned.
I lay the body down in the center of the track atop the cross, and the arms onto the cross-piece. I grab the hand sledge, and one of the rusty railway spikes I pulled up from the track, and fasten him in place.
Ting, ting, ting. Through the left wrist. Another rusted spike. Ting, ting, ting. Through the right. So much blood. Ting, ting, ting, ting. Another through the ankle. Finally, the last one, through the other. Ting, ting, TING.
I wipe the smeared blood from my hands, and then my brow with the back of my hand. I worked up quite a sweat. I look down at his crucified body, savouring the irony. You’re no Jesus Christ, you bastard.
I stand behind the crucifix and lift. It’s heavy but I get the better of it.
CHUNK. The base of the cross falls into the hole I dug in the center of the track, between two of the ties. His body shakes on the wooden structure and then hangs from his arms, turning them into a drooping V.
I stand back and in the darkness and admire my handiwork from between the surrounding pines. I begin to wonder if he’ll bleed out before the drugs wear off and he comes to. I really hope he doesn’t, because I want him to be alive when 2:25 to Chatham plows through him at 160K an hour and turns him into a ragged mess of blood and gore and bone and wood and sawdust. I really hope he sees that. I really want him to. I think about him coming to and seeing the headlamp off in the distance, the absolute terror he will feel before it all ends in the pulverizing carnage of the mindless locomotive. The conductor will never hit the brake in time.
There’s no such thing as the perfect crime. There are only ones which are done poorly or done well. And with the mess the police and coroners are going to have to wade through, no one’s going to be able to figure out what really happened before.
You’re no Jesus Christ, you bastard. I just hope I can keep a straight face at the station when you don’t come in to work tomorrow. Either way, I know I’ll still keep the trains running on time.