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It was almost silent in the freight yard as Poppa McCoy slowly rolled through the dark sidings, heading for his shed after a long day. A few cars sat silently on the tracks, asleep after the day’s work, and Poppa was looking forward to nothing more than a nice rest when he heard a sharp click and the clatter of gravel ballast shifting.
Slowing down, Poppa looked around for the source of the noise. It was probably just a boxcar who couldn’t sleep, or maybe one of the young diesel switchers. The noise came again, a rock clacking against something solid before falling onto the ballast, and Poppa spotted the culprit.
Sitting just outside the pool of yellow light created by one of the ancient lampposts that stood sentinel against the night, a lithe red figure was reclined against an old buffer. As Poppa watched, a gloved hand picked up another rock and tossed it against a low stone wall several feet in front of him.
“CB?”
The caboose looked up at the old steamer, a brief grin gracing his youthful face, before picking up another rock and tossing it. “Well Hello, Poppa.”
“And what are you doing awake when all the other freight cars are sleeping?” Deciding to forgo rest for a little while yet, Poppa left his track and hitched a seat on a nearby buffer. The old steamer had always considered himself to be like a father figure to the younger cars and engines of the yard, and that meant having a talk when someone seemed to be having trouble.
CB’s betrayal of Rusty during the races had been a shock to everyone in the freight yard. Though they knew the caboose was friendly with Greaseball, he was also friendly to everyone else. That’s just how CB was, the cheerful, ever helpful caboose. However, no one would soon forget the mocking laughter that had echoed around the race course after Rusty’s crash. CB had been banned from trains for a year, parked on a siding as penance for his acts. Greaseball had been punished similarly, though the diesel had only been banned from passenger duties.
“Freight cars?” CB laughed. It wasn’t quite his old, carefree laugh, but nor was it harsh and cynical. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not really a freight car, am I? And besides, it’s not like I have any work to do. Control has seen to that.”
He did have a point. A caboose didn’t actually carry freight, or any kind of paying goods. They were just a place for the crews to rest and keep an eye on the rest of the train. And as for not having work to do- “Well, you can’t really blame anyone but yourself for that one, son. Cheating in the international races doesn’t get you anywhere but punished. Though I hear Control might be willing to put you on transfer caboose duties until your ban is up.”
CB’s normally smiling face contorted into a scowl. A transfer caboose, that’s just what he needed. Escorting trains on short runs from yard to yard was barely a step up from the mind-numbing tedium of sitting on a siding doing nothing. And then there was goody-two-shoes Poppa and his ‘cheaters never prosper’ drivel. If only the old steamer knew what CB had –really- done over the years. Suddenly, the caboose laughed. “Do you actually hear what you’re saying sometimes? I swear, you sound like an educational packet. No wonder the young cars like you.”
It wasn’t the first time someone had outright rejected Poppa’s advice, but the old steamer still frowned. Usually it was the diesels, who had never been shy about their dislike of him and other steam engines, but rarely did the freight cars say such things. Even Flat-Top, who enjoyed being a ‘rebel’ and was in the phase where it was cool to hate things, would eventually listen to Poppa. “I’ve been around for a lot of years and seen a lot of things. And one thing I know is that people who gain things by dishonest means always lose them in the end. Just look at Greaseball.”
CB snorted. Was Poppa really going to try and pull the ‘I’m older than you and know better’ card? “You’re late 1800’s, right? I’m guessing about 1890?”
“I left the builder’s shop in 1893.” It was a lot of years for a locomotive, and in that time Poppa had seen the heyday of steam travel give way to the rule of Diesel. “That’s longer than anyone else in this yard by far. I’ve got a lot of experience at this.”
Leaning back against the buffer, CB looked up at the steam engine with amusement. “What if I told you I remember when the cupola caboose was invented?”
Poppa’s eyes widened. Was CB being serious? “But that was –“
“1863.” CB provided. “Back then, cabooses were old boxcars or flat cars. You know, I used to be a boxcar. Ages and ages ago. The railroad decided I wasn’t good enough for hauling freight anymore, but I’d be just perfect for carting the crew around. So I was rebuilt. My side door sealed shut, replaced by human-sized doors on either end with little porches for the crew to keep a lookout. A cupola added to my top, beds and a stove for sleeping and cooking.”
Poppa stared at CB, having a hard time reconciling what he was hearing with the caboose’s youthful appearance. It was notoriously difficult to accurately tell the age of rolling stock, that was true, but he never would have guessed that CB was older than him by more than 30 years.
With this new information, Poppa realized that there had always been signs. The wooden slat sides, when modern cabooses were made of steel. The large loading door on each side, an obvious marker of a boxcar. He had just never been able to look past the young, innocent façade that CB put on.
“Have you ever been rebuilt, McCoy? What am I saying, of course you haven’t.” CB let out a short laugh. “You wouldn’t know how it feels, having your entire purpose in life ripped from you and changed. So don’t give me that ‘cheaters never prosper’ crap. Injustice goes unpunished all the time in this world.”
“That doesn’t make what you did right.” Poppa bristled. Whatever sob story CB had cooked up (and the steam engine had no doubt it was a good one. If this incident had proved anything, it was that CB was an amazing actor), it didn’t excuse what he had pulled during the races. “You played Rusty and pretended to be his friend for years, then sabotaged him when he finally found the courage to go after what he wanted. And why, because Greaseball talked you into it? Or was it Electra, feeling threatened by steam?”
Rather than looking contrite, CB actually doubled over in laughter at the thought of taking orders from either of the two arrogant racers. “Me, work with those two? Their goals just happened to coincide with mine. I didn’t wreck Rusty because I hate him, or because Greaseball told me to. I did it because it was fun. Same reason I took out Greaseball and Electra in the final.” He paused, a wry smile coming over his features, “Though I must admit that didn’t turn out quite as planned. First time I’ve ever been caught up in one of my own wrecks, I don’t intend to do that again.”
Sitting back heavily against the buffer, Poppa felt his firebox chill. First time? Implying that CB had deliberately wrecked engines more than once? And apparently for no other reason that “for fun.” He had assumed, as had everyone in the yard, that Greaseball had convinced CB to join in the scheme to get Rusty out of the race. Clearly, there was much more to the caboose than anyone knew.
“Don’t give me that look,” CB commented, correctly reading Poppa’s expression. “Not like there’s much else to do, sitting at the back of the train. It was easy, back before automatic brakes. Disconnect the brake line and wham! There go the brakes for the whole train. First time was an accident, didn’t get the coupling just right and when the train took a sharp bend I broke off. What a sound that engine made when he came off the rails and crashed.” A smile spread across his face at the memory and Poppa suppressed a shudder.
“Got a lot harder when they invented automatic braking.” The caboose frowned, showing just what he thought about said invention. “Coaches tend to notice you messing with their valve cocks, one has to be creative. Back in the day, a slow leak would do it nicely. Let the pressure out really gradually and nobody would notice until they tried to brake and didn’t get any response. Didn’t always work, since it takes awhile for that much to leak out, but when it does the results can be spectacular. Remember the wreck of the Ol’ 97?”
What engine didn’t know that famous tale? Poppa recovered enough from his shock to speak, “The Ol’ 97 was a mail train, it didn’t have a caboose. Unless you’re actually a coach in disguise as a freight truck.”
CB smirked, “Well, you know your wrecks well. The train didn’t have a caboose, but I sure knew the engine pulling it. Arrogant bastard. He never did like freight cars, thought we were dirty, filthy things. I was working up in DC at the time, and one day the Fast Mail was delayed trying to get out of the station. I knew he’d be running hard to make up the time, and I thought I’d . . . help him along. That engine was so busy hollering at everybody in the yard for making him late, he never noticed the little hole I put in the brakeline of his baggage car. Just enough of a leak for a brake failure before he reached the North Carolina border.”
How could CB be so flippant, talking about such a deadly crash? Normally, such things were told in hushed voices in dark roundhouses, cautionary tales to young engines about the foolishness of running too fast. “People died in that accident. Humans died.” Poppa choked out. Because a train’s priority was safe delivery of cargo, but safe passage of their human riders was more important than any other duty.
The caboose only offered an expressive shrug. “So? Humans have never done anything worthwhile for me. Shame the engine didn’t suffer the same fate, though. I hear he was repaired and went on working for years after that.”
“You are a caboose!” Poppa fell back into his ‘reprimanding young freight cars’ voice. “It is your duty to care for the human crew who take refuge in your cab.”
“I had a duty, and I liked it.” CB paused, looking almost contemplative, “At least, I assume I did. I don’t remember much from before the rebuild, you see. But being some kind of combination freight car, observation vehicle, cooking shack, and sleeping car never really sat right with me. I have take my entertainment where I can find it.”
There was a sick sort of logic behind that. Full rebuilds always carried the risk of damaging or altering the personality of rolling stock, and to go from a job as simple as a boxcar to the complicated responsibilities of a caboose certainly would be jarring. Still, there was no excuse at all for the deliberate sabotage of trains. “And what if I take this information to Control? With all that you’ve told me, you’re certain to go to the scrapyard.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.” CB shrugged, entirely unconcerned with the idea of being scrapped. “Nobody notices a caboose, we’re the same across every railway.” He indicated the myriad of company logos that decorated his side slats, “And I’ve worked for them all. Wouldn’t be hard at all to hitch a ride on a freight train headed onto another company’s rails.”
The thought of the caboose running free across the country was rather more horrifying than if he stayed at Apollo Victoria. At least here, the trainyard knew better than to fully trust CB. “And if the other rolling stock find out? Say, a certain dining car?”
“Are you blackmailing me McCoy?” CB managed to look serious for all of a few seconds before laughing again. “Alright, I’ll play your game. It’s been fun around here anyway, with your little steamer-diesel rivalry.”
The two were silent for a little while, enjoying the soft sounds of the trainyard at night, before CB suddenly spoke again. This time, he was quiet and almost solemn, “You know, I doubt I could get away with moving yards again. As non-revenue equipment, cabooses remain in service long past the useful lifespan of any other rolling stock. At one time, I fancied I might live forever. If I didn’t get myself wrecked first. Seems I was wrong. I’ve come to the end of the rails.”
This was a tone Poppa had never heard from the eternally cheerful caboose. “What are you saying, CB?”
“Come now, Poppa. Even you must have heard.” CB wasn’t looking at the old steamer, instead he was staring off across the tracks at something in the distance no one else could see. “The other railways are getting rid of the ol' caboose. One by one, replacing us with electronic monitoring devices. Soon, I’ll be like you. Obsolete.”
Poppa didn’t even rise to the slight dig. He couldn’t deny that their humble little railway seemed to exist in a bubble, and the world around them was changing rapidly. Leaving them quickly behind.