California Zephyr Ch. 03

“Ray? I dunno... a bit playful, but not pushy. He was okay.” The boy frowned slightly, guiltily even. “Why, what’s up?”

“I think we’ve had a falling out,” Marc said mildly, shrugging his shoulders as if this was only to be expected.

“I sort of got the impression you were an item,” Cory acknowledged, a little shyly. His smile suggested that he was uneasy about something though. “Is it my fault?”

“I only met him the day before yesterday,” the older man replied, sipping his coffee and pulling an appreciative face.

“’Jesus’!” Cory kept his voice low but the admiration was plain in his eyes. “You’re a fast mover. I figured you’d been together for ages. He seems really... I dunno... ‘easy’ with you. I don’t mind saying... I was a bit jealous.”

“Yeah... well... when you’ve been shagging a guy for forty eight hours I guess you get a bit familiar!” Marc said bitterly, then put his cup down. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Jeez... you’re taking this bad, aren’t you?” Cory murmured sympathetically.

Marc fired a look at him and muttered; “Forget it!”

He fished in his pocket for change but the blond kid waved his money away.

“I’ll sort it... it’s the least I can do,” he said rather awkwardly.

Marc shrugged again, and left him to his duties.

At Lake Tahoe the train shed some of it’s walkers and sight-see-ers and gained a handful of extreme sports fanatics, decked out in the kind of baggy shorts and lurid tee-shirts you could happily promote psychedelic drugs with. They all seemed to communicate with one another in a private language cobbled together from watching the Bill & Ted movies and Wayne’s World, repeatedly, until their brains melted and fused into the dialogue direct. Marc watched them for a while over his paperback until the ‘Awesome’s and ‘Yo Dude!’s got insufferable, then he put his earphones back in and pretended not to notice them. Not even the blond who looked like Kurt Cobain on steroids, with a tan, and the longest legs he had seen outside of a zoo or a freak show stretched out into the aisle. The hem of his shorts kept riding up to his hip as he shifted ingenuously in his seat, exposing the innocent whiteness of his ass beneath.

From time to time Marc’s gaze wandered back along that expanse of bare, honey-coloured flesh, admiring the way the sunlight glinted on the fine dusting of golden hair spread evenly down his thighs and muscular calves. Until the moment he lifted his eyes and found the kid staring back at him with a small, perplexed frown on his face.

At once, Marc dropped his head into his book again and stared at the blurry typeface blankly, unable to make the words out at all. For a little while he kept his face lowered, not even risking an artless glance back down the car for some imagined companion, which might allow his eyes to brush casually over the blond boy. When he finally dared to look up again the kid had moved across to the seat on his side of the aisle and tucked his feet in under the table as he shared a can of Bud with two other guys. They were laughing suggestively at something and this time the boy met his glance more defensively between the seat backs.

Marc started to feel uneasy and tucked the book back into his bag, pushing himself to his feet, intending to take a little walk and clear his head. One of the guys from the booth in front also got up and looked back in his direction. The blond said something quietly and rose with him. Marc’s heart was thumping as he turned casually and walked back towards the top end of the car, nearest to his seat. He did not dare to look back this time. The mood around the table further down had sobered and darkened and he suddenly felt vulnerable.

Beyond his car there were private compartments and a corridor that ran up the outside. He kept walking, trying not to hurry obviously, and heard the partition door shush open and closed behind him. Laughter rippled and male voices conferred in hushed tones.

“Hey!” someone said.

At first he did not look back but then the guy spoke again, closer this time, and more softly. “Hey... you deaf?”

Swallowing dryly, he stopped and turned his head. “No.”

The blond was watching him, a shade uncomfortable still, from the end of the corridor. His companion hovered nearer, closer to Marc than he was to the blond kid. He was a little older, and not so tall, although he still stood over Marc by a good half-handspan, and was nearly twice as broad. Small, dark, suspicious eyes looked him up and down now.

“What?” Marc prompted quietly, determined not to let them know he was intimidated.

“My friend wants to know, was you lookin’ at him?” the kid demanded in a thick, New Jersey accent.

“Then he can ask me,” Marc said, glancing back defiantly at the blond. “Can’t he?”

The two exchanged a look and now the darker youth, who looked like some Hispanic prizefighter, took another step towards him, eyes narrowing.

“Wha’da’ya think, Chet? D’you think he’s a fag?”

Marc seethed inwardly, refusing to step back from him. It could get nasty, he had no doubts about it. Brief scenarios flashed through his head in which his battered body was retrieved from the trackside some days later, but he stood his ground and held the dark lad’s challenging gaze.

“He was looking at my legs.” The blond had a softer, almost childish-sounding voice. Marc re-assessed him and decided he couldn’t be much more than fifteen, in spite of his height.

“You were... kind of... drawing attention to them,” he pointed out now, cynically. “If you don’t want people to look...” Letting the sentence trail off, he glanced down again and shrugged his shoulders.

A hand grabbed him by the neckline of his shirt and he found himself pushed back against the wall of the nearest compartment. His lips parted but no sound came out; for a moment the threat of violence paralysed his vocal chords, then he cleared his throat quickly and hissed; “Take your hands off me!”

“Not until you admit to me what you are, you dirty little fag!”

“Go and fuck yourself!” Marc spat in his face.

The young guy backhanded him hard. Marc felt his head roll and a moment of blindness swallowed him before he recovered his full senses. The rush of pain concentrated behind his nose and under one cheekbone and he tasted blood on his lips and felt sick.

“Tony...” the blond was imploring in a wheedling voice. “What if someone comes by? Leave him, it doesn’t matter.”

“He was lookin’ at your ass. You think that doesn’t matter?” the dark haired boy snapped back at him.

“He cain’t do nothin’ about it!” Chet protested. “Look... you’ve showed him, Tony. He won’t give us no hassle...”

Powerful hands gripped Marc’s shoulders and shook him.

“Not until he admits it! C’mon faggot.. tell us whatcha are! Tell us what a dirty little ass-fucker you are and I might let you keep your pretty face!”

In that instant, Marc lashed out, bracing himself against the guy’s arms and kicking at him in a desperate attempt to break free and run. The element of surprise gave him a moment of leeway and Tony practically let him go. In that fleeting instant, Marc pulled himself clear and stumbled for the stairs. He made it into the lower corridor and pushed his way through the first door he found, into a dark, empty, windowless chamber; some kind of storage bay. At once he turned, but Tony was already in the doorway and he laughed cruelly now, shoving his quarry back into the darkness of the room and following. Beyond him, Chet hovered in the doorway, radiating anxiety, like a gangling human scarecrow surrounded by carrion.

Marc backed right up to the wall catching his breath, conscious of the hammering in his chest. Tony followed, unbuckling his belt.

“I’m gonna teach you a lesson, fag!” he said maliciously. “Shut that fuckin’ door, Chet!”

“Tony...” the blond protested.

“Shut your hole, Chet! Jist do it! You started this, remember... You wanted to see him beg. Now you gotta help me out here!”

“Don’t be stupid...” Marc warned in a voice that quavered even as he forced himself to be brave. “This train is packed with people.”

“Not the baggage car, queer boy!” Tony began to unbutton his 501 cut-offs.

“I’ll yell!”

“You c’n yell all you like.” His pursuer looked back at the tall kid hovering by the wall, he was still just visible in the light which filtered through the cracks between the door and the jamb. “Chet... git him on the floor and keep him quiet.”

“Tony...” the boy protested unhappily.

“D’you want me to tell the whole posse you’re an ass-bandit too?” the stocky lad warned him.

A shake of the head was his only reply.

“Then keep the little fag quiet!”

The blond edged past him like a whipped dog and cast a resentful look at Marc through the gloom.

“You asked for this,” he pointed out.

“You don’t have to do everything he tells you,” Marc retaliated, forcing the quaver out of his voice.

“Shut the li’l fucker up!” Tony barked, over his words.

Chet was biting on his lips as he struck out inexpertly. Marc put up both hands to shield himself but the next blow still knocked him to the floor and a cry was forced from his lips as he hit the bare planking. A hand closed over his mouth almost at once and he kicked out ineffectually, creeping terror taking hold of him. In the back of his mind it was starting to sink in that this was really going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. Until now the threat had been almost dreamlike... he had watched it happening from a distance as if to someone else, even after Tony hit him.

By his head, a scuffed sneaker stirred the dust on the boards and he focused on it as Chet pinned him to the floor with the weight of his lean, young body, staring at the blue and gold lines and the Nike insignia, memorising them, as if that would do him any good once they had killed him and thrown him off the train. He could smell Bud on Chet’s breath as the kid huffed nervously in his ear, and the rank stink of stale sweat on the hand over his mouth. Then there was a little hiss of sound and the foot by his shoulder was gone, swinging back into the darkness. When the sneaker connected with his belly he curled up instinctively, trying to protect himself and whimpering under Chet’s hand. A whoosh of breath escaped the dark, burly kid, then he kicked Marc again, harder this time, and grunted; “Git his pants down!”

“Mmmf... No!” Marc struggled wildly, in spite of the dull ache in his gut. His lips parted in a moan of combined frustration and pain and, as Chet’s fingers slipped between his teeth, he bit the kid hard and took advantage of the moment of shock to writhe out of his grip, scrabbling for the door. Rougher hands caught his shirt and shoulder ungently, yanking him backwards like a puppet, then throwing him to the floor. He slipped in his attempt to regain his feet and went down on one elbow and both knees, screaming for all he was worth and kicking out as Tony’s hands moved lower, grappling for his waistband. Chet pressed him to the rough boards, leaning all his boyish weight onto Marc’s shoulder blades as his partner popped the button of their captive’s flyer and unzipped him, yanking Marc’s jeans and cotton boxers to mid-thigh. Rough fingers spread his ass cheeks even as he bucked and struggled in vain to get away from them.

He was gagged again, this time with a scrunched bandana. Chet held him by the hair, panting harder as his companion spat between Marc’s roughly parted buttocks and rubbed the makeshift lube into his tight hole with the pad of his thumb. He pushed one finger in, then another, loosening his victim up roughly. Marc writhed and moaned incoherently under him, trembling with fear and humiliation as he heard the sound of a zipper being lowered. Tony’s fingers withdrew and he spat again.

“Reckon you’re busting for a Real Man in your ass, huh, Queer-boy?” he grunted, probing Marc’s rectum until the prostrate youth moaned a protest. “Well, let’s see how you enjoy havin’ your fag hole ram-raided!”

Light flooded over them in that instant as the door opened, and Marc sank to the floor, blinking and shielding his eyes. Tony’s hands released him almost at once and he was conscious only of the soft click of booted heels on the rough, planking floor. Relief was his first emotion, then embarrassment. Still driven by a sense of self-preservation, he scrambled towards the doorway, still wrestling with his dishevelled clothing and pulled himself into a sitting position, conscious that he was trembling uncontrollably. He rubbed at his face with both hands and they came away blood smeared. For a moment his gut churned again.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw Tony backing away involuntarily from the intruder. He even saw the reason why. The lean, black-clad Vampire was not tall and certainly no physical match for Tony, but he was smiling with the sort of cruel self-confidence only trained killers and madmen ever possess. The long, white fingers of his left hand were wrapped around Tony’s throat and raised slightly above his head. Already the bigger guy had stopped trying ineffectually to prise them away and was concentrating on not choking to death. The toes of his sneakers barely scraped the floor though.

On the ground beyond him, Chet was trying to scrabble clear, terror bright in his huge, blue eyes. He was crying; snot dribbling from his nose and mouth whilst Tony kicked and struggled above him and the Vampire observed him with a fanged grin of amusement.

“Not such a tough guy now, are you?” Rayne suggested at last, a hint of cynical amusement in his soft, cockney-accented voice. “Come on then, Mr. Macho. Give me your best shot... Show me what a ‘big’ man you are.” He shook his head as Tony whimpered and struggled, wetness darkening the crotch of his unbuttoned jeans as he pissed himself uncontrollably. A humourless chuckle escaped the Vampire’s lips and he exclaimed; “’Sad twat’!”

At last he released the boy and let him crumple to the floor in a pool of his own urine, almost blue in the face. Tony rubbed at his neck with both hands, panting and moaning incoherently. Chet was crying in a corner, trying to make himself as small as possible. Rayne set hands on his hips and looked down at them both disgustedly.

“‘Two’ of you to get the pants off one skinny boy, and ‘still’ you fuck up!” he mocked, derisively. “Looks like he doesn’t ‘fancy’ you much, boys!”

“Our... our friends’ll come lookin’....” Tony wheezed, struggling to his knees, which were already soaked through.

“I’m shit scared!” Rayne Wylde told him in a softly sarcastic tone. “Besides... we’ll be long gone by the time they find you wallowing in your own piss, sweetheart!”

Tony scowled up at him, recovering a little, although he made no attempt to get nearer to the Vampire. Marc watched him dazedly from the doorway, his head starting to spin a little.

“I’ll git you you nancy-lookin’ fucker!” the little tough warned huskily.

“No you won’t darlin’,” Rayne told him more solemnly, crouching on the balls of his feet to look Tony squarely in the face now, taking care not to step in the spreading circle of his opponent’s urine. “Because you’re gonna get off this train at the next fucking stop... or I’ll make sure that ‘all’ your fucking friends know how much you like buggering other guys, okay?”

There was a long, weighted silence, broken only by the constant rumble of the train-wheels beneath them and the creak of the carriage. Tony glared back at Rayne for a moment but, when the Vampire did not flinch from his gaze, he was the first to drop his head.

“‘Okay’?” Rayne Wylde prompted again, insistently.

Reluctantly, Tony nodded.

Marc let his chin sink against his chest and closed his eyes with a small, involuntary groan of relief and exhaustion. He heard the click of booted feet come closer, then cool, gentle fingers touched his jaw line tenderly, soothing the heat in one side of his poor, battered face. It felt so good that he kept his eyes closed, afraid that he might cry otherwise.

“Come on, love,” Rayne said softly, at last, sliding one arm beneath his shoulders with infinite care. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The bed felt blissfully soft beneath him as Marc was set down in the familiar gloom of the sleeper car. The blind was still lowered and Rayne moved quietly about the small compartment as he lay with his eyes closed, still trying not to cry. His heart would not stop thumping and his head ached mercilessly now that his panic numbed senses were returning. He felt the mattress subside a little and cold fingers touched his cheek and the corner of his mouth and eye tenderly and briefly.

“Did they hit you anywhere else?” the Vampire’s familiar, smoky voice asked softly, close to his ear.

Marc touched his fingers lightly to his belly, feeling that if he spoke his eyes would probably bleed. In any case, the lump in his throat was already choking him.

Rayne’s gentle hands unfastened his shirt and drew up the fine, jersey material beneath. He laid his hand flat against the hot skin of his patient’s stomach and made a small, non-committal noise, which sounded like an expression of pain.

“I can’t do anything about this,” he whispered at last. “But the cuts I can at least help with.”

Marc winced a little as he felt the singer’s cool, gentle breath on his cheek, then Rayne’s lips brushed his skin wetly and began to kiss him. It was nothing like the unchecked passion of the previous two nights. This time the Vampire ran his lips very slowly and deliberately over his lover’s battered face, stroking with his tongue and paying particular attention to the areas where Marc’s face was cut and bleeding. At first the mortal believed he was merely feeding, but after a little while the soreness began to ease, and he found that he could move his lips without so much pain when Rayne kissed him on the mouth. His hands rose up to cup the Vampire’s face and finally he opened his eyes to look into Rayne Wylde’s acid-green gaze.

The Vampire leaned back from him with a little smile, so peculiarly tender and admonishing that he could not check the sob which rose from his breast. At once, strong arms were around him and Rayne pulled him close, murmuring quiet nonsense until he was able to control the tears once more. He did not say anything, only kissed Marc once more, deeply and tenderly until the mortal reached for him and held onto him as fiercely as he was able to.

They lay together quietly for a long time, feeling the train sway gently beneath them. Rayne buried his face in the softness of his companion’s tangled hair. Marc was curled in his embrace like a child; still now and less frightened, although his terror had been almost palpable when Rayne first brought him back here. The horror of what had very nearly happened back there in the baggage car was just as sharp to the Vampire, who soothed him without words, knowing full well how useless talk was under such circumstances. All he could give in a situation like this was security and tenderness and he offered both without question.

At last, his lover’s quiet voice broke the stillness between them, muffled by the softness of his shirt collar; heavy with hurt and weariness.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“You were lucky, I guess. I was just passing.” He smiled as he spoke, putting as much of that expression into his voice as possible.

“You were strolling around the baggage compartments?” Marc tried to sit up and the Vampire did not restrain him.

“I wondered if I had any more cigarettes in my hold bag,” Rayne lied easily.

“And you knew I was in there?”

“I heard a scream...” Rayne shrugged his slim shoulders fluidly and leaned back among the pillows. “I opened the door and there you were. Honestly, if you ‘wanted’ another threesome you only had to ‘ask’!”