The Burning Man

6

Dombas was a small town almost lost in the folding snow of the majestic Norwegian highlands, about an hour’s drive from the hotel. At five a.m. it was deserted, but the tiny railway station was open for business, though equally devoid of life. In the warm waiting room, Hunter continued to swig Jack Daniel’s while keeping watch. The others huddled by the fire.

‘We could call the Last Train,’ Shavi mused. ‘Perhaps it would help us reach our destination quicker.’

‘What?’ Tom said with angry disbelief. ‘You have ridden the Last Train?’

‘It wasn’t exactly the Orient Express.’ Laura’s face was lost in the hood of her parka. ‘More like a cattle carriage for freaks. And it smelled just as bad.’

‘Stay away from it!’ Tom shouted. ‘Do you know where it has come from? Do you know where it is going?’

‘No,’ Laura said in a couldn’t-care-less tone.

‘Be thankful you don’t.’ Tom delved into his pocket for the tin that contained his roll-up materials. ‘Bloody know-nothing idiots,’ he muttered.

‘Oslo’s going to be a problem,’ Hunter said. ‘Big city like that, we’ll have to be careful wandering around.’

The sound of the approaching train rumbled through the walls. Church stirred himself from his brooding and went to the door for one final look out. ‘She’s not dead,’ he said. ‘She can’t be dead.’