Lackluster

A hand, looking more like a brown leather glove, parts the tall dry grasses near the railroad tracks. Frank's gaunt frame emerges, yawning, stretching, shaking off his beige bed remnants. He affixes his once-snazzy bowler hat over his stringy, sparse hair and polishes the pewter handle of his cane with the fraying corner of his silk jacket. The sun faded out hours ago, and the moon has yet to make headway in its struggle against the thick cloud cover. The grey gloom gives him several minutes of luxurious repose. He squints and checks his pocket watch, the gold leaf polished almost entirely away, revealing the cheap base metal underneath. He spits carefully into a dingy handkerchief and bends down, gingerly, to shine his shoes. He stares for a time at the deep branching crevasses that have taken over the better part of the leather loafers before stuffing the cloth back into his jacket pocket.

The moon finds a small pocket of open space in the sky and beams down on the scorched wasteland, a celestial prison searchlight. Frank starts and sinks slightly back into the grass, his head jerking and snapping to look over his shoulder, his eyes straining to see some sign that anyone at the train station half a mile away might have spotted him. He sees nothing, but hears a whistle blow: three short bursts. By the time the third one sounds, the moon has vanished again. He reaches into the grass and rummages around, pulling out a small canvas sack that he hoists over his shoulder.

As the freight train slowly passes, Frank falls into step beside it. In one smooth motion, he hooks his cane onto a rung of a ladder on the back of a car and pulls himself onto the train. Within seconds, he's inside the coal-blackness of the car, making himself comfortable on the floor, covering his bag with his jacket to make a third-rate pillow.

He's just closing his eyes to sleep when moonlight suddenly streams through the open door, illuminating a hunched form on the other side of the car. Frank's heart flutters like a deranged bird for a moment before settling in his stomach. His Adam's apple lifts and drops as he gulps nervously, trying to decide if he should speak. After several moments pass, the figure lets out a snore and shifts to a more comfortable position. Frank immediately relaxes; there's no reason to be afraid of a slumbering old man. Then he notices what the man had been lying on: a large rucksack, full of something that gleams yellow in the moonlight.

After waiting a few moments to make sure that the man is fully asleep, Frank slides his way across the floor of the car. His right hand is extended in front of him, anxiously clasping at the air. He finally grabs the bag and pulls it toward him. Gold candlesticks fall and roll across the floor. Frank cannot distinguish their deafening sound from that of the rushing terror in his head. Two wild blue eyes snap open and stare out at him from a haggard face. A hand darts out from beneath the man's cloak and grasps Frank's arm. The fingers feel like cold chicken bones through his thin shirt, making him shudder. Filled with disgust, Frank swings a candlestick in the direction of the old man, trying to dislodge him.

He has his eyes closed when he hears the thud of the impact and refuses to open them. A wet rasping reaches his ears and fills his brain. The sound builds, forming rhythms and patterns, harmonizing with itself. It climaxes in a howling frenzy of sputtering and wheezing that finally drive him to open his eyes. The man's mouth is full of warm red liquid. His hands claw at the air, but he is too weak to lift his arms more than just slightly, giving him the look of a man scratching at the lid of a coffin.

Frank wants to help him, but is frozen in place, crouched in the semi-darkness. He looks at the gold in his hand and makes up his mind. The first thing he has to do is stop the horrible gurgling. He sits on top of the old man and places his cane across his neck. He leans forward, putting all his weight on the man's throat. The sound gets worse before it gets better. Frank ends up with tiny crimson spots on his shirt sleeves and flecks of pink on his face.

He falls back on the floor, breathing hard. His open lips reveal widely spaced yellowing teeth and a thin line of spittle that finds its way down his chin. Closing his eyes, he forces a smile of victory. Several minutes pass before he manages to stand. He places his foot against the small of the dead man's back, gives a good shove, and watches the body roll out of sight forever.

A violent tremor runs through Frank's body and he vomits weakly in the corner. He blindly wraps his hand around a candlestick. The shaking subsides. He removes the handkerchief from his pocket; it is still slightly damp from his spitting on it earlier. Frank polishes the gold candlestick meticulously, feeling the cloth slide over the cold metal, taking comfort in the familiar work. Soon it will be shining and perfect. Gold is pure. Gold saves. Gold is what he was born with, what he lost, what he deserves, and what he now has, finally, again.

The handkerchief is turning an odd color. For that matter, so it the candlestick. As Frank rubs and polishes, it turns a dull, hard grey. There is no shine. The thin cotton cloth has turned an ugly brown. Paint.

Frank crouches in the corner, rubbing frantically at the lackluster metal, hoping desperately to find something of value underneath.