Tales of Old Earth by Michael Swanwick

said.
    Three days they spent bickering over me.
    I presented something of a political problem for those who decide these matters, because of course they couldn’t just let me go Upstairs. It would have created a precedent.
    The upshot of it was that I got a new job. They gave me a brass-button uniform and two weeks’ training, and told me to keep out of trouble. And so far, I had.
    Only now, I was beginning to think my lucky streak was over.
    Old Goatfoot looked over his shoulder with a snarl when I entered the cab of the locomotive. Of all the crew only he had never been human. He was a devil from the git-go, or maybe an angel once if you believe Mister Milton. I pulled the bag off of the bottle of rye and let the wind whip it away, and his expression changed. He wrapped a clawed hand around the bottle and took a swig that made a good quarter of its contents disappear.
    He let out this great rumbling sigh then, part howl and part belch, like no sound that had ever known a human throat. I shuddered, but it was just his way of showing satisfaction. In a burnt-out cinder of a voice, Old Goatfoot said, “Trouble’s brewing.”
    â€œThat so?” I said cautiously.
    â€œAlways is.” He stared out across the wastelands. A band of centaurs, each one taller than a ten-story building, struggled through waist-high muck in the distance. Nasty stuff it was—smelled worse than the Fresh Kill landfill over to New Jersey. “This time, though.” He shook his head and said, “Ain’t never seen nothing like it. All the buggers of Hell are out.”
    He passed me back the bottle.
    I passed my hand over the mouth, still hot from his lips, and took a gingerly little sip. Just to be companionable. “How come?”
    He shrugged. “Dunno. They’re looking for something, but fuck if I can make out what.”
    Just then a leather-winged monster larger than a storm cloud lifted over the horizon. With a roar and a flapping sound like canvas in the wind, it was upon us. The creature was so huge that it covered half the sky, and it left a stench behind that I knew would linger for hours, even at the speeds we were going. “That’s one ugly brute,” I remarked.
    Old Goatfoot laughed scornfully and knocked back another third of the bottle. “You worried about a little thing like that?” He leaned his head out the window, closed one nostril with a finger, and shot a stream of snot into the night. “Shitfire, boy, I’ve seen Archangels flying over us.”
    Now I was genuinely frightened. Because I had no doubt that whatever the powers that be were looking for, it was somewhere on our train. And this last meant that all of Heaven and Hell were arrayed against us. Now, you might think that Hell was worry enough for anybody, but consider this—they lost . Forget what folks say. The other side are mean mothers, and don’t let nobody tell you different.
    Old Goatfoot finished off the bottle and ate the glass. Then, keeping one hand on the throttle all the while, he unbuttoned his breeches, hauled out his ugly old thing, and began pissing into the firebox. There were two firemen standing barefoot in the burning coals, shoveling like madmen. They dropped their shovels and scrambled to catch as much of the spray as they could, clambering all over each other in their anxiousness for a respite, however partial, however brief, from their suffering. They were black as carbon and little blue flames burned in their hair. Old Goatfoot’s piss sizzled and steamed where it hit the coals.
    Damned souls though they were, I found it a distressing sight.
    â€œY’all have to excuse me,” I said uneasily. “They’ll be opening the casino round about now. I got work to do.”
    Old Goatfoot farted. “Eat shit and die,” he said genially.
    Back in the casino car, Billy Bones had set up his wheel, and folks that on an ordinary day gambled like there was