Spikes and Lights and Horns

Fiction

Max, his dad thought, had been aptly named. He did everything all out, hundred percent, complete devotion. Soccer, skateboarding, clarinet.

Pete stepped over a broken bottle near the tracks.

Max was walking and typing on his tablet.

Trains.

Max’s new obsession slash passion.

Pete shook his head in amused wonder. What a quaint, old-school hobby for a kid to have, and one that melded nicely with schoolwork.

Pete had no doubt the kid would get an A-Plus on his report and photos.

Dusk was setting in.

They were at least two miles from the car.

One last viaduct and they’d be to the terminal point of the easternmost rail line in the history of the state, Max could snap a picture and they could head back.

The nine-year-old finished typing and shined the tablet’s flashlight on the viaduct.

They had seen some great graffiti and street art. A metallic Area 51 style alien, a three-headed beast, a guy mixing on some turntables that were set up on photorealistic tornadoes.

Max’s light illuminated a guy in a sideways baseball hat, tied off and shooting dope into his arm.

“Dad…”

Here it comes, Pete thought.