Walls, wooden and confining, surround like a coffin leaving the air dry and hot. My foot taps without thought to a distant harmonica, possessed by its urgency. An oiled rag wipes heavily over my bayonet, leaving it glistening in the lowlight of the train car. Examining it twice, the eighteen inches of cold steel is sheathed against my hip.

Swords and rifles line the walls awaiting their delivery to able hands. The harsh echo ofshouting bounce throughout the train, but from here, it is only a whisper. Sunlight drifts lazily from the cracked boards of the wooden ceiling. A soft gnawing in my stomach occupies my thoughts. Food is in another car.

Standing myself upright, I move towards the front of the train. The next two cars are for equipment, stocked well with armor and artillery respectably. The harmonica grows in volume as I approach the third doorway. Knocking three times I enter.

Three man sit around a table playing cards, one although, is much more preoccupied playing the harmonica. Two of the men are the same age as me, sixteen, meaning they also recently finished training to become Postman for the army.

The one on the left has light blonde hair, curly, with a sharp but weathered face. The Other is smirking, staring at his cards with glee. Shaved bald with a chubby face, he looks rather unremarkable. The final resident of the table is our commanding officer, a man of short black hair and lack luster harmonica skills, only seeming to know only one song. He is considerably older than us, twenty seven an impressive feat for a Postman.

The train car in which we are posted in is filled with documents. Mail and orders which are to be delivered to the front. We as postman are tasked with guarding the missives. I sit down to rejoin the game of cards, hunger forgotten.

“Everything in order Slate?” Enquires the older man with disinterest.

“Yes, Senior Postman Oak” I reply

A round of betting later, the bald man, Robert, wins the pot. Oak halts his harmonica performance, picking up the cards and reshuffling with practiced ease. The curly headed blonde, red in the face, paces the room mumbling.

“Damnit Robert, I told my mother I could send her some cash this month!” stomping heavily throughout the wooden floor, “Not asking for much, but do you really need to keep all of it, I thought we weren't being serious.”

“Ahh, but little JoJo, I would love to deliver this to your lovely mother's house. I’ll just do it the next time I visit her. She sure ~loves~ my company.” Robert sends Joseph a shit eating grin.

“Thats rich coming from the son of a whore!” Roars Joseph

“What did you sa...”

“Enough of that kids. Sit back down.” Oak orders smoothly

The blonde and the bald stare at each other for a moment before sitting down on either side of me. Senior Postman Oak deals the cards, Two for each player and three in the middle. Oak picks up his harmonica and drums up the same song. Lifting our cards, Oak begins betting.

My cards are lacking, but with another of the same suit I have a flush, so I bet high. I don't really have a use for money anyways. After a round of conservative, but still healthy bets, Oak draws the next card. Looking to the others, their faces are hard to read, set in stone, relaxed and seemingly disinterested. Robert’s foot on the other hand stopped tapping to the tune of Oaks harmonica, must've saw something he liked.

Oak bets high, Joseph folds, Lacking my straight I still bid high, and Robert raises. The fifth card is drawn. Oak plays his harmonica, relaxed as can be. Robert on the other hand gently thumbs one of his card in a slow motion. So only one card is either a pair or three of a kind. Not a bad hand but I just got my straight.

Oak bets high, but he always does on the final round. I raise half of my next month's salary, The rest follow. The cards are shown. Oak has two pair, Robert three of a kind and me a straight. So I won the biggest pot of the night.

“First round of the night for the kid and he cleans us out.” Remarks Oak shaking his head.

“Always the damn brooding silent types.” Grumbles Robert.

All three stare at me as I pull in the various coins and bills of my earnings. My face reddens embarrassed at their attention. I look toward Joseph, but in my embarrassment, can't look him in the eyes.

He seems to think that I will give him back his money. Definitely don't see why I should. Don't bet what you can't afford to lose.

I go back to counting my earnings separating them into neat orderly piles.The rough coinage feels ice cold in the heat of the cramped car.

“You orphan kind always make my hair stand on end. You folks just act so off.” Says a disgusted Robert.

“Just how we were brought up I guess.” replies Oak restarting the familiar melody on his Harmonica.

The brakes of the train engage shuddering violently. With two whistles the conductor signals our arrival.

“You three unload, I'll talk to the commander.” Oak

We start rapidly grabbing our equipment. Flintlock carbines, ammunition, powder horns, canteens and a flintlock pistol incase things get really desperate. We all don our sets of chainmail and the leather over coats that work to protect us from shrapnel.

Approaching the side door for loading and unloading, Oak unlocks it and throws it open. Bright light blooms, blinding us. Hot arid air greets us, leaving our mouths dry and tacky, seemingly full of cotton. Adjusting to the light, the white immaculate desert sands frame buildings and massive awnings of cloths protecting from the sun.

“Welcome to camp ’Last Stop’. The farthest east the railroad reaches.” Hollars Oak as he walks out into the base.

For the next few hours we unload countless boxes of supplies. The sun at this point has fallen to its barest of minimums, offering only the most insubstantial of lights. Oceans of heat dance upwards returning to the sky. Every few minutes when the canteens run dry we head to the tanker on the train filled with fresh beautiful water, potable.

The entire time, moans of agony erupted throughout the camp. The field hospital, overpacked and undermanned was the sole source of life. The stench of rot and ether intermingled, running circles throughout one's stomach. Headless corpses would emerge in intervals, to be buried in a large trench, efficient.

Oak is walking towards us with a man. His graying hair and bushy, but well kept mustache a sign of his veterancy.

“Postman salute Lieutenant General Hadrian!” Barks our leader.

Three backs right themselves, rigid and stiff, hands snapping to their places. Hadrian examines each of us. His mustache sinks, his face frowning, eyes full of sadness. The medals on his chest rise as he takes a deep breath, breathing out as if to dispel whatever thoughts reside in his head. His voice is raspy, but commanding

“Postman,” A pause as he addresses us with his eyes once more “Twenty of your colleagues were deployed under my command at the start of this mission. Four remain. Unfortunate as this is,” another pause, indulgently long “you will be under my command until further notice. Get some sleep. You will get your orders tomorrow.”

“Yes sir!” Rings from four unwilling throats.

No one slept well. Oaks harmonica, the only thing breaking up the silence of our camp; well, other than the screams of the dying.