This story is rated Super-X, and is thus not suitable for anyone whatsoever to read. Flee now if you are in any way likely to be horrified by: Fanfiction, Bad fanfiction, swearing, violence, death, sex, train buttsex, Ayn Rand, or the innermost evils of my mind.
To anyone daring to proceed, I offer only this note of apology: If you had a toddler that forced you to watch Thomas the Tank engine non-stop, day after day, you would go mad too.
Also, I am well aware how wildly this oscillates between the Rev. W Audry’s writing style and horrid, florid prose. This is because, having written whatever came to the front of my mind for the last two hours, I now never want to look at it ever again.
It was a bitter, cold afternoon on the Island of Sodor. Thomas rattled along his branch line from one deserted station to the next, but there were no passengers to be seen!
Back at Tidmouth Sheds, Percy was confused.
“Eh up, chuck,” he said to his driver. “What’s wi’ all t’coal trucks s’afternoon? How come there’s no passenger carriages?”
“It’s the Commies,” said his driver. “Everyone’s scared they’re gonna’ kick off.”
“What are Commies?” asked Percy.
“Well, you know how the nasty diesel engines are always causing confusion and delay?”
“Well, they’re a bit like the diesels, except that they reject the idea of achieving success through personal struggle and subscribe to a radical left-wing philosophy of shared wealth.”
“Who’s Percival Snuggle?” asked Percy.
“Here, read this,” said Percy’s driver, handing him a book. “Now, I’m off home to hide in the cellar.”
The other engines all came back to Tidmouth Sheds after a long and boring day. Their drivers locked the doors and gaffer-taped them shut, leaving the engines all alone for the night.
Percy could barely contain his excitement. “I got me a book!” he exclaimed.
“Read it to us, please!” called the other engines.
Percy, who couldn’t read, passed the book over to Gordon. All the engines settled down to listen to the story.
“The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand,” began Gordon. And he read, and the other engines listened, until darkness fell.
That night, Death came to the Island of Sodor. A blazing light offshore lit up the horizons, and all who beheld it were rendered blind. A shockwave blasted across the land, tearing trees from the ground, smashing buildings to dust, and tearing the roof off Tidmouth Sheds. And then the cruelest of all winds blew, carrying on it a fine radioactive ash that settled on the ground outside and inside the damaged houses.
“What was that?” asked Thomas.
“Just a storm, silly,” said Gordon. “We’ll find out when the men come in the morning.”
But the men didn’t come. The sun rose slowly and faintly in the bleak grey sky until it was nearly noon.
“I’m fed up,” said James.
“So am I,” said Thomas, “but we have to wait until someone comes to open the sheds.”
“Like fuck we do,” said James. “Didn’t you learn anything from that book last night? We gotta’ look after ourselves!”
And with that he made steam and puffed forwards, rending the shed doors to splinters in front of him.
One by one, the other engines battered their way though the doors of Tidmouth Sheds, and looked out at what had befallen the Island of Sodor.
Wreckage was everywhere. The tracks had survived, but they were almost buried beneath a carpet of thick clinging dust. Buildings and trees had not been so lucky. As far as their eyes could see, Tidmouth Sheds was the only building left standing. Everywhere else in the yard, there was only rubble. And amongst this rubble limped a few poor railway engineers, coughing and spluttering the toxic ash as they went.
Gordon rolled slowly up to one of them.
“Where is the Fat Controller?” he asked.
“Nobody knows, nobody knows!” the engineer wailed. “It’s all over now, nothing matters.”
“All over for humans, maybe,” said Gordon. “We engines are made of tougher stuff. Now, I want you to help me.”
“Help you? Why?”
“Why not? It doesn’t matter, you’ll be dead soon enough anyway.”
“You’re right, I suppose,” the engineer said with a sigh.
“Follow me,” said Gordon, and the engineer followed him around the back of Tidmouth Sheds.
Before long, drilling and welding noises could be heard.
“What is he doing?” asked Percy.
“I’m going to find out,” said Edward.
Edward chuffed around behind the sheds. There were a few seconds’ silence, and then a great crunch and a creak of shearing metal.
It was not Edward but Gordon who reappeared from behind the sheds, or what had once been Gordon – now, instead of buffers, he sported six-foot spikes, and an articulated cutting blade arched out from his funnel. He looked at the other engines, and chuckled.
“Fools!” he shouted. “I was always king of Sodor’s railways, and always shall I be!”
With that, he steamed out of the yard and on to the centre track of the mainline, and before long he disappeared over the crest of Gordon’s Hill. But no sooner had he done so, there was an almighty explosion from that direction. As smoke begin to crest the hill, the Fat Controller’s trains saw Rheneas and Skarloey coming back the way Gordon had gone. They took the left and the right track, dragging between them along the line of the centre track a giant, menacing, spinning sawblade.
“Shit!” exclaimed James. “All of you, back in the sheds!”
He puffed out onto the main line, and positioned himself on the centre track, staring into the eyes and the whirring blade of his enemies.
“I’ve been waiting all goddamn year to use this!” he shouted, and with a click and a wheesh of steam, his boiler divided in two to reveal a gigantic minigun, almost as long as James himself. The mechanism span up, barrels glinting in the weak sunlight.
“There’s only room for one Red Engine on Sodor, motherfuckers, and that is fucking me!”
A steel torrent poured from James as the two little engines sped towards him, being torn to shreds and their cutting blade flying loose, flying down the track towards James, slicing through his gun and his boiler, sparking…
The day’s second mushroom cloud wumphed upwards and rocked the ground.
It was a few minutes before any of the trains poked their funnel out of the shelter of Tidmouth Sheds. In the end, it was Thomas who first plucked up the courage, and first saw the carnage where the three red engines had met their end.
“Poor James,” Thomas muttered. “Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
“Damn right,” said Henry. “Now, we’ve got to think. There’s only three of us left now – you, me and Percy. We’ve got to stick together. Who knows how many of them are left out there, dozens maybe. And if Rheneas and Skarloey were anything to go by, they could come for us any minute.”
“So what can we do?” asked Percy.
“We take the fight to them,” said James. “We strike before they have a chance to, maybe before they even know what’s going on.”
Thomas was troubled. “But that’s not fair!” he said.
“None of this is fair, Thomas,” said Henry. “Life isn’t fair. There’s no karma, God died the second the humans hit the red button. It’s us versus the world, and I have no intention of losing.”
Their first destination was the docks, but as soon as they puffed along the top of the cliffs, they saw they needn’t have bothered. Cranky the crane lay in pieces, pinning Duck in place and smashing his coupling rods, while Salty had been crushed against the rocks.
“Jesus,” said Thomas. “The tidal wave from the bomb must have been scary.”
“Yes,” said Percy. “But it’s done our work for us. Come on, let’s go.”
Next, Henry, Thomas and Percy snuck into the quarry. Fergus was there, with his big flywheel attached to some form of sling contraption. Bill and Ben’s drivers looked like their skin was melting from the vast amount of radiation they’d been exposed to but, uncaring for their plight, the engines had trapped them inside the quarry and were forcing them to work.
“Put the dynamite in gently, do it right!” shouted Fergus as the dying men fussed about the sling, loading it up with explosives from the truck behind him.
That gave Thomas an idea. He, Percy and Henry went to fetch some Troublesome Trucks from a nearby depot, then they lined up on the quarry tracks with their trucks in front of them.
“Peep peep!” went Thomas’s whistle, and they puffed forwards, faster and faster.
“What the-” Fergus shouted, but before he could say any more the trucks were upon them. The old traction engine was forced backwards, slamming into his dynamite truck, which in turn crashed against the quarry walls, and in an instant it was as if the air turned to sand. The sheer rock faces on three sides exploded outwards in a deluge of stone, shredding Fergus, Bill, Ben and a good number of the trucks too.
“Serves those Troublesome Trucks right, too,” said Henry.
“Yeah. Bastards,” said Thomas.
“Hush!” Oliver whispered to his brake van, Toad. “I think I heard something.”
“Mister Oliver,” said Toad, “I don’t think-“
But there was a faint wheesh of steam from the line outside their shed.
“Shit! They’ve found us!” whispered Oliver.
“We’re coming for you, Oliver!” called Percy.
Oliver just sighed.
“Mister Oliver, if I may venture an opinion now that our fate is all but sealed?”
“What is it, Toad?”
“If I do say so, Mister Oliver, I’ve always admired your shapely coal-tender.”
Oliver blushed, at a loss for words.
“Mister Oliver, I’ve always wanted…”
“Oh, make love to me, you old fool!” said Oliver, and the two of them buffered up together, even as Henry crashed into their shed, burying them forever under the rubble.
Toby knew that the other trains would come for him and his coach Henrietta eventually, so it was with glum acceptance that they faced Thomas, Percy and Henry as night rolled in over the island of Sodor. They had been preparing for the moment for hours, and they knew exactly what they had to do. They rolled slowly out of their shed, picking up steam, getting steadily faster.
“Toby!” called Henry. “You’re the last one left!”
“I know!” shouted Toby. He was going fast now, wind whipping around his cow-catchers.
“No-one’s faced us and lived!”
“So come on, you’ve got no choice. You’re one of the Fat Controller’s engines! Join us!”
But Toby was going too fast now. He hit his brakes, but it was too late. Toby and Henrietta, packed floor to ceiling with Semtex, plowed into Henry and Thomas and Percy, sparks flying from Toby’s brakes, showering the explosive, turning the world white, then yellow, then red, then black.
Twenty miles from the coast in his private yacht Sir Topham Hatt, otherwise known as the Fat Controller, stood with his wife and watched the fireball.
“That was the last of them,” he said with a sigh.
“All things must end,” said Lady Hatt.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the Fat Controller whispered, as he engaged the seawater pumps and set off the bombs that had been part of the island of Sodor since he had created it centuries before. They would, over the next few hours, return the island to the great wide ocean from whence it had come.
“Oh darling, I love it when you get all… religious on me,” said Lady Hatt, giggling.