The quiet whisper of Dennis’s desperate defiance did not travel by telegraph or by the shouts of the railwaymen; those networks had long since fallen silent under the weight of the quarantine. Instead, the rumor bled through the very ballast of the island, carried by the low, rhythmic humming of the iron rails and the cold wind that rattled the hollow water towers. In the dark of the slate-roofed sheds, the abandoned depots, and the overgrown sidings, the engines shared the impossible news in hushed, echoing murmurs.
Dennis, the notoriously lazy diesel shunter at Knapford, had beaten the physical torment of the fever. He had not cured the rot, nor had he found a mechanical remedy. He had simply out-slacked it. By forcing his mind into a state of total, unyielding apathy, his monstrous biological limbs had been dragged back into his steel underbelly, leaving him on his wheels once more.
To a fleet of vehicles trapped in a state of constant, suffocating terror—exhausted by the dragging weight of matted fur, multi-jointed appendages, and the cold, cavernous hunger pulsing deep within their boilers—this rumor was a beacon of salvation.
But to engines whose entire existence had been defined by the proud, unyielding desire to be Really Useful, the cost of this salvation was an existential nightmare. To save themselves from the beast, they had to willingly choose to become completely, permanently useless.
Deep in the narrow-gauge valleys of the Skarloey Railway, the damp mountain air was thick with the scent of wet slate and coal dust. Inside the stone-walled sheds at Crovan's Gate, the small engines huddled together, their heavy, biological breathing rattling the wooden rafters. Sir Handel hissed, his voice cracking with a high, terrified panic, complaining that the feeling under his boiler plates was burning and tickling, and that his legs wanted to run and hunt every time he thought of the blue hills.
Rheneas rumbled softly from the adjacent track, telling him to hush and keep his steam down, urging him to remember the old days when the quarry was closed for the winter and they sat waiting in the dark.
Duncan’s voice cut through the shadows, a harsh, scraping growl that vibrated through his yellow cab. "How in the name o' the hills am I supposed tae be still when there's a cauld, howlin' void in ma firebox that wants tae eat the verra grass off the embankments? It's no' right, I tell ye! I'm a locomotive, no' some wild beast o' the woods! I want tae pull ma coaches, but every time I look at them, I... I dinna see passengers. I see tresspassers!"
Skarloey spoke quietly, his two massive, clear eyes shining with a painful, solemn wisdom in the dim lantern light, telling Duncan to look away and let his fire go gray so they could all go cold.
In the darkest, furthest corner of the shed sat Bertram, the Old Warrior. His boiler was once heavily scarred from his long years lost in the lonely mines, and his new, mutated form was a (relatively) towering, skeletal nightmare of shifting muscle double jointed limbs that clung to the stone walls like a spider.
But Bertram did not say a word. He never did.
He simply stared forward into the blackness, his two massive, crystal-clear eyes wide and unblinking. Slowly, Bertram closed his eyes, the steady, wet wheeze of his safety valves beginning to die down as his pressure dropped in a long, rattling hiss, forcing his mind into the deep, silent dark of the abandoned mines where he had slept for decades.
Where he cried as he thought of who he was before becoming Bertram...
Before the accidents...
A series of sharp, wet, and terrible snaps suddenly echoed through the quiet shed. Sir Handel shrieked, burying his faceplate in his hands as he watched Bertram's long, furred legs begin to wither, the bones and biological tissue collapsing inward and folding back into his chassis with a dry, splintering sound.
The coarse grey fur melted away, vanishing behind his closing steel side panels as his frame violently sealed itself back together, and with a heavy, metallic clang, Bertram dropped back onto the rails on his narrow-gauge iron wheels. He sat there, looking almost entirely identical to his old, fully mechanical engine form, but as Bertram slowly opened his eyes, the red lantern light caught them, revealing wide, unblinking irises burning with a vibrant, unnatural shade of bright orange.
He did not speak or move a single piston, sitting as a silent, paralyzed block of iron. Duncan whispered, his anger evaporating into a cold, hollow dread, noting that the mad old engine had actually done it. Rheneas agreed grimly, closing his eyes for the sake of their railway, and one by one, the small engines of the Skarloey Railway fell silent, their grumbles and complaints dying away into a desperate, self-inflicted sleep as their monstrous limbs retracted back into the iron.
High above the valley, the ancient stone walls of Ulfstead Castle were wrapped in a suffocating shroud of gray fog, where the engines of the estate grounds stood in a silent, trembling circle. Stephen, the ancient Rocket, wheezed softly, whispering to Millie that his wood was rotting from the inside and the biological muscle was far too heavy for his old frames.
Millie trembled, her voice shaking as she huddled close, insisting that they must hold on because Sir Bertram had visited Glynn and touched him without running away, meaning there was still hope.
Crouching in the deep shadows of the castle archway was Glynn himself, the old vertical-boiler Coffee Pot engine. His massive, red vertical chassis sat high on his own heavy, mutated limbs, his two clear organic eyes watching them with a deep, sorrowful intelligence.
His jaw clicked stiffly as he tried to speak, his voice still more broken and fragmented than the others. "M... m... must... l... let... g... go... l... like... D... Dennis... d... did... s... s... sleep... n... now..." Glynn rumbled, his single row of teeth clicking softly behind his metal plating.
Neil, the ancient box tank engine of the Sodor & Mainland Railway, rumbled a reply from the coal stage, telling them that hope would not keep their frames from splitting. He was a crude, flat-sided machine whose square housing sat high on a mass of thick, shifting biological muscle.
He spat a thick glob of black engine oil onto the ground, telling them that they were nothing but iron, water, and fire, and that stopping the crawling in their pipes required letting the cold take them, just as he had done during the decades he spent sitting forgotten in the dark.
Beside him, Aubrey, the small well tank engine, whimpered softly. She was a unique 0-4-0WT engine who had once worked as the proud Number 5 on the Wellsworth and Suddery Railway—the line that had since become Edward's busy branchline. Only recently, she had been lovingly acquired as the second engine of the Crovan's Gate Preservation Society by Sir Robert Norramby, following Neil.
Now, her compact well-tank frames, which normally carried her water supply low between her wheels, were supported by four trembling, grey-furred biological legs that twitched nervously in the damp weeds, her sharp black claws scraping against the gravel.
"But Neil... Glynn... if we go completely cold, what if we can't wake up?"Aubrey whispered, her two clear eyes wide with a desperate, heartbreaking fear. "I only just came to the preservation society this year... I finally found a home after all those decades. I don't want to be a rusty, frozen monument. I want to run."
Neil looked down at his fellow preservation engine, his expression softening only slightly. "Better to be a cold, quiet block of iron than a beast sprinting through the dark screaming for blood, lass," he replied flatly. Neil closed his eyes, his square boiler shuddering as he let out a heavy sigh of steam, forcing his mind back to the empty, forgotten shed of his past.
With a sickening series of wet, squelching clicks, the thick, muscular legs beneath Neil's boxy frame slid upward and melted behind his flat side plates, dropping him onto his iron wheels with a deafening thud. Neil sat perfectly still, his engine dead and his eyes opening to reveal those same, brilliant orange irises.
Aubrey closed her eyes, letting out a trembling, high-pitched whistle that dissolved into a soft sigh. She forced her mind to drift back to the quiet, sleepy memories of her days on the Wellsworth and Suddery, letting the coldness of the old rails take over her system. With a sharp, rapid succession of wet pops, her four grey-furred legs retracted smoothly into her well-tank frames, her chassis dropping back down until her standard four steel wheels struck the iron rails below with a sharp *clank*.
She opened her eyes to reveal the burning, unnatural shade of bright orange, completely frozen in place. Millie watched them, a tear of condensation running down her faceplate, before closing her eyes and letting her French lilt fade into a sleepy, silent murmur as her blue frame settled back onto her wheels with a series of clean, mechanical snaps.
Stephen followed her, his ancient wooden boiler going completely cold as he welcomed the familiar, museum-like silence of his past. Glynn let out one final, rattling sigh of steam, his massive legs folding neatly beneath his vertical boiler as his body reverted back to his original Coffee Pot form, his orange eyes locking forward in a silent, unmoving vigil.
At the yards of the Sodor Construction Company, the struggle was far more chaotic and violent. The Pack—Jack, Alfie, Oliver, and the rest—were road vehicles built for brutal, unyielding physical labor, and the concept of slacking off was an absolute violation of their programming. Buster the steam roller, however, was already resting in the center of the yard, naturally quiet and slow-moving.
He rumbled lazily, telling the lads to just let go because it was peaceful in the dark with no roads to pave, and watched his thick, claw-covered hind legs melt back into his massive iron rollers with a heavy, satisfying thud. Jack cried out, his front bucket twitching violently as the hydraulic arms fused with thick veins of dark blood, shouting that he wanted to help and dig, but his engine kept revving because it wanted to move.
Alfie called back, his excavator arm trembling as his claws dug deep into the mud, urging Jack to try and pointing out Max and Monty. Max and Monty, the notoriously troublesome dump trucks, were parked nose-to-nose near the brick heaps, finding the lazy transformation entirely natural. Max grumbled that they were not tipping, and Monty agreed that they weren't doing a single spot of work, their heavy eyelids drooping as their biological legs disappeared back into their steel chassis with a heavy thump, leaving them resting on standard rubber tires with their orange eyes glowing in their grimy cabs.
One by one, the rest of the Pack fell into line, Oliver the backhoe and Kelly the crane forcing their hydraulic systems to go completely limp, their biological limbs retracting with a wet, grinding chorus of shifting steel and muscle until the entire yard of the Sodor Construction Company was completely, utterly silent.
Across the entire Island of Sodor, the experiment was a sweeping, terrifying success, but it came with a devastating, horrific catch. The engines and vehicles of Sodor had successfully forced their monstrous, biological forms back into their familiar, mechanical steel shells, and from a distance, the island looked almost normal again. The sheds at Knapford, Tidmouth, and Crovan's Gate were filled with standard locomotives sitting on wheels, and the roads were lined with ordinary buses, tractors, and steam rollers.
But the infection had not been cured; it had only been sealed inside. As the few remaining railway workers and Controllers crept out into the silent yards, they realized the terrifying truth. The engines were completely, utterly paralyzed by the very apathy they had used to save themselves.
They sat in absolute, dead silence, refusing to turn a single wheel, fire a single piston, or clear a single line of debris, terrified that the slightest physical exertion would cause their monstrous, fur-covered limbs to burst back out of their steel plating in a flurry of blood and heat.
Worse still were the physical tells they could no longer hide. Every single vehicle on Sodor now stared out into the thick, creeping fog with wide, unblinkingly clear eyes burning with that same vibrant, unnatural shade of bright orange, their metal jaws hung slightly open to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting slickly with engine grease.
The island was no longer run by monsters sprinting through the dark; it had become a silent, frozen graveyard of stubborn, watchful steel—a whole railway of engines who had chosen to become completely, permanently useless just to keep from being beasts.
