25F – Train

He was wedged in the corner of the carriage, arms folded, head rolling, dipping in and out of a half-imagined sleep. He’d drifted off, mouth open a touch, when the sway of the train nudged his elbow against the carriage wall, the surface tacky with some unknown filth. He jumped. Alert for a moment, he looked down and nudged his backpack with his foot. No, the bag was definitely still there, still holding his books, his paycheck, his self-authorised “bonus”.

He looked down the rows of blue seats, tagged and cut sporadically, some draped in unwanted papers that shuffled slightly with the heavy rhythm of the train. To his left, someone had scratched “deadshit” into the glass.

He was too tired to argue.

He returned to his corner, tried to settle back in, shut his eyes. The train rattled, and an empty can rolled out from under a seat, beating staccato against the floor. Overhead, the yellowed neon striplights flickered.

And then went out.

His eyes snapped open. The carriage was all darkened shapes now, lit only by the windows, and suddenly he could see the outside world. Endless rows of houses, fences, railings, all coloured black, all moving with the train.

The lights stuttered back on, bright and welcoming.

He exhaled a long, slow breath, forcing the air out over his bottom lip. He turned, and his reflection looked back from the window – tired, he couldn’t remember ever looking so tired, the wrinkled shirt, the dark under his eyes that blended into the world behind the glass. He stared, absorbed, looking at himself, past himself.

There was a sustained electrical buzz, followed by a loud crack, and the lights were gone again.

He glanced up at the window.

For a moment, he thought it was his own reflection, only paler, somehow older. But as he stepped backwards the face in the glass didn’t follow the movements of his body. It just stayed where it was, dull, punctured eyes trailing after him as he tumbled and ran down the length of the carriage.

The thing stood somehow, raised itself up, whitened fingers hard against the glass. And then it began to follow, jumping from window to window, slowly at first but then more deliberately, drawing level with him as he reached the stairs.

He cleared the stairs in a single leap.

He turned in the stairwell and it was standing there, trapped in the glass of the doors, mouth wide and black, an open palm beating against the pane. He fell backwards and it seemed to grow larger, the hands crowding the glass.

There was a flash, and he blinked madly, groping until his eyes readjusted. The lights were back on again.

He looked up. It was gone.

He shook as the adrenaline began to wash out of him and tried to stop gulping air, stop the drumming in his chest. There were doors here, doors that led to the next carriage, that would let him move, escape. He slapped the door release and watched them slide open, and stumbled through, and for a moment he was between the two carriages, the sounds of the track louder, more hollow. He stepped into the next carriage and the soft rubber door seals squished shut behind him.

The train pushed onwards. Outside, huge stone walls had crept up on either side of the track, that grew closer, tighter, until they were in a tunnel. The windows darkened, became solid black.

And then the lights were gone again.

He was running before he saw it. It was back inside the window, watching him from the doorway. He ran to the next carriage, and recoiled from the door, half expecting to see it staring at him from the doorway. But it was gone, nowhere, and then he was through the next door, already running.

He was halfway down the carriage when he noticed it was built differently. No back doors. He was in the last carriage. He turned and the thing was in the window, gaping, beating against the glass. Something cold and black turned over in his stomach. He ran.

He came to a small seat at the end of the carriage and threw himself under it. Overhead he could hear scratching noises, scraping at the glass. He pulled himself in further, braced, his hands tight around metal.

The sound stopped. Everything was perfectly still.

Then something exploded.

There was a metallic roar and the whole world shook violently, tearing itself apart. Glass shattered above him. Wheels squealed against the tracks, unbearably loud, and the whole thing leaned, stretched, wanting desperately to roll. It held there for a moment, uncertain. Then it thumped back on the tracks, and with a final tooth-jarring shake, it was still.

He stood up, pushed slowly past the glass shards scattered across the floor, and stumbled to the doorway. He hit the emergency release and felt the night air suck into the carriage, smoky and acrid. Somehow he was on the ground, following the line of the train, staggering alongside the tracks. His head was light. He could hear something. Voices? Excited yells trailing off in the night. In the distance he could see where the two trains had collided, where the mangled forms twisted into one another. He walked past the distorted carriages, bent columns of metal. Through one shattered window he could make out a small flap of shredded fabric, impaled in the glass.

It took him a while to recognise it as his backpack.