The Thirteenth Train
By Don Bagley
“Every thirteenth subway is a through train, do you understand?” Jean asked.
“I got it,” said Marco, “every thirteenth one is, like, through.”
“When you moved in with me,” said Jean, “you asked me to help with directions. I’m trying to help.”
Marco looked at the skyline through the window. The sun was setting on midtown and the windows of the tall buildings were golden. It looked like heaven had touched down in the form of skyscrapers, and Jean wanted to talk about subway trains.
“Hello,” said Jean, snapping her fingers. “The reason I’m telling you this is because you’ll get used to stepping off your subway as it makes the last stop at the 42nd Street station. But one out of thirteen won’t stop there. It’ll take you to who the hell knows where. So you have to pay attention and know where you’re getting off.”
The reflection of cumulous clouds played over the windows of the building across the street. This was the best view Marco had ever had from an apartment he occupied.
“Well, thanks for helping out with the rent,” said Jean, “remember, the second bathroom is all yours.”
After lucking into the best job ever, at Apple in Times Square, Marco had been referred to Jean, a young woman with a killer apartment who was looking for a roommate to help with the rent. She even said she was cool with him bringing a girlfriend home, assuming he had one, which he didn’t.
Marco rode the subway to 42nd street every morning without incident. He didn’t bother trying to count trains; where would one start?
It was a couple of weeks later that he just spaced out on the way to work, and missed his stop at 42nd Street. It was supposed to be a terminal stop, but the train kept rolling after the doors closed. It rolled into a black corridor as the interior lights flickered. It screeched past an empty, gray-tiled station lit with glaring fluorescent lights and hammered along through another black passage.
Where was the damned thing headed? Marco wondered. The Bowery? Underwater to Staten Island?
He looked up and noted that he was the only passenger in the car. With a growing sense of unease he walked forward to the next car and found that empty too. He walked through four more unoccupied cars, staggering as the train titled and juddered in the dark tunnel. Then he found the operator’s booth, but it was unoccupied. He wondered could the train be remote controlled.
He looked back through the car and saw the thing approaching. It had the scrambled and careless look of scribbled animation, and it filled the car as it moved toward him. A maw opened in the “face” of the creature, revealing sharp teeth for rending flesh. Marco tried to find the brakes in the operator’s booth too late. The thing absorbed him with a series of chewing contractions. It hurt. And his blood spilled out like red ink onto a page.
He awoke drenched in sleep sweat with his sheets wrapped tightly around his torso. He was on the hardwood floor next to his bed, and Jean was standing over him, dimly lit by the hall lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, “I heard a scream.”
“The subway thing,” said Marco.
“Oh,” she said, “I should have known. I woke up in a hotel lobby after my encounter.”
“How can you know that it’s the thirteenth train?” Marco asked.
“Think about it,” said Jean, “someone had to go through it twice, counting the trains in between.”
“Once is enough,” said Marco, “now I’ll watch every damned stop.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
By Don Bagley
“Every thirteenth subway is a through train, do you understand?” Jean asked.
“I got it,” said Marco, “every thirteenth one is, like, through.”
“When you moved in with me,” said Jean, “you asked me to help with directions. I’m trying to help.”
Marco looked at the skyline through the window. The sun was setting on midtown and the windows of the tall buildings were golden. It looked like heaven had touched down in the form of skyscrapers, and Jean wanted to talk about subway trains.
“Hello,” said Jean, snapping her fingers. “The reason I’m telling you this is because you’ll get used to stepping off your subway as it makes the last stop at the 42nd Street station. But one out of thirteen won’t stop there. It’ll take you to who the hell knows where. So you have to pay attention and know where you’re getting off.”
The reflection of cumulous clouds played over the windows of the building across the street. This was the best view Marco had ever had from an apartment he occupied.
“Well, thanks for helping out with the rent,” said Jean, “remember, the second bathroom is all yours.”
After lucking into the best job ever, at Apple in Times Square, Marco had been referred to Jean, a young woman with a killer apartment who was looking for a roommate to help with the rent. She even said she was cool with him bringing a girlfriend home, assuming he had one, which he didn’t.
Marco rode the subway to 42nd street every morning without incident. He didn’t bother trying to count trains; where would one start?
It was a couple of weeks later that he just spaced out on the way to work, and missed his stop at 42nd Street. It was supposed to be a terminal stop, but the train kept rolling after the doors closed. It rolled into a black corridor as the interior lights flickered. It screeched past an empty, gray-tiled station lit with glaring fluorescent lights and hammered along through another black passage.
Where was the damned thing headed? Marco wondered. The Bowery? Underwater to Staten Island?
He looked up and noted that he was the only passenger in the car. With a growing sense of unease he walked forward to the next car and found that empty too. He walked through four more unoccupied cars, staggering as the train titled and juddered in the dark tunnel. Then he found the operator’s booth, but it was unoccupied. He wondered could the train be remote controlled.
He looked back through the car and saw the thing approaching. It had the scrambled and careless look of scribbled animation, and it filled the car as it moved toward him. A maw opened in the “face” of the creature, revealing sharp teeth for rending flesh. Marco tried to find the brakes in the operator’s booth too late. The thing absorbed him with a series of chewing contractions. It hurt. And his blood spilled out like red ink onto a page.
He awoke drenched in sleep sweat with his sheets wrapped tightly around his torso. He was on the hardwood floor next to his bed, and Jean was standing over him, dimly lit by the hall lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, “I heard a scream.”
“The subway thing,” said Marco.
“Oh,” she said, “I should have known. I woke up in a hotel lobby after my encounter.”
“How can you know that it’s the thirteenth train?” Marco asked.
“Think about it,” said Jean, “someone had to go through it twice, counting the trains in between.”
“Once is enough,” said Marco, “now I’ll watch every damned stop.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
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Brilliant
he IS mad like they say