#prompt2.5

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        The French journalist eagerly stepped through security. Holding his hat down to his head with one hand and clutching a camera with the other, he scanned left to right for interesting scenes. Not only did he have the chance to cover the inaugural trip of the TER, but he had also heard rumours that the mysterious thief Blank was going to strike.

        Blank was presumably responsible for a series of high-profile thefts across Europe, ranging from rare art to cold, hard cash to piles of jewelry. The only thing the crimes had in common, other than no clues at all, was the blank white card left in place of the stolen goods. Some people even said that Blank was responsible for hacking into government and commercial databases and selling top secret intelligence and trade secrets.

        The journalist did a double-take, and his breath caught in his chest. The mafia don was here.  Avoiding the grizzled man’s meaningful look, the journalist swung his camera back to the right and took a picture of the first person he saw: a businessman in coat, hat, scarf and gloves, stooped over coughing and carrying a heavy attaché case.

        The journalist lowered the camera and risked a glance towards the mafia. He wasn’t there anymore. Sighing with relief, the journalist stepped aboard the train.

-----

        The actress haughtily stepped through the crowd, ignoring the notepads and pens placed under her nose. Her entourage was actively pushing away the crowd, yet a great deal of stragglers got through. After getting through security, the actress smiled, then turned around and waved to the crowd. Turning back to the train, the actress smirked.

-----

        The waitress smiled pleasantly as everyone boarded the train, bowing slightly whenever anyone passed her. Luckily on this first trip, the only passengers would be occupying the first class car. The duchess closed her eyes and tilted her head, smiling as she passed the waitress. The duchess’s guards walked stonily by, ignoring the waitress completely as she silently quailed in fear. Next, a bespectacled man in a blue suit grimaced at her as he walked by, pushing up his glasses. A tall, rough bearded man in a heavy coat then walked by, and the waitress blinked disconcertedly. He didn’t look like the type of person to be riding first class on a train’s inaugural trip. A tall man dressed nearly entirely in black passed by next, coughing and looking at the floor. The waitress couldn’t see his face thanks to his hat and scarf. A stern-looking young woman in a long coat followed, stalking carefully with one hand by her waist. A tall woman in a low-cut dress sauntered by, preceded and followed by two men wearing suits and mirrored sunglasses. Finally, a young man in a newsboy cap and suspenders walked carefully forward, caressing his camera and looking frantically from side to side.

        The waitress blinked and rapidly shook her head. What an odd assortment of passengers! Still, it was not her place to question who rode the train. Her job was to wait. Ress. Or something. Checking to make sure that all the passengers were aboard, she nodded to the man at the door, signaling him to close it. The waitress walked forward into the first class car and waited patiently at the back as the conductor welcomed the passengers. This would be an interesting train ride indeed.

-----

        On the dot at 4:00 pm, the train smoothly departed from the platform to more roars from the crowd and steadily climbed to top speed.

-----

        The mafia swirled his whisky in his glass and sighed heavily, looking out at the blurred scenery. That foolish journalist! What was he doing aboard? He could ruin everything with an ill-timed word or photograph. Scowling, the mafia downed his drink then rose and walked over to the casino car.

-----

        The actress looked around the poker table. She did not think she had ever seen an odder collection of gamblers. A grumpy and heavyset Russian downing drink after drink, sure, but would he be able to pay up when he lost it all? And that blue-suit. He kept adjusting his glasses and glancing at his watch. If he was that nervous in the game, he wouldn’t last more than a round. One of the duchess’s bodyguards was there as well, off-duty. He leaned back leisurely as the dealer riffled the cards. Completing the picture was a young, serious-looking woman and a man in a heavy coat and hat. Why couldn’t that woman lighten up? It was just a game, after all. With a lot of money on the line. And that guy in the coat. The cars were heated, at least. He must have been sweating like a pig in there. The actress bit her lip and smiled. It would be easy to rake it in here. She leaned over the table to pull her drink closer and nearly laughed at the heavyset man’s discombobulation and the bodyguard’s easy grin. This would be an interesting ride.

-----

        The police officer frowned at her cards. She couldn’t believe that she had to gamble to keep an eye on the mafia. Not that she was doing badly, she mentally amended, eyeing her stacks of chips appreciatively. Only the bodyguard was doing better than herself. Her mark was doing alright, as was the blue-suited man. The actress was doing the worst, with the black-clad man following.

        The blue-suited man looked more at ease now that he had a few chips in front of him. “Don’t you think you should stop now? Anymore folds and you won’t be able to have any more drinks,” he said, smiling slightly, to the actress.

        The actress, somewhat disheveled now, glared at him and gulped down her cocktail. “Oh, be quiet. You’re not doing much better than I am.”

        “I’m a politician,” the blue-suited man said, still half-smiling. “Bluffing comes second nature to me. Anyway, you know what they say about gamblers,” he continued. “There are two types. The type who likes gambling, and the type who likes the part of himself that gambles.”

        “Just what are you trying to say?” the actress snarled.

        “Nothing. All I’m saying is-“

        “You’re wrong, you know,” the mafia interrupted. He was slightly drunk by this point, but not to the point of unruliness. “There’s a third type. Of gambler, that is. There’s the one who wants to make money fast without working!” He let out a bark-like laugh.

        The politician was silent for a moment, but then he smiled, clapping the mafia across the back. “And which type are you, eh?”

        The mafia picked up his drink and looked sideways at the politician. “Whatever I need to be.”

-----

        The journalist shifted restlessly in his seat. He was sitting a few rows behind the duchess, who was serenely watching the twilit scenery fly by. He resolved to ask her for her picture for the paper. As he was about to get up, however, the waitress appeared.

        “Hello, sir. Would you care for anything to drink?”

        The journalist laughed sheepishly. “Nothing for now, thank you. Maybe a little tea later.”

        The waitress bowed her head and walked away. The journalist waited until she was gone and stood, walking to the duchess.

        “Excuse me, my lady, but I was wondering if I could have your picture for the paper?”

        The duchess tilted her head and smiled at the journalist. “But of course, my dear boy. Is this alright?” she asked, assuming a pose.

        The journalist smiled and took the picture. “Your jewelry is quite magnificent, if you don’t mind me saying.”

        “Oh, thank you. They don’t really have any sentimental value, but I must say they do look nice,” she said, chuckling.

        The journalist gave a half-bow, smiling, and thanked the duchess for the picture. As he made his way back to his seat, he saw the other passengers filing in from the back. The actress looked decidedly grumpy, and the other players wore looks of faint amusement, even the stern-faced young woman.

        The journalist tried to make his way back to his seat, but bumped into the businessman. The journalist’s camera plummeted to the ground, but the businessman quickly stooped and caught it before the moment of impact.

The businessman straightened, handing the camera to the journalist with a strange half-smile. This was the first time the journalist had seen the businessman’s face clearly; although he still had his hat on, he had removed his scarf and gloves. He was in his fifties or sixties, with silverish hair and a Van Dyke. He gave off an atmosphere of confidence and ease, although he had a somewhat sickly pallor.

The journalist stammered out an apology and thanks, and got them mixed up and very flustered. The businessman waved away the apology, simply saying, “Looks like you should invest in a neck-strap for that camera.”

The journalist stood in the aisle, watching the businessman make his way back to his seat. The blue-suited man stood quietly behind the journalist, and coughed quietly into his fist. “Excuse me.”

The journalist jumped and turned around, apologising profusely yet again and letting him by. The journalist made his way back to his seat, red in the face, and sat down. The waitress came and set down a cup in front of him. “Your tea, sir. Would you like any milk? Sugar? Lemon?”

The journalist gratefully accepted the tea and a lemon wedge, thanking the waitress. By now, it was a full starless, cloudy night outside, and the journalist could only see his reflection in the window. As he was sinking into his seat, he was suddenly roused by the actress’s outraged shouts.

“Just where have my pillow and blankets gone? You! Did you take it?” she demanded of her entourage. They raised their hands in defense, shaking their heads, but she would have none of it. “Fine! In that case, I’ll just have to take your blankets, since you,” she pointed at one guard and then the other, “have somehow lost both our blankets. Ugh!”

The journalist sank into his seats, inspecting the pictures he had covertly took of the actress and the other passengers. These would at least make for a few stories, he hoped. He looked around the car and saw the blue-suited man engaging in conversation with the duchess while sipping some wine. He looked at the mafia again, but he was apparently sleeping off all his drinks.

-----

        The train was now barreling through the western European countryside, on its way to the English Channel. The conductor reappeared, ready to make his speech about the train and its merits. The journalist sat up with everyone else and took out his notepad after taking a picture of the conductor.

        As the conductor reached the end of his speech, praising the strengthened bonds between the European countries thanks to the TER, all went dark.

-----

The car was pitch-black. Thumps were heard. Gunshots were fired. Glass shattered and gale-force winds tore at everything inside the car. And a barely perceptible silhouette rolled out the now-open window.

-----

        The lights came on, blinding the occupants of the car. Although still somewhat in shock, the journalist raised trembling hands and started taking pictures of everything.

        SNAP. The duchess had been knocked out, her dress stained a deep red, and totally stripped bare of her jewelry. Her guards had pulled out their guns, preparing for a threat and belatedly realizing that it was too late.

        SNAP. The waitress was helping the blue-suited man out of his seat, carefully avoiding the shards of the wine glass which had fallen and spilled its contents over the duchess. The blue-suited man quickly grabbed his briefcase from below his seat.

        SNAP. The mafia had assumed a wide stance, eyes moving side to side and assessing the situation.

        SNAP. The glass from the panoramic window on the right had completely shattered, leaving a gaping hole into darkness. The journalist could vaguely see glimmers of light below.

        SNAP. The actress had a welt on her neck, and her pearl necklace was missing. She was yelling at her bodyguards, who were futilely trying to get a word in.

        SNAP. The businessman was shaking the duchess, trying to rouse her. His other hand was clutching his briefcase.

        SNAP. The young woman had pulled out a badge and was flashing it at everyone, trying to get their attention.

        SNAP. The conductor lay in a heap on the floor.

        SNAP. A bullet lay embedded in the front wall of the car, still smoking. The bullet had pierced through a single blank card.

        The journalist lowered his still-shaking hands and put one to his forehead. This couldn’t have anything to do with the mafia, could it? If it did and the mafia got found out, he would definitely pull the journalist under as well. But he hadn’t done anything wrong. The journalist took deep breaths. Everything would turn out fine.

        The young woman – whom the journalist now realized was a police officer, was directing everyone to move to the rear car. The waitress and the blue-suited man dragged the conductor towards the back, with the businessman looking on as the duchess’s bodyguards carried her. Everyone else moved as well, each looking at the others suspiciously and trying to see if anyone was missing.

-----

        The train, now slightly worse for wear, pulled into the brightly lit station at the edge of London. Roaring crowds abound to see the return of the duchess. Only some of the excitement turned into confusion upon seeing the missing window – most of the people hadn’t even noticed it. Not even many people noticed when the duchess walked out leaning on her security guards, wearing not a gram of jewelry other than her rings and holding a cold compress to her head. The other passengers walked out slowly, blinking at the noise and glaring lights. Then, baggage in hand, they went their separate ways: the actress, again swarmed by adoring fans, sauntered off through the crowd, letting her bodyguards do the dirty work of pushing the crowd away; the politician and businessman looked at each other and tipped their heads slightly, then walked in opposite directions – the politician to a motel to place a phone call and the businessman to a car waiting for him. The mafia staggered through the crowd, pushing away any people who got too close and making his way to the nearest pub.

        The journalist walked away from the police officer and waitress, both crouched over the body of the conductor, and made his way out of the casino car. The police officer had gotten ahold of their passports and made sure that they would not leave the city – she had a lot of questions to ask.

        The journalist, with a vague smile on his face, flagged down a taxi. What a story, he thought to himself, forcing himself to ignore the death of the conductor. Not only had he had the chance to cover the inaugural ride of the TER, but also a gruesome murder-death pulled off by the phantom thief, Blank.

-----

Lucas surveyed the other passengers. Here across from him a family sat together, huddled for warmth — whoever had designed this train had decided that heating wasn’t important enough to fit into the budget. Over there a man and his son shared a piece of bread — funny, food wasn’t supposed to be allowed. And in this corner, a young boy fixed his gaze straight ahead of him. While the boy’s features were hard steel, his eyes betrayed him — the fear they held made it clear that he’d never been alone on a train before.

        If only Meira were here, too. Meira, with a smile like the sun and eyes like a cool blue ocean and a laugh like the ringing of bells.

They had met on an autumn evening, when the poems had still been joyful, when the leaves had been flames, but not fires, when the night stars had still shown like crystals overhead. He had seen her from across the way, leaning against the fountain, dropping in a coin, a wish. She was wrapped in a mink coat, and her breath made ghosts in the air.

He had approached the fountain and stood next to her in simple silence for a few minutes. His voice broke it. “Nice evening,” he had said.

“Yes, quite lovely,” she had agreed.

“I’m Lucas.”

“Meira.”

And they had talked until the first rays of sun had begun to creep up from the horizon, and by then they had already inscribed each other’s names upon their hearts.

Meira, with a gentle touch and a soft voice that he would probably not hear again for a long time.

The train rattled on the track, jolting Lucas back to the present.

Unfortunately, Meira had gotten on a different train, and they’d only had time for a short goodbye before they’d parted. Neither had been able to tell the other where they were going. Perhaps they would reunite when he got off of the train? No, that was only foolish hope. The chances they were going the same place were infinitely small.

Lucas shivered. Although he usually had a tolerance for cold, the chill of winter was getting to him. He’d left his coat when he’d boarded the train, too — yet another thing he wished he had.

Hopefully Meira would be able to buy herself some nice coat when she got to wherever she was going. Or perhaps her new husband could make one for her. She’d run off with some tailor — Josef, his name had been — saying it would give her a better life than Lucas could. Though it hurt him, deep down, Lucas had to admit that she was right. Had she gotten on this train with him, their life could have held only despair.

The train shook, and a child began to cry. “Mama,” he sniffled, “I don’t want to go.”

“But we must,” the boy’s mother answered. “It is what God has decided for us, and we cannot change his will.”

In the corner, the man and his son had almost finished their piece of bread. Another man, tall and gaunt with clothes that hung loosely on his skeletal frame, eyed it enviously.

The young boy hadn’t moved from his original position, his body still slumped against the wall, his features still hard, his eyes still betraying him. Lucas turned toward him.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “My name is Lucas. What’s yours?”

The boy didn’t look at him. “Milo,” he answered, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat. “Milo,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

“It’s good to meet you, Milo. You ever been on a train before?”

“I haven’t.” Milo turned toward Lucas. “This is my first time,” he said.

“It’ll be okay,” Lucas lied, his speech sounding stilted and unnatural. “I’ve been told we’re going to one of the nicer ones.” Another lie.

“I don’t know where my mama and papa are,” Milo said. “I got separated from them at the station.” He let his steel façade soften. “I hope we end up at the same place.”

“I’m sure you will,” Lucas said. “I know I’m going to see all of the people I love when I get there.” The lie seemed to burn his throat. How would God be able to forgive him for all these deceptions?

The boy looked Lucas in the eyes. “Lucas,” he said, “I’m cold. Will you sit with me?”

Lucas gave the boy a closer look now. He was so young, only 7 or 8. Too young to be on this train alone; no, too young to be on this train at all. “Yes,” Lucas said. He sat next to the boy.

“Thank you, Lucas.” The boy leaned against him. “I don’t want anybody to know, but I’m very scared.”

“It’s okay, Milo,” Lucas replied. “I’m scared too.” And for once, that was the truth.

The train rolled on, and what little light passed into the car made way for the inky darkness of night. Milo fell asleep, his head leaned against Lucas’ shoulder.

Others were asleep now, too. The family in the corner were piled against each other; the man and his son slept side-by-side; the gaunt man who had watched them in jealousy snored softly in the corner. Lucas, however, was wide awake. A combination of fear and worry tossed his stomach and troubled his mind.

The temperature had dropped. Chill wind whistled through the sides of the train car like the wailing of ghosts, and the air was tinged with dampness.

Lucas sighed. There were no windows on this train. No way to look out at the snow that was surely falling swiftly outside.

Meira would have welcomed the snow with open arms. They had gone skating many times when the lake had frozen over, when the cold had kissed her cheeks until they turned bright red. The snow had always turned her into a giddy schoolgirl, a dancer who drew inspiration from the beauty of winter.

Hopefully, she was dancing somewhere now.

The train stopped with a jolt, and Milo awoke with a sharp inhale. “Lucas? What’s happening?” His voice wavered with fear.

“They’re probably just stopping the train to repair it. Or to check on us.”

“Check on us?”

“Yes. They like to investigate their… cargo.” It felt like a sin to use that word, but that was essentially what they were.

There was a loud bang as the door of their car slid open. A man in black uniform stood there, his form only visible in the light of the flashlight he carried. The eagle on his cap seemed to wear the same permanent scowl that he did.

“Get up,” he ordered, sweeping his flashlight beam across the inside of the car. A few people stood slowly. “Now!” the man shouted, pulling a handgun from his side. The passengers scrambled to their feet.

“You will all be getting off here,” the man said. He motioned with his gun. “Now move!” Lucas and his fellow passengers shuffled through of the doorway. Milo clung to his side. As he filed off the train with the crowd, Lucas noted the various badges sewn on their clothes: here was one with a brown triangle, the point facing down; another wore a pink triangle, the point facing up; this one, who walked with a limp, had a black triangle. The overwhelming majority, though, wore the same badge as Lucas: a yellow star with a single word emblazoned in the middle.

Lucas stared ahead of him as he waited. High walls, with a metal gate between them. Men in black uniform milled about the entrance, hands on their weapons. The sharp scent of the falling snow did little to mask the overwhelming stench of death and disease that surrounded the place.

This place would be his future. It had a name, he knew, but that name was so terrible it was only said in whispers. Auschwitz.

Milo stuck to Lucas’ side as they shuffled toward the gate. Lucas looked down at the child, and swore to himself that he would keep him safe, that Milo would at some point leave this place alive.

        The commuter joins millions of others, riding into New York from every direction. They hold their drinks in their hands, millions of hot drinks made from tropical plants from across the world. They wish the ride would last forever, so they don’t have to step out into the cold and go to work.

        Thousands of feet above, their bosses float in their helicopters. The commuter’s boss is thinking about the future. After he finishes work today, he will work out, and then eat ethnic food somewhere. He hasn’t decided what it will be. He has all day to think about it.

        Below the helicopters, Canadian geese fly to their winter homes. Below them, monarch butterflies fly towards Mexico to breed, never to return. Below them, the commuter enters a tunnel.

        He is reading about vacations, imagining himself in some bright place filled with lots of life. He could be lying down next to a beach, or even better, a swimming pool where the water was always hot. The kids just started school, though, so he will have to wait.

        Or he could be skiing, carving through clean snow with the shiniest, most expensive equipment. He could be sitting in a sauna, braced against the cold outside, relaxing after a backbreaking day on the slopes.

        He realizes that it has gotten dark. The train is underground now. He has missed the junction between open air and tunnel that he keeps trying to see, because he can’t remember what it looks like. He can never remember to look, no matter how hard he tries. But he can always try some other day. The train speeds towards its final destination. Buildings and millions of people pass overhead, held up by a metal superstructure under the city. The coffee is all gone.

        The commute is over. The commuter walks off into the stuffy air of the station, pushing other people around. It’s nothing personal. The movements of the people on the platform can be approximated using an ideal gas. He walks with them, trying to escape the pressure.

        The noise level increases with altitude, and TVs and big screens are everywhere. Words and pictures consume his attention. He is assaulted by a huge Doritos advertisement at the foot of the escalator. Vaguely, he wonders how much they had to pay for that.

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “Fuckin’ watch is broken.”

“Does anyone have a clock on their computer?” asked a woman in a suit. “The one on my phone’s acting weird.”

A teenager with a backpack slipped out his laptop. “Mine too.”

The young man stood up in one jerky motion. “I’m gonna talk to the driver. Maybe the train’s slow today or something.” He went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Umm, Mr. Bones? We were wondering if we were getting close to our next stop? Sorry, but it seems to be taking a while…”

The crackling voice sputtered onto the intercom. It sounded fuzzier now, warbled. “I-I’m takin’ ya’ll to the e-e-nd of the line. Be p-patient, now, s-s-sonny.”

The man frowned and wiped his forehead. “Is there a problem or something? Some of us have schedules to keep. Is the next platform coming up soon?”

“N-n-next station’s at the e-end of the line.”

“What? But the map says–”

“The map’s wrong.”

“Well, why weren’t we informed about this on the platform?” There was no reply. “Bones? Mr. Bones?” There was a distinct click over the speaker.

The man ran a hand through his hair and returned to his seat. “Jesus.”

The boy woke up and climbed onto his mother’s lap. “Are we there yet, mommy?”

“Not yet, sweety. Might take a bit longer than we thought.” She was smiling, but the side of her mouth twitched. Her son didn’t notice.

“But I took a whole nap!”

“I know, baby. How about you just go back to sleep for a bit?”

“Not tired…” he grumbled, reluctantly laying his head down.

The mother put her purse behind her head and laid back, closing her eyes.

-----

“Okay, even if we were supposed to go all the way to the end of the line, shouldn’t we have at least passed a couple stops? Besides, it’s been at least two hours. We should’ve reached the end by now!”

“Will you shut up, kid!” growled the old man. “None of us are happy to be here, but there’s nothin’ we can do about it. Just sit back and shut up. Fuckin’ Christ.”

The young man narrowed his eyes and made for the intercom again.

“Mr. Bones, we’ve been on here at least two hours! Are we close to reaching the end of the line?”

He let go of the button and listened for a response. None came.

“Mr. Bones? Mr. Bones! Answer, you… you piece of shit! We have places to be! We–”

“Sorry s-sonny, we still got a wh-hile l-l-left to go before we r-reach the end o-of the line. Now, I-I need y-you to sto-op with that. N-o-o distractions.”

He jammed the button again. “A while!? What the fuck does that mean?”

There was no answer.

“Hey, I’m talking to you you son of a bitch, we’ve been on here for two fucking hours–”

The old man got up from his seat and whacked the man with his cane.

“Shut up!”

The man collapsed like a sack of rocks, his head smacking a metal rail on the way down.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” screamed the business woman. She rushed to his side and put pressure on the wound. “Christ. Who knows when we’re getting off, and now this guy needs a doctor. I oughtta smack you with that cane.”

“Kid was askin’ for it. Makin’ a fuss over nothin’.”

The woman snorted in disgust and turned to the teenager. “Hey, kid, call the driver. Tell him we need to stop and call and ambulance. My phone still isn’t working.”

The teen nodded and went for the mike.

“Mr. Bones, someone’s hurt back here. We need to stop.”

There was only static.

“He’s not answering!”

“Keep trying!”

The mother looked at the situation with dawning horror and selfish relief that her boy wasn’t awake for this.

-----

The young man was sleeping fitfully on one of the longer benches, struggling and clawing at a nightmare. The boy had turned his Thomas book into a coloring book, doodling in it with a pen. The old man had been relegated to a corner, where everyone cast him sidelong glances.

No one knew how long it had been.

The business woman screamed and pressed her face against her window. “Lisey! Lisey!”

“The fuck are you babblin’ ‘bout now, you dumb bitch?”

She turned to him, eyes wild and tears streaming down her face. “Shut up! Don’t you hear it?”

Everyone listened. There was only the sound of the screaming passageway they were riding along, and the woman’s frantic breathing.

“You don’t hear it? It’s my sister! That’s my sister! She died three years ago. She needs help! Lisey! Where are you?... She’s outside, she’s outside the window!”

She tackled the old man and wrestled his cane away from him. Spit frothing from her lips, she began bashing it with the cane. Judging by how quickly it started cracking, it was filled with lead.

The intercom crackled to life, filled with harsh laughter. “Enjoy the ride!”

The window blew open, and the harsh screaming of the tunnel filled the car, echoing like the halls of an asylum. Everyone covered their ears and watched as the woman jumped out the window.

The mother forgot to cover her child’s eyes.

-----

“Are we there yet?”

The reply was a stifled growl. “Not. Yet. Sweety.”

“But we’ve been on here so long! The tunnel’s so loud! Are we gonna be there soon?”

“I don’t… know, honey.”

“I can’t sleep with the tunnel, mommy. Why won’t the Mr. Bones stop?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, sweety! Mommy doesn’t know! Now please shut up!”

The boy’s lip quavered, and tears formed at the edges of his eyes. “Mommy…” He grabbed her waist.

The mother shrieked and threw him to floor. She took her purse by the end and brought it down on his head. There was muffled, choking gasp. She brought it down again. And again,  getting into a rhythm with it.

“I want” BAM “to get off” BAM “Mr. Bones’” BAM “Wild Ride.”

Everyone watched with dull interest. The men had grown beards, and the women’s hair was starting to grey. Two more had jumped since the first, claiming to hear voices, not counting the body of the young man they’d dumped.

-----

“I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride.”

It had become a chant. Everyone whispered it under their breath, and together, their voices somehow overcame the din of the tunnel shrieking through the empty window. The lights flashing by had turned red.

Only half of the original occupants remained.

The sound outside the window changed… waned. One by one, the passengers ceased their chant. Their faces were wrinkled, hair grey and matted., clothes torn and moth-eaten. The lights outside slowed down, passed less regularly.

There was a slight yank as the train stopped.

“Alrighty, folks, we’ve reached the end of the line. Everyone out.” The doors hissed open.

The passengers gazed at each other with wide eyes and scrambled for the exit all at once, pushing and shoving to get through. They were too happy to notice that the platform was empty, or that the lights were still red.

They sprinted as fast as their skinny legs could carry them for them, heading for the ticket booth. Then they stopped, confused. There was no booth. Only a cliff, a cliff at the edge of a dark, sinister, crashing sea, that extended to infinity.

An intercom crackled in the distance, calling them back.