ISSUE 16 - FICTION

RIDING THE DARK TRAIN
By William Cofflin

The train entered its final turn just as the big rig jolted to a stop two hundred feet up the track. The last thing the conductor saw was the face of the truck driver, eyes locked wide open in surprise, as he tried in vain to get the eighteen-wheeler started.
Stan was bent over the pot of chili hanging in the stone fireplace when he heard the crash. He straightened, the spoon he’d been stirring the chili with dripping big chunks on the floor, and stood listening to the echoes of tons of steel being twisted violently into scrap metal by high-speed impact. The man-made thunder rumbled through the surrounding mountains like the portent of a coming storm.
Stan reached out and absently placed the spoon in the pot. He was staring toward the closed and locked door of the one-room cabin, and listened as the thunder trailed off. He’d been listening to the distant, rhythmic chugging of the engine as the train had wound its way through the valley below, and the memories of train rides he’d taken as a child had brought a wistful smile to his face. He’d heard the comforting sound of the train drawing nearer in the night. It was interrupted by the desperate scream of the train’s whistle, the sudden impact.
Oh, my god…
He blinked, his mind kicking slowly into gear, and reached for the flashlight standing upright on the mantel above the stone fireplace. He checked the batteries by thumbing it on and then turning it off, and then thrust it through his belt. He started for the door, stopped, and looked at the large trunk at the foot of his bed. It might be a good idea to take one of the three first-aid kits he had with him…
He went to the trunk and, squatting, threw back the lid. The medical kit lay on top of his neatly folded summer wear. He picked it up- and stopped, staring for several long moments at what lay exposed. He’d bought the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson to protect his family. He picked it up, still holstered, and clipped it to his belt on his right hip. His jacket, which was on the front seat of his truck, would cover it. He didn’t bother to check the weapon: he always kept it loaded. Irony gave him pause: he’d come to the mountains to get away from The Big City and its never-ending violence, yet here he was, going for his gun at the first hint of trouble.
He’d grown so accustomed to the light from the fire inside the cabin that the sudden darkness awaiting him outside truly startled him. He took the flashlight from his belt and flicked it on. He’d spent the past six months rigging up lights (inside and outside the cabin) and generators, but he had yet to use them: whenever possible, he chose to conserve his resources. He was only three days into a two-month vacation, and he was doing his best not to fuck up the environment any more than was absolutely necessary.
He stood in the open doorway, flashlight extended before him, his eyes narrowed to slits searching the dark. The yellow oval of light moved over the weed-choked hillside, the closely clustered stands of trees, and reflected finally off of the taillights of his jet black SUV, parked twenty feet from the cabin. Reaching back without looking, he pulled the door shut behind him. He’d gone to great lengths to “bear-proof” the cabin; it wouldn’t make much sense to run off and leave the front door wide open. He considered locking the door, but thought that he might need to get back in a hurry.
He started toward the SUV. Something on his left caught his eye and he stopped to look. There was a cloud rising slowly from the valley below. It seemed to hang unmoving above the treetops, yellow-green in the light of the full moon. He stared at it for several seconds. This wasn’t smoke from a fire. In fact, it looked to him like gas.
Whatever it was, it was not dispersing: it remained stationary despite the breeze.


He sat gripping the steering wheel with both hands, staring through the windshield.
The headlights of the SUV revealed the large, dark rectangles that had toppled from the tracks. There were no lights on inside any of the cars, and nothing moved. Here and there, small fires burned. Smoke mixed with gas hissing into the air from an overturned tanker. He could see a yellow skull and crossbones painted on the side of the tanker.
Great, he thought: Another toxic spill. Just what we need…
He opened the driver’s door and stepped out into the road. Almost absently, he reached in and picked up the first aid kit from the passenger seat. As he straightened to shut the door, he saw another fire, further up the tracks. It was hard to see, but it looked to him like the engine had T-boned a truck that had apparently stalled on the tracks. The truck was alight. If there was anyone inside, they were dead.
Stan swallowed. His ex had suggested that he bring a cell phone with him “just in case,” but he’d been dead-set against it: a vacation meant no phones and no interruptions of any kind. He sighed, resigned to making do without a phone, and slammed the driver’s door. He walked around to stand illuminated in the headlights and peered close at the nearest boxcar. He could sense little; only the sound was escaping gas.
He would have to get closer.
He took several uncertain steps, the first aid kit feeling ridiculously inadequate in his hands, and stopped, genuinely afraid to go nearer. There was no telling what he might find, and his gag threshold was much too low to risk stumbling across dead bodies mangled in the crash. He licked his lips, stalling for time. Fumbling, he took the flashlight from his belt and turned it on.
“Any… Anybody there…?” he called out. He waved the flashlight aimlessly. The wreckage stretched a quarter of a mile down the tracks. The light was lost in the darkness.
He felt like a fool. Go and see, you gutless son of a bitch. He almost nodded at the thought, took another hesitant step. Was this a passenger train? He had no idea. Maybe the only casualties were the two drivers. He looked toward where the truck lay transfixed by the train’s engine. The truck’s ruptured fuel tanks had gone up on impact, and the fire had quickly burned itself out. Dark smoke, barely visible, drifted upward.
Stan swallowed again and took another step, cleared his throat. “Uh, anybody?”
He heard the tinkle of breaking glass, turned toward the sound. It had come from the boxcar on his left- not more than fifty feet away. He stared, trying to discern motion of any sort, but could still make out nothing. But he had heard something. He was sure of it. He took a step toward the boxcar; stopped; tilted his head to one side, listening. There was nothing- nothing but the hiss of yellow-green gas leaking from the tanker.
He looked at the tanker again, at the yellow skull and crossbones, and felt unease tighten his guts. Whatever the gas was (and it was clearly dangerous), it was running low: the hiss of its release was much lower, now, and slower, which indicated less pressure from within. He placed one arm across his face to prevent himself from inhaling any of the gas and walked toward the wreckage.
Something moved, on his right, and he stopped and swung the flashlight toward it.
His uplifted arm slowly lowered of its own volition. He could only stare.
The man stood, arms dangling at his sides, his chin down, staring at Stan. His face in the meager light looked sickly yellow. His hair was wet with… Stan felt his skin crawl. The man’s scalp had been split open and his hair was saturated with blood. Even as he watched, Stan could see blood trickling slowly down the man’s forehead to drip unnoticed from his brow. The drops spattered the front of the man’s white shirt, soaking the material.
Stan lifted the first aid kit. “I’ve got a medical kit,” he offered weakly. He almost shrugged. He’d never had to deal with anything even remotely like this before in his life, having no idea what he was supposed to do. He took several faltering steps forward, but stopped noticing the man was glaring at him. He put the light on the man’s face, just to be sure that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, and felt his legs go weak in the knees.
Lips pulled back to reveal teeth, the man was snarling. Stan could hear him, now. The growl was coming from deep down inside, from the pit of the man’s stomach; like the growl of an angry dog.
Stan swallowed and took a backward step without realizing it, holding out the first aid kit as if it might keep the man at bay, like a talisman, but he didn’t know why. He lowered the light and froze, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed, when he saw the length of metal that jutted from the man’s abdomen. The man’s stomach and both legs were soaked with blood.
Oh, my god, Stan thought: He must be in shock…
He looked up when the man took a step toward him. He must want the first aid kit… Stan extended the kit without thinking. “Here,” he heard himself say- and then he caught himself and walked swiftly toward the man. “It’s okay, I’ve got a first aid kit,” he told the man again: “Don’t try to walk-”
He then saw the woman step from the wreckage to his left and stopped to regard her. Her lower jaw was dislocated, and hung at an awkward angle. Blood dripped from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut and already beginning to blacken. Her right eye was fixed, unwavering, on Stan.
“Jesus,” he blurted. He almost apologized before he realized that there was something very wrong with the woman. She stepped from the wreckage with purpose, moving toward him, and now she was reaching for him, her pale arms coming up and her fingers curling and unfurling expectantly.
He watched her advance, and something about her approach rattled him. It just wasn’t natural. The steps were awkward, as if she were stepping in postholes, and her head seemed to wobble unnaturally. He stared at where her neck bent at an unnatural angle; surly it must be broken…
He opened his mouth to say something, to tell her that he was there to help, but the words weren’t there. She drew nearer. He found himself backing away, giving ground.
Stan looked around at the man. He was much closer, now, and he, too, was reaching out with both hands. Stan began backing toward his truck, careful to keep both of them in front of him. He felt instinctively that to turn his back would be a fatal mistake.
The woman was making moist, wet sounds. Stan looked at her. Her mouth began to masticate the air in a sickening fashion, as though she were chewing. The hunger in her actions was clear, as was her desire for him… His skin crawled. He could hear the broken bones in her jaw grinding against one another.
A footstep, close. Stan started to turn.
The man lunged, with the suddenness of a striking snake, and Stan jerked back, arms coming up to protect himself. He dropped the first aid kit. The man’s cold hands clamped down on his wrist and forearm and the pale face darted forward, mouth open eagerly, teeth bared. Stan staggered back. The man stumbled, off balance, and went to his knees.
Stan drove his knee up under the man’s chin. The man’s head snapped back and he fell to one side. Without hesitation, he began to push himself back up, looking over his shoulder at Stan, his prey. Stan was still backing away, the flashlight out before him, the ball of light on the man’s face.
It was the feral look on the man’s face, the hungry desire in his eyes, that made Stan understand at once what was happening.
They wanted to eat him!
He looked to the woman, who was near enough to try for him. Her claws raked his arm. He pulled back, his free hand fumbling at his hip for the holster clip. He felt it pop free. The woman’s head jounced ludicrously atop her neck; it looked like it might fall off at any moment. Her one good eye was locked onto him.
It was too much for him; too much, too soon.
His fingers closed around the butt of the gun and he drove the barrel under the woman’s chin. He registered the dead look in her one remaining eye. His finger tightened on the trigger. The fanged hammer fell.
The top of her head exploded outward in a shower of blood, bone and brains.
She stiffened and stood for a moment staring upward before suddenly dropping her arms. Her eye rolled back in its socket. She toppled slowly, like a felled tree. Her head struck the blacktop with a solid thunk. She lay unmoving.
Stan stared down at her in abject horror. Oh, my god- what have I done? He felt sick; his knees went limp and he thought he might faint. Blood so dark it looked black was slowly pooling beneath her head. Stan took an unsteady step toward her, his mouth hanging open in surprise, and his weapon dangled forgotten at his side.
Footsteps brought his head up.
They were coming for him, all of them; the men and the women, the children; all of them- everyone who had died in the train wreck. They were moving slowly, awkwardly, their dead eyes fixed firmly on him.
He backed toward his truck, the gun coming up to warn them back.
“Back off,” he snarled: “Back the fuck off…”
Behind him, he heard a growl. He spun to see another man trying to get into the SUV. The man was tugging at the door handle, unable to figure out how to get it to open. He whimpered in frustration and began to rock the vehicle. Stan ran to him. The man saw him coming and stopped, reached out as if to embrace him. Stan jammed the barrel of the gun to the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
The force of the shot snapped the man’s head back. Gore splattered the side of the truck. The man stumbled back, arms out to catch himself, and slammed into the SUV. He stared at Stan in mute horror as he slid slowly to a sitting position. The man’s eyes closed as his head dropped forward.
Stan stuck the flashlight through his belt and jerked open the door, threw himself in, slammed and locked the door behind him. He jammed the gun between his legs, staring out at the slowly advancing horde as he fumbled nervously with the ignition. They were moving too slowly to catch him before he could get away. The thought should’ve relieved him, but he knew that he could only get away if he could stop his hands from trembling long enough to get the engine going.
He paused, took a slow, deep breath, and calmly grasped and turned the ignition key. The car started. He smiled thankfully and put it in gear. The wheels screamed in protest as the vehicle spun in a tight U-turn and started back up the mountain. In the rearview mirror, he could see them dwindling away.
Whoever (or whatever) they were, they weren’t going to get him. His brief encounter had taught him one thing if nothing more: that he had the instinct to survive.