Fiction logo

Destination: Sin City

A Train Ride to the Unknown

By Iris HarrisPublished 2 years ago 19 min read
Like
Destination: Sin City
Photo by Sam Goodgame on Unsplash

Where am I? The thought enters my mind like death does in the night. I’m in the dark, but the rhythmic clanking of a train speeding over the rails is hypnotic. Did I leave the white noise app on again? I wonder. I slowly open my eyes. I am slouching on a seat that resembles passenger chairs on an airplane. Once my conscience kicks in, I realize it’s a train. I’m on a train.

The details as to how I ended up on a train are hidden in a fog of mental mystery. I fall into a deep thought, trying to recall my past. The last memory I have was sitting in a restaurant, dining with a few of my mates. though they wanted me to participate in their drinking game, I refused. I needed to stay sober, but for what? I remember leaving the restaurant and the rest is a blank slate.

A door slides open in front of me. A young Asian woman walks through, pushing a cart of snacks and drinks, like a flight attendant.

“Sumimasen, onomimono ikaga desuka?” She smiles politely.

I have no clue what she is saying, but I am confident that she is Japanese. Her mannerism and the language pattern is very similar to the far eastern language. She appears to be offering me snacks.

“Sorry, do you speak English?” I blurt out. She cocks her head indicating she is just as confused about what I said, I was about what she said. I decide it would be pointless to attempt to carry a conversation with her. I shake my head hoping she will just move on to the next passenger and leave me in solitude to work out what the hell is going on. She bows politely and pushes her refreshment wagon to the next pair of seats.

Confidence on figuring out how I ended up on a train in Japan wells up in me. After all, I’m very astute. I close my eyes again, hoping to recollect any information before my mind wipe. The visions revolve in my head like a washing machine on spin cycle: the restaurant, my mates drinking, and me departing. It seems I never made it home or met up with anyone.

The entryway slides open again. A man dressed in a black leather suit emerges and starts scanning the cabin. While my memory remains lost in a fog, he looks familiar. I stare at him hoping I can place where, or when, I saw him before. His gaze connects with my eyes. Rage builds in his face and he instantly rushes towards me. Instinctively, I spring into action and quickly slide out of my seat into the aisle as he impales where I was sitting in with a haladie. The double bladed dagger swiftly slices the seat. The attacker redirects his arm towards me. I kick the knife wielding arm to avoid becoming sushi and punch him in the face in defense. He staggers a little.

Temeh!” He screams in anger and continues his assualt on me.

I throw my hands up signaling him to stop. “Wait! Wait!” What the hell is going on? Why are you attacking me?” Admittedly, the move is pure cowardice, but I am desperate for any kind of answers. Surprisingly, he stops. His angered facial expression is still painted on.

“What you mean, why? Temee no kusobaka, you think I going to forgive you. You kill my sister,” he utters with a heavy Japanese accent.

My memory makes a connection upon hearing the new information. I do recall ending the life of a Japanese woman recently. That’s it! I’m a contract killer! “Well, if I killed her, she deserved it. I mean, who sends a woman to do a man’s job? Am I right?” I divulge presumptuously.

My assailant returns to his barrage of haladie swing and we continue our dance routine for the preservation of life. For every missed strike he performs, I counter with bold insults, adding fuel to his fired fury. Of course, other passengers are either moving out of our way or screaming as we come close to them, Luckily, the car it fairly empty, no one is affected physically by our altercation. The leather donning samurai scores a random hit with his unarmed fist and I fly back to the snack cart a few feet behind me. I grab a can of coke and whip it at his head. Critical strike. He becomes a confused statue long enough for me to knock him out with a knuckle sandwich of salvation. As he hits the floor, I retort, “Well, that’s the most refreshing can of coke I’ve ever had.”

The cowering crowd emerges from their hiding spots to see what transpired. I overlook the area triumphantly, “no need to fear everyone. He’ll just be taking a nap for a while.” I console arrogantly. The handful of passenger look from the motionless body on the floor to me standing. They gradually glissade from their seats into the aisle; their gaze becoming heated with each step. As they move towards me, I move away from them.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was he a friend of yours?” I joke. “Do you all really want to have a last dance with me?” I spill confidently. I know I can take them all, regardless of how much wrath that may be building inside them. Eventually, my back foot strikes the cabin door. Considering the cramped quarters of the car, I decide it is in my best interest to leave. I slide open the door and watch as the exit closes rapidly, blocking the view of the enraged group.

Kippu onegai shimasu,” a voice strikes me from behind. Another Japanese man dressed in a conductor’s outfit inquires with his hand out, expecting me to give him something.

“What? You want a tip or something? Dude, I totally could have taken them,” I exclaim, as I turn towards the entry portal of the next car. He looks confused by my outburst, but shakes his head.

Ano, kippu wa?” He repeats. I swat his arm. I have grown weary of dealing with the Japanese. I open the door opposite of the one I walked through. I don’t know what Mr. Conductor wants, but I need to figure out where I am. As I leave him behind, the door closes automatically in his face.

The smell of barbecue chicken mixed with the rancid smell of body oder quickly tickle my nostrils. Did I find the dining car on the train? I wonder. I turn around. My eyes became both pleased and repulsed by the images that flooded passed my irises as I surveyed the car. Gluttonous globs of humans who are constantly cramming bite after bite into their mouths on the bottom half, while bunks were installed on the top half. Each table was piled with what can only be described as an endless amount of food and the beds above seemed to have a lifeless occupant on each one. Are they dead, or just sleeping? I questioned silently. Where the food and the potentially comatose bodies came from was an enigma. I knew my time to stop and figure it out was limited. I was sure the conductor would simply figure out where I was and would shortly enter through the door.

I start darting down the aisle to the other side of the car in hopes to put distance between me and Stiffy, the stuck up conductor. I accidentally bump a table and a landslide of food falls to the floor.

“Hey!” Shouts the angry diner at his table, “that’s my food. What are you trying to do?” He attempts to stand, but the weight he has packed on traps him in his seat.

I pause to defend myself. “Dude, please,” I respond, “I am not interested in your food, I’m just trying to make it to the other side of the car.”

Still annoyed by my intrusion, he is torn between throwing food at me or not wasting a single bite by restraining himself. The nostalgic smelling barbecue chicken creates an urge in me to steal one piece that is teetering on the edge of the table. I reach out for it to grab and run, but I am hit in the forehead by a metallic object. I glance to the floor and notice a spoon that landed near my feet. This glutton really attacked me with a spoon!

“Dude, what the hell? Are you seriously throwing a spoon at me? It’s just a piece of chicken. You have more than enough you greedy bastard!” I retort angrily.

The human blob continues eating and spews, “this food is mine! Go get your own!” He argues in a gruff voice, food flinging out his mouth with each word. I want to run, but the smell is too tantalizing for me to retreat. I begin plotting how I can distract the overweight guardian of gluttony to reach my prize, the chicken. An idea forms.

“Don’t you know who I am?” I blurt. The overeater perks up in curiosity. “I’m part of the wait staff, checking the quality of the food. I need to make sure everything is meeting your expectations, sir. Perhaps if you share with me on how we can make your dining experience better, then I can relay that information to the kitchen.”

The maniacal muncher remains silent, completely disregarding my bluff. In fact, he starts to look more agitated by my presence. The thought of leaving without a piece of chicken overshadows the urgency to flee from the scene. I just want to sit down and eat. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind me. I peek over my shoulder and my friend, the leather wearing samurai, is back. The conductor is no where to be seen, but I know the samurai is much more trouble. The thought of becoming a human sushi plate is enough to force me to forget the chicken and race to the back door. I am hoping the next car allows more space for me to move around so I can lose Sammy, the Samurai.

I thrust open the door and enter the space between two train cars. I turn to slide open the entry to the next car, but the conductor is standing in front of me, again. How did he get here?

Ano, sumimasen, Kippu o negaishimasu,” he repeats with his hand out, curling his fingers repeatedly to indicate he wants me to give him something.

“Listen, I know, I know. You want something, but I don’t speak whatever you speak. So unless you speak English, I can’t really help you.”

He seems to understand. “Chiketto.” He shouts.

Oh crap! I realize he wants me to provide a boarding ticket. Of course, I’m on a train and I need a ticket to ride. I am unsure how I boarded the train to begin with. Furthermore, I know I am not in possession of a ticket. Hell, I don’t even know where I am going.

“Do you know where this train is going?” I inquire, hoping he has enough English skills to provide the information.

Chiketto kudasai.” He repeats exasperatedly.

Clearly, he is relentless about me providing a ticket. I knew I only had seconds before Sammy would burst through the sliding door and continue his assault on me. An escape plan pops in my head. I turn to the conductor.

“You need my ticket? Well, my friend, who is actually right behind me, has it. He should be coming through that door any second.” I begin, pointing to the door behind me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I slide past the conductor and into the car behind him. I regret it the minute the entry is closed.

The smell of bodily fluids permeates my nostrils; followed by the sound of heavy breathing and pleasurable moans that harass my ears. I shudder to think what awaits me when I turn around, yet slowly I do. It is worse than I feared. Images of bodies upon bodies are all engaged in a sexual orgy of pleasure. Whips, chains, candles, and other pleasure affirming toys surround the walls of the car. People are hanging by bondage ropes while apparently being “punished,” while others jump from partner to partner, trying to satisfy every sexual desire they can think of. In spite of my presence, no one skips a beat with the whipping and people remain deeply infatuated with the lustful and depressing atmosphere. Though I am repulsed by the erotic scene, I gradually make my way towards freedom lying on the other side of the car.

The sliding slam of the entry behind me breaks my concentration. Sammy, it’s gotta be Sammy, I deduct and break into a sprint. My efforts fail as Sammy slices my leg. I can feel it is enough to affect my running and I start limp-sprinting. Sammy laughs and begins his approach on me. Meanwhile, the libidinous occupants are unfazed by the brewing combat in the center of the car. I fall on a couple to my right, but they welcome my accidental advance and attempt to make me participate in the lewd act. Reaching for me and tearing at my clothes. Reactively, I reach for a whip from the role playing mistress and begin to defend myself from the sex craved crowd, who continue to moan after each lashing. I focus on Sammy. I break into a frenzy full swing to break off his advance, but he dodges my attack effortlessly and unsheathes his dagger. I throw the whip at him and flop towards a set of chains hanging from the ceiling, but long enough to rest on the floor. Sammy leaps forward in an opportunistic moment to strike. I roll out of his trajectory and quickly wrap the chains around him. His struggling to break free from the entanglement, makes chaining him to the ceiling more challenging than I want. I eventually subdue him enough to not only keep him wrapped in the chains, but also lock him in the handcuffs that were conveniently placed on a table near me. I scramble back to catch my breath and admire my handiwork.

Sammy is stuck; chains around his neck and handcuffed. He becomes immobile. “You kill my sister! I going kill you. SCUM. Hanase! Koko kara hanase! Let me go, BAKA!” He screams, drawing the attention of a hungry herd. He is instantly silenced as one of the salacious servants quickly swoops in and begins fondling him inappropriately while another places a leather gag over his mouth. Though he resisted at first, it is not long before he becomes succumbed to the sexual environment, allowing me the perfect chance to escape. I scramble to my feet and limp my way towards the end of the aisle. As I walk out of the car, I am grateful for my asexuality and confident I have seen the last of Sammy.

“Ah, Mr. Ferguson. I see you finally made to the last car of the train.” A deep masculine voice calls out. I am once again in between two cars and a jaw dropping beautiful blond female is standing in front of me. She is alone. I am perplexed as to where the masculine voice came from. “You had great pride in yourself as a contract killer. Notably, you were one of the best.”

“I am the best,” I correct. “What the hell are you talking about? Where are we? Who the hell are you? Lastly, how did I get here?” I spit out rapidly, desperate for answers.

“My apologies. Of course, I shall answer all your questions. Please follow me,” she responds in her manly voice. She opens the last sliding portal. Unlike the last two cars, there are rows of seats, like the first car I woke up in, but every seat is empty. I enter, falling deeper into the abyss of confusion. The stunningly gorgeous blond follows.

“Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Bourbon on the rocks.”

“Of course, your favorite.” She quickly prepares my drink and hands it to me. “Mr. Ferguson, you have created quite the name for yourself. You have over 300 kills. For a contract killer, that would be quite a reputation, if people were aware of it.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m the best. Why? Are you planning to offer me a contract?” I acknowledge.

She laughs. “No. I’m afraid, I will not be hiring you, Mr. Ferguson. Just the opposite. I am giving you a chance to hire me.”

I practically spit out my bourbon. “You’re a riot. Why would I hire you? Based on my statistics, I don’t need any help. You said it yourself, over 300 kills.

She shakes her head. “You are going to need some protection, Mr. Ferguson. You have made many enemies and where your going you are bound to see the end to more than just your career.”

A small wave of nervousness rumbles in my stomach. “Why? Where are we going?”

“Surely, a great mastermind like yourself can work out where we’re going. Think, Mr. Ferguson. What have you seen so far?” She questions.

I think back to waking up in the first car and almost immediately being attacked by the samurai. Though where I have seen him remains unknown, there was familiarity to him. I ran to the second car with the obsessed diners and the lifeless bodies on the bunks. Not only were they severely into eating and refusing to move, but also refused to share any of their food. Greedy lazy gluttonous bastards. I was unsure if the bodies were alive or not. If they were alive, then they were equally as lazy as the overeaters were. The third car, my least favorite, was full of lustful occupants. Sammy was following me the whole time, ranting about his sister.

His sister…his sister… It occurs to me that I did kill his sister. She was part of the yakuza and I was hired to kill her. She deserved to be shot with all the control she started gaining in Japan. Especially with her involvement in the assassination of the Prime Minister Abe. But where was Sammy? The memory suddenly become extremely vivid. I recall seeing him in the room where I shot his sister. I had to leave no stone unturned, which in my profession means, everyone dies. I shot him for fear of identifying me later. I shot him… I shot him? He’s dead! If he’s dead and I saw him on the train, that means…

“You’re dead. Exactly. You died Mr. Ferguson. Shortly after your last assignment, you were at an Italian restaurant in Tokyo. An agent who was contracted to murder you just so happen to be at the restaurant you attended with your friends. Pure coincidence. It was a simple task of slipping poison into your drink. After you left, you passed out forever. So, here you are. Dead in Japan and on a bullet train…” She continued her upbeat speech, but I was drowning her out.

I’m dead? It made sense, somewhat. Why am I on a bullet train though? Furthermore, where exactly was this train going? What is the final destination of this ride? Finally, why am I talking to blondie?

“Wait, why am I on a train? If I died near a restaurant, shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, somewhere else?”

“Please, Mr. Ferguson. I just told you why the train. It’s the fastest way to get you there.”

“Where? And who the hell are you?”

Blondie shook her head mockingly. “Still haven’t worked it out, Mr Ferguson? I thought you were smarter than that? You had so much pride in yourself when you were living. Did all that pride diminish upon your death?”

I sat in silence, sipping on the bourbon. Lazy greedy gluttons and a car full of sex addicts? “Of course, Sin City! Las Vegas!”

“You’re quite the comic, Mr Ferguson, but you’re no Gabriel Iglesias.” Blondie quipped.

“There are seven deadly sins, blondie. I only witnessed four,” I correct.

“Are you really overlooking the first car? The wrath of the brother and your prideful ass?” She snaps back.

“So, I really am going to hell then,” I never expected to be sentenced to purgatory. “I suppose I deserve it. But…if that’s the case, and this is a one way train, what’s the role of the conductor?”

Blondie smiles. “That was me. Those who may have boarded the wrong train, or been placed incorrectly, would have a ticket to heaven. Those without a boarding pass were definitely sentenced to hell.”

I am in disbelief that Blondie was the conductor. “So, you’re like a servant for Lucifer or something?”

“Or something. Which being us to my role. I am here to offer you a chance for protection. Once you arrive in hell you are on your own, unless you take my offer.” She adds.

“I doubt I’ll need your protection. I have taken care of myself up until now. I mean, look at Sammy, still hanging in salacious ecstasy.”

She chuckles. “Well, there are many who have been envious of your skill. Surrender your skills and you shall be protected from those who seek wrathful revenge on you for all you have done.” She smiles, as if cognizant of what’s to come.

I stare her down for a while. For a brief moment she seems sincere in her offer, but a flash of envy crosses over her face. “No way! I don’t need you, or anyone. I can handle myself and I’ll take down anyone who dares to challenge me,” I protest optimistically.

“Very well, Mr. Ferguson. It is your decision.” She quickly dissipates and I am alone in the car once again. The train gradually comes to a halt. The windows of the car shatter and faceless creatures pour into the seats around me. The main entry points also fly open with more people rushing in. I quickly spring into action.

“You bastards think you can take me?” I exclaim with my fists in the air. “I took you all down once, and I will do it again and again and again!” Pride flowing strongly through my veins, I begin my endless repetitious assault on the grow population of vengeful souls.

Short Story
Like

About the Creator

Iris Harris

An aspiring novelist. I enjoy writing ghost, horror, and drama. Occassionally, I dabble with some essays. You can find more of my work with the link below:

Learn more about me

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.