Heed

A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

*

The rattling of the metal wheels is drilling into my consciousness. It feels like visiting the dentist. I am driven by the unrelenting fury of the train, as if its uninterrupted, monotonous, nagging movement was breaking waves of insatiable souls and spitting them mercilessly ashore. The sound, seeping into my ears like unwanted conversation, makes me fall asleep again.

When I wake up the second time in my Pullman car, I can see that the size of my little world in the evening from the corner of my single bed has stretched out into the immensity of the desert as seen outside the window. In the distance I can hear energetically playing the accordion, which seems to accompany the whole band. I don't know where these sounds come from. From the next car? I can hear the tap dripping but can't see the sink. What's happening? My imagination wanders through this bland labyrinth until the whole picture dissolves into my unconsciousness again.

When I wake up for the third time, everything is quiet. There is no sound and no soul around me. The train seems to be flowing in a vast expanse of sand; some exotic country, maybe Cairo? I can't see anything during the day, and it's even worse at night. The railroad tracks seem to go for miles like telephone lines going nowhere. The impetuous steel power dared not stop at any station, as if there had been none for the last few hours, only the emptiness and silence of the desert. Any sound or break in motion would certainly wake me up, because my sleep is shallow as water in a paddling pool for children.

Suddenly my phone starts ringing and when I answer it a voice crackles in the receiver:

‘You’re half dead, motherfucker!’

I don’t understand what it all means. Above my seat, I notice a suitcase with my name on it. When I look inside, I can see a pistol and a knife, nothing else. On a trip like this I suppose I should have at least my favourite set of clothes at the ready, yet nothing seems to cover that. There is also my medical bag next to the trunk, but the one I’ve never seen before, quite old-fashioned for modern times. It also has my name on it. Inside, I find a wallet with papers confirming my identity, albeit with a professional KGB agent added to confuse my senses. There is also a red leather-bound pocket diary engraved with the year 1954. I am looking for traces of olden times, but every detail of my little world hangs on those faded green walls, curtains, and seats of my carriage, with no soul around me. The more I look at the diagonal lines, the more confused and powerless I am. I decide to go on an exploration to learn more about my situation and perhaps seek answers without clear questions flooding my mind.

When I step out of my Pullman, there are two burly bodyguards blocking the passage with their torsos. I walk past them, but when I turn around, they head towards me. I plan to lose them, and the only option seems to be a dingy toilet in the aisle.

When I am outside again, the train is in the tunnel. In the dark interspersed with pale light, I cannot see anyone, not even my guardian angels.

I make my way to the dining car because my stomach is sending signs of severe hunger. I don't remember the last time I ate. It must have been in my former life, if this is by any chance my second one.

The waiter shows me a table where someone is waiting for me. Significantly surprised, I drag my legs behind the usher. There was no money or ticket in the wallet. That fact must only stay in my head now.

The pineapple on every table reminds me of the fruit that was always on the kitchen table when my nana was still there, taking care of all the meals and everything else after my parents left. Cups of various designs hung next to the dish dryer, dominoes tossed on the coffee table in the living room, newspapers fully read and ready to wipe the asses of yesterday’s readers. I’ve always imagined wild parties in this salon, I don’t know why.

It took them precisely an hour: to set out on a journey near the cliffs of Marbella, hold on to life’s last hope, and slide down into infinity. Police said the driver was intoxicated even though my dad never drank and my mum never had a driving licence. Something must have gone wrong; to this day no one has been able to say what.

My dinner mate is a middle-aged woman, fat as a pig, but with the nicest face I have ever seen. Of course, in my previous life. She hasn’t started eating yet, but I can see her anxious gestures, her legs fidgeting, and her restless heart pounding in her chest.

‘I dared to order for you as well. Do not mind?’

‘Not at all. I am famished.’

I look at the twisted tortellini on the table, on a plate decorated with heather. Her favourite colour? The woman’s face is suspiciously familiar, as if I knew her from somewhere else. Suddenly it dawns on me that she is a spitting image of my nana, although I am sure she is not her, because I am fully aware that my whole family has been lying in the grave for a long time. I know that at least.

Richard Allen’s silk scarf on her sculpted neck shows sure signs of sloppy sweat, though I am shivering from the cold. Apparently, opposing bodies have opposite experiences.

‘How are you doing, Max?’ The woman starts in a silk voice.

‘I’ve been sleeping quite uneasily lately. Otherwise, everything is fine.’ I lie.

‘Good. Because we really need to stop them. We do not have much time. This train is not supposed to stop at all, but if it does, there will be no more souls to save. They plan to exterminate us all. Do you still have a case and a medical bag?’

‘Yes. But I saw two men guarding my door.’

‘Don’t worry. They are one of us. Sorry, I couldn’t tell you sooner. But now that you know, maybe it will put your mind at ease. We do not have much time.’

‘As you said before.’

I am consumed by guilt that I haven’t had a chance to figure it all out myself, what’s at stake, but asking the woman sitting next to me direct questions can make matters worse. I am a doctor. I value what I have achieved and I don’t want to screw it up with one careless gesture. In the meantime, my dinner went cold while my partner did not hesitate to consume it all.

‘You are not hungry?’ The question is cast from behind her glasses, lowered for the occasion, as if inadequate to the vision in front of her eyes.

‘It seems to me that I have completely lost my appetite. I am sorry. A few minutes ago, I felt famished, but not anymore. I think I need more rest. Is it alright?’

The woman nods.

I push the plate to the centre of the table, focusing on the pineapple again. My nana’s cocktails might have been pretty good. But for whom was she preparing them when I was still a child then? For her elderly friends? My entire family is shrouded in secrecy, and that somewhat explains my current alleged position as a KGB agent.

When I wake up the next day, my skin is all wrinkled. After inspecting all of my crinkled and decrepit body, I am about to begin a very detailed examination of my medical bag for the first time. The next moment I realise it is so much different from the one I left at home. The lid is full of syringes of various sizes and the main body consists of all kinds of liquids in tiny vials with their names printed in the finest letters attached to the vials with tape. I recognise some of them, but there are two compartments inside, and the other, tucked under the usual medication, looks like it's loaded with a lethal weapon. I focus on one vial from the "life" range. It contains collagen. I decide to try to see if it helps with what I believe is temporary skin problem. In a minute, I am younger and back to my normal self, a twenty-something bloke with a medical degree and a head full of butterflies misplaced from my stomach.

My mind is racing at an inhuman pace, worthy of this unstoppable train for destruction. Full of loose threads, on a lost track, my thoughts are scattered around my private Pullman car. It looks like my private one because no one is going to sit here, but if there are neither stops nor stations, who would even dare to come here? What else does this steel power have in store for me on this transcendental train trip? I scratch my face against the glass of the mirror, mingling with the blurred image of my present existence.

I compensate for my lack appetite during breakfast. A poached egg on toast makes me feel like an aristocrat, although judging by the appearance of my clothes, I am far from there. I have no clothing other than the one I wear and sleep in for the second day in a row. On the contrary, my meal female partner is dressed differently today. The lilac costume from yesterday has been replaced by the cheeky red of her backless dress in which she looks like a huge meringue with a cherry on top. I must admit that I am very tempted to munch it for dessert.

‘I see you haven’t had the chance to ask the valet for new clothes. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry. How did you sleep today?’

After giving my partner as much evasive answer as possible, I wonder why all this time when I am supposed to save the world from total decay, whatever that may be, I am allowed to sleep as long as I can and no one dared ask me another question besides how I spend my free time. The whole situation reminds me of a vacation, but with the distinction that my sleep and meals are controlled and there is nowhere to go sightseeing.

As I step out of the dining car, I pay heed to the other Pullman cars, now surprisingly full of people. A man with massive headphones is dancing in the privacy of his own train compartment, unaware of the onlookers. In the next, a woman sings at the top of her voice, causing the walls to tremble and destroy the eardrums of the audience of this dubious spectacle. There aren’t many of them there, just me, stunned by the lack of performer restraints. There is also a lone cowboy, the real one, with a colt in his jeans waistband and wearing a hat, though he doesn’t look happy drinking from the bottle. There is plenty of glass around, also broken, but I choose not to intervene. They must have a guard here, although I haven't seen one yet. The last car is having a party. Champagne is pouring in streams, there are many characters captivated by the clumsy dance breaking the silence and stilettos, without breaking stride. I am amazed where all these people came from if there was a dead silence here yesterday. Or not quite?

When I wake up the next morning and look in the rusty mirror, my hair is all grey. I am very surprised to note that my eyesight has also deteriorated. When I try to look for a suitable vial for this problem, learned from yesterday's experience, their labels are completely unreadable to me. From the bottom of the bag, I dig the one with the words “beta carotene, lutein, and high concentration of vitamin E” written on it. Its names are scrawled in surprisingly large letters. Without a hint of hesitation, I inject it into my arm. It seems to work perfectly and after a few minutes I am back to myself, but a disturbing question runs through my mind: “For how long?” Everything on this train is a puzzle to me, including my humble person.

The next moment two mysterious masked men enter my compartment, each grabbing my arm so tightly that I could feel my blood circulation speed up, as if I was taking a blood pressure. Looks like they came into possession of my weapon from the suitcase before I could lay my hands on it. The obese but muscular man to my right holds a knife to my stomach, and the scrawny one to my left aims a pistol at my temple.

My medical bag is still open next to me, so I try to scan my memory for anything that might help me in this predicament. The two gentlemen seem impatient as they try to drag me to the door. I guess they want me to leave with them. I glance at a pair of perfectly prepared syringes, each containing 5 grams of sodium thiopental, lying on the surface as if the luck has shined on me again. I swiftly stab each of the men in the shoulder, knowing it would be fatal in less than a minute.

With the certainty that they are both dead, I leave my carriage with the intention of finding my guardian angel woman. I spot her in the next Pullman car, packed and ready to depart.

‘Are they both dead?’

I nod submissively.

‘Good. Now we can stop that bloody train. I am fed up with travel food for a lifetime.’

*

The next day I woke up to impassable sand getting into my eyes, ears, nose and mouth. I could sift the yellowness through my fingers. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

***

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