My Runaway Train

MY RUNAWAY TRAIN

1911, Somewhere in England

I open my eyes. What’s sounding like a lullaby humming in my ears? As my head clears I realize it isn’t a lullaby—it’s the sound of the wind in the trees as the noisy train I’m on rushes by. But where exactly on this train am I? I’m lying flat in the open, the cold, darkening diamond sky above me. My neck aches when I try to lift my head, so I reach up a hand to the railing and eventually manage to pull myself to my feet; all goes blurry again as my head swims. I blink rapidly as if that will help, and try to survey my surroundings. I must have been unconscious somehow but I can’t remember what happened before I found myself here. I brush some red curls out of my face and turn towards the sound of the engine, deciding I must be on the caboose at the very back. Suddenly I’m scared nearly out of my skin, which must have somehow brought back my bearings. In front of me, leaning over the railing with his hand poised as if ready to grab onto something, is a boy—silent and still. Cautiously I step over to him. His face looks like he has just had some kind of fright.

“Hello?” He doesn’t answer. “Can you hear me?” The wind blows through his blonde quiff, but he doesn’t move so much as a muscle in his face. I reach out a few of my cold, white fingers to touch his shoulder, then quickly jump back, spooked while my heart pumps overtime. I step backwards, watching him in case he will begin moving. Flinging open the caboose door, I dart inside and hurry through to the other end. I climb over the railing, trying to focus my attention on the couplings I’ll have to cross, and not on the fast moving tracks below. The train seems to be getting faster all the time; I take a deep breath and step down onto the couplings that connect the caboose to the last train carriage. Leaning over, I let go of one railing and grab onto the other, pulling myself up and over it. I’ve known some girls who would never do that, perhaps not even if the train was standing still, let alone at the speed it is going now. But I call myself a tomboy, and no dress or petticoat will keep me from living up to it. This train by far is the spookiest I’ve ever seen or been on. I didn’t pay much attention to it before on account of sheer fright from a frozen boy and the fact that I’m not supposed to be on a train—at least I think I’m not. But there are no lights on this train, none that I have seen. No lamps back outside where I had been, and none inside this luggage car. Whatever light there is in the sky must be blocked by the thick trees that hug the tracks, but I can see enough to make out the cases and bags on the racks either side of the walkway. By now, I’m wondering if there are even any passengers on this train—aside from the boy out on the caboose that is. Some fancy clothes are even hanging on racks outside of their cases—ladies’ fine dresses and coats, but not the expensive ones like the rich might own. I feel the fabrics between my fingers, trying to picture myself in one of these dresses. Obviously they are far too big for me, but so is the woolen baggy grey jumper I’m wearing. A loud whistle sounds from up front and the train jolts hard, nearly dumping me off balance as we round a curve. I feel the train lean out. If we were going a little faster or the curve was a little tighter, we probably wouldn’t have made it. My heart begins pounding all over again as heavy steps sound from the other side of the door leading to the next compartment. My ragged hair flies as I look around, trying to find a place to hide. But the luggage shelves reach too low to the floor for even a tomboy to scramble under. I grip tighter at the dress I have been inspecting, and look towards the door. The steps are far between, as if whoever it is out there is moving real slow. There is a window maybe the size of a face mirror in the door, but all I can see is a dull light glowing. The door opens—a tall black figure holding a dimmed lamp is standing there as he lets the door swing fully. With wide eyes I watch as he steps slowly into the luggage compartment towards me. I’m crouching on the floor, hiding behind a dress skirt and trying to look invisible. The steps halt suddenly as if I’ve just been noticed.

“May I see your ticket please?” The tone is forceful but not harsh. I’m not used to being spoken to kindly anyway, but the difference is somehow distinct this time. I slowly rise to my feet, slipping out from behind my protective curtain. His face is caught in some outside light from a window behind me; he holds the lamp down at his side as if it is useless. Maybe fifty years old with some scars thrown in amongst those wrinkles. The man has to be the tallest I’ve ever seen, wearing a black conductor’s suit jacket and cap. I can tell he isn’t looking at me however; his eyes roam around the compartment while his hand is out, waiting expectantly for my ticket.

“I don’t have no ticket.” He finally looks at me, snatching his hand away and holding it behind his back. He rocks back on his heels, his stone-cold eyes seeming to be collecting every detail about me in his brief stare.

“Very well.” He continues on his way, walking strangely slow towards the door I just came through. How come he let a little kid get away with being on his train with no ticket; he didn’t raise a fight or resist.

“Mister?” I step into the walkway, facing him. He slowly half turns back to me and this time his face is completely in silhouette; the lamp light shows his gnarled hands, but that is all. “Where is this train going? And what about this boy I found out on the back of the caboose? He won’t move or nothin’.” The conductor slowly eases down and sets the lamp on the floor, keeping his back straight as if it’s a huge effort for him. When he straightens, he clears his throat and speaks in the same melancholy tone as before.

“Columbo Station; these are the Nameless Woods. That is all, Miss.” With that, he opens the door and steps out before I can say a word. I hurry to the door and stand up on my tiptoes to look out the window—just in time to see him leap off the railing and disappear into the darkness. I think of what he said about these woods being called Nameless. I could sure think of a million better names for such a spooky place as this. And still the train rushes on and on—as if it doesn’t know that it is supposed to stop at Columbo Station, wherever that is. I leave the window and pick up the lamp, turning up the light. More of the room becomes visible, eerie shadows playing about each item. I go directly to the other door and step into the next compartment, wondering why the conductor didn’t answer my question about the boy. I’m standing in the aisle, passenger seats either side of me. It is easier to see with the lamp. By the looks of the seating and the amount of dust here, I suspect this car is for my kind of people. I hold up the light and look down at the seat right beside me. My breath catches, but I don’t feel as spooked as I did the first time. A man is sitting there, not moving an inch; in fact, all the passengers appear in the same condition as the boy outside, frozen. I walk down the aisle slowly, looking from side to side. Little children, young teens about my age, along with old ladies and working men; all sitting calmly for the most part. I stand there, silent like them, trying to pick up some sound—any noise at all. A tired looking woman holds a baby on her knee, a finger to her lips as if to quiet him; but he isn’t crying. The seats are about half full, since not many folks like me can afford to travel by train much. The only sound is the wind outside, drowned out by the occasional whistle every time we round a bend. It seems fitting when considering the speed we must be going; these woods seem to be full of corners. I continue to make my way towards the front of the train, moving through compartments and crossing to each carriage while hoping to find that someone is actually manning the engine. The trees outside are hard to make out individually, even for a second; all is just a black blur, and it makes me wonder how far back our smoke cloud lingers. I think of the boy back there—I can’t just keep calling him ‘the boy’, so I’ll call him ‘Quiff’. I had come to, lying at his feet, while he was reaching over the back of the caboose, probably trying to save someone who wasn’t there. Could it have been me? That seems the only logical answer. I could have been knocked over when the train jolted. But this didn’t explain how I got to be on the train in the first place. The whistle sounds again; it is getting louder each time as I approach the engine. And there it is.

Now, I don’t know many people—let alone girls—who have climbed onto the roof of a moving train, whether they are tomboys or not. But in order to get to the train engine, I’ll have to. My hair blows wildly all over the place that it’s hard to remember that it is attached to my head. It’s a good thing that I am who I am and not one of those fancy girls from wealthy families I had just passed in the front first class carriage. At least I believe I have the guts to try and find out what’s going on with this flying bullet. I reluctantly leave the lamp behind, knowing I can’t carry it with me and climb up at the same time. I pull myself up one of the poles and push off the top railing with my toes, heaving myself up onto the roof. There’s only a little space of roof and right in front of me is the top of a huge mound of coal. I lie there for a minute, my belly pressed onto the cold surface. The wind is blowing right through my jumper; my ears feel like they’ve fallen off, and my freckled nose too. I slowly drag myself forwards, rising up on my knees eventually to maneuver through the coal. I can see the orange glow from the fire in the pit up ahead. Finally I’m there; I swing my legs over the side and climb down into the little nest where the fireman and train driver would reside. The odd thing is, no one seems to be here. I block my face from the heat of the furnace—a sudden change from the icy cold. There’s plenty of coal in the furnace, but who put it there? How come we are still moving so quickly if there’s no one in here? And what about the whistle? I look up just as it goes off, the shrill note nearly bursting me from my skin as we veer round a bend. I know next to nothing about trains to be honest. I don’t know how to begin to try and slow this thing down. I sink down onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my middle and looking out at the trees we are flying past. My stomach feels queasy and does a flip. I close my eyes, looking down and hunching over. I have no idea how much time has passed, but the next time I open my eyes, it is because another noise has startled me. I look up behind me and see someone’s legs swing over the coal heap like mine had, just before he jumps down and lands at my feet. I’m shocked to see that it’s Quiff. I want to ask him how he broke free, but don’t quite get the words out. His face is quite handsome now that I can see it in its natural state; I was too scared to think of it back on the caboose, but his expression must have looked pretty funny when he was trying to save me. His forehead and cheeks are sooty from the coal, and I assume mine aren’t any better. He steps in front of me without a word, looking over the controls with a calm, confident face. But the fact that he didn’t jump right in and slow the train tells me that he doesn’t know much more about them than I do. “Um,” I stutter. “How did you…you know, get here?” He turns around and looks at me as if for the first time. His tan tweed jacket is torn at the shoulder, but otherwise his clothes seem in much finer condition than mine—apart from being dirty.

“Do you know where we’re headed?” He has the same dejected tone as the conductor.

I nod, not able to take my eyes off him, even when he turns his back on me and looks over the controls again. “Columbo Station or someplace like that, so the batty conductor said before he dropped off. These woods are Nameless, believe it or not. But what about all those people back there—“

“Hold it!” Quiff hisses. “I know Columbo Station, and this track isn’t how to get there.”

“Shortcut?” I ask.

“Hardly,” he scoffs. “If this is Nameless Woods as you say, then this railway is also called Nameless. Haven’t you ever heard about these incidents of frozen passengers? The whole train load ends up dead either along the way or after the final derailment. I don’t blame the conductor for jumping—that’s the only thing to do if you want to get off this train.”

I’m deciding that this dream-like experience has just turned into a nightmare. “But we’re going at like a million miles a minute! No one could jump from this train and survive. How come everyone is frozen but us?”

Quiff finally gives up trying to read the controls and sits down beside me, feet stretched out towards the furnace. “I don’t know,” he says simply. “No one knows what this train is or why it seems to be run by the tracks and not people. I guess the driver and fireman jumped off ages ago when they couldn’t maintain control.” The frozen people back in the carriages are beginning to wake up now; their screams and yells start to fill the air. I look back and can see several black figures leaving the train from windows and exits. But we’re moving too fast to hear the thuds as they fall.