One Way Railway Ch. 3

This place sure isn't like any I'd seen before. Everything looks all shiny and clean, from the floors to the ceiling. It makes my eyes hurt a little from the light sparkling off the gleaming red, white and polished silver. The people who ran it must really like working here to keep it so pretty looking. It strikes me as odd that they're aren't more customers in here. This seems to be the only spot in Purgatory that serves food, although just by looking at the sign behind the counter I don't think I've ever had food like this before. Some of those things I ain't too sure are even food at all.

I'm so plumb befuddled by the display that I almost don't realize the man standing behind the counter is missing his head. He's flipping some flapjacks on a stovetop bigger than a washtub, and seems quite calm about having no head. It's kind of funny to look at, just seeing a pair of shoulders and a paper hat floating a foot above them with nothing in-between. I'm still trying to figure out how he keeps his apron from falling down off his chest - as he don't have much of a neck either - when an older lady sashays over to us. "Eating in, or carry out, Hon?" She asks, drumming the longest, brightest red fingernails I've ever seen on the counter beside her.

I look at Matthew for a moment, who's too busy staring at the headless cook to pay attention to her, then clear my throat. "We would like to dine here, ma'am," I say, "if that won't be too much trouble."

The older woman shrugs and nods to the vast selection of empty tables behind her, "Knock yourself out. Sit wherever you like, Hon. I'll be with ya in two shakes." Matthew breaks from his stupor at last when she gives him two large paper pamphlets, then we walk together to a table in the corner. The padded leather bench seats are surprisingly comfortable, but the floor feels a little sticky under my boots, which is honestly concerning. Maybe this place ain't quite as clean as I first thought. The smells coming from the open kitchen are making my stomach grumble though, and I realize I'm really too hungry to care much about such things.

Matthew opens up one of the pamphlets, which is decorated on the inside with the same pictures on the sign over the counter, and props it open on the table to make a miniature privacy screen. He leans quite close to me, his dark eyes wide and his pale complexion a little paler than usual. "The guy at the grill," he squeaks, "d-did you see-?!" I glance back toward the kitchen just in time to see the paper hat bob back and forth in front of the long, narrow window between the kitchen and dining area. I admit it's definitely unnerving, but I look away as Mama always taught me it's impolite to stare.

"I saw," I say, trying to keep calm and relaxed, "It don't seem to bother him none, so it shouldn't bother you."

Matthew looks at me real funny, then at the cook, then back. He seems a little scared I think, or maybe he's just a little shocked at seeing a headless man moseying around a kitchen as if everything were fine and dandy (honestly, who wouldn't be shocked to see that?). After a moment, he runs his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh, "Fine... this is fine. You still think we're not in the real Purgatory, after seeing something like that?"

I bite my lip and study my hands. It's hard to have doubts that you might be in the Afterlife after seeing something like that, I have to say. Maybe I was wrong: maybe...we are passed away after all. My heartstrings tug as I think of my Mama and little brothers and sisters. If I did die before my time, surely they'd be in mourning over me. I can't stand the thought of them weeping and wailing over me, and moreover I refuse to even think about it. I take deep breath to chase away the stinging feeling in my eyes and the tightness in my chest, then I look out the window at the darkened single street running through the town. "Maybe... we are in the real Purgatory," I mutter, then look back at my hands; they're still cut up and I've got a splinter left over from shimmying down the side of the train. Golly, that seems like it happened a lifetime ago now. "I still don't think we're dead though," I say flatly. "From what I've learned at church, when you're passed on you don't feel pain or hunger or sorrow no more. Still...that just brings up more an' more questions." I look up at Matthew, searching for answers in his warm, dark eyes, "If we are alive - as I strongly believe we are - then... how on God's green Earth did we get here?"

Matthew doesn't answer me. He breaks eye contact with me, and starts glancing around the cafe at the other customers. There only looks to be two or three tables occupied besides ours, but I'm confused to see that most of the customers aren't eating anything. A few have plates in front of them that remain untouched, while others simply warm their hands on mugs of tea or coffee. The only customers we see actually eating are three men seated at the counter. They're the only ones who look to be enjoying themselves as well; everyone else is sitting quietly and looks kinda somber, but those three are hootin' and hollerin' up a storm. Something about them makes me dislike them strongly, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It might be their clothes; they're dressed kinda similar to Matthew, except their jeans are all black and have a lot more holes in them. One is wearing a long, leather duster with metal spikes pushed through it at the shoulders, and the one in the middle - which I have to look twice at to be sure - has a metal hoop through his nose like my Uncle Randy's prize-winning bull.

Bull-Nose then suddenly throws his coffee cup at the old lady with a nasty grin, "Hey, Gramma, can we get a refill over here, or what?! And make it fresh this time! That last cup tasted like shit!!" The grill cook starts gesturing wildly in anger at the mess on the floor with his spatula, but the old woman waves him down and calmly pours the louse another cup of coffee. I'm surprised that she doesn't say anything to him, not even a peep, as she busies herself sweeping up the broken mug before heading over to our table with the coffee pot.

"Don't mind them," she mumbles, pouring us each a cup of coffee, "Those jokers come around every once in a while, but they never stay long. So: what'll it be? Just coffee, or do you want food?" I let Matthew order for the both of us, as I honestly don't know what to choose from the strange selection of dishes, and she scribbles down the order on a small note pad she'd kept in her apron pocket, "Two deluxe bacon double cheeseburgers, comin' right up. Name's Sally by the way, if you need anything." She heads back toward the kitchen to give our order to the cook, narrowly avoiding more flying dishes and cutlery. "One more broken dish, and I'm charging you for it!" She growls, but the trio seem to ignore her threat.

Before long, our food is brought to the table. I wrinkle my nose up a little at the sandwich put in front of me, more specifically at the puddle of grease it's sitting in on the plate. Matthew is already digging in to his I see, and seems to be enjoying it. He looks at me with a grin and pushes my plate closer to me. "Try it," he smiles, "It's good. I promise." I decide to take his word for it, but I approach the messy-looking sandwich with a knife and fork. The moment it touches my tongue, I am blown away by the taste; it may look unappealing, but the flavor is like nothing I've ever had before. Before I realize it, I've picked up the darn thing with my hands and actually taken a bite. Matthew giggles at me around his mouthful of food, "See? Told you you'd like it." I return the smile, and am about to admit he's right, when something odd begins to happen in my mouth. The warm, juicy, salty taste of meat and cheese slowly starts to change as I chew. It grows ice cold, and soon my tongue is coated with the bitter, acrid flavor of soot and ash. By the look on Matthew's face, he's experiencing the same thing. In perfect syncronization, we both grab a napkin and spit out our half-chewed bites. I'm startled to see that the white napkin has turned completely black and sooty, and what began as a mouthful of cheeseburger has transformed into a wet lump of coal.

"I don't think I like cheeseburgers," I mutter, dropping my wadded up napkin on the plate and pushing it away. Matthew, to his credit, takes another bite of his, although the face he makes shows that whatever happened before was happening again. He tried to muddle through it, bless him, but when he attempted to swallow, I could see the lump get stuck in his throat for a moment before he has to spit it back out into another napkin.

"Wh-What the hell?!" He coughs, reaching for his coffee. He takes a sip, then grimaces after managing to swallow it down. "The coffee's even worse," he gags, rubbing a third napkin across his tongue, "Tastes like potting soil...and charcoal! I've had bad diner coffee before but, blecch!!" It's then I realize the three hooligans at the counter have gone quiet and are watching us. They look confused but also tickled pink over something. Matthew looks at the trio nervously, but sits up straight to appear calm and tough, "Uh... can I help you guys with something?"

Bull-Nose grins widely at us, pushing his greasy blond hair back that keeps flopping in his face. "Uh... no," he mutters, doing a horrible impression of Matthew, "but, like...maybe we can help you." He laughs at his own joke and the other two join in before he grows somewhat serious again. "You can't eat the Food of the Dead. I'm just surprised you were stupid enough to actually try! Do you miss being alive that much, or has reality just not sunken in yet?!"

I glare at the ruffian, squaring my shoulders defiantly, "First of all, we ain't dead. Secondly, someone really ought to teach you all some manners! I've never seen a ruder, cruder group before in all my life!"

The skinniest and shortest of the three howls with laughter, which shakes his entire frame and makes the tattoos all over his head and neck wrinkle up with mirth, "Damn, she told you! You gonna take that, man?!"

Bull-Nose takes a step towards us, his teeth gnashed in anger, "What do you think, Mozz? Should we teach them a lesson?!"

Mozz bounces on his stool, giggling madly and encouraging Bull-Nose, but the angry blond is suddenly stopped by his friend in the leather jacket. Leather Jacket rolls his eyes - which are black as pitch - and pulls at his friend's arm chidingly, "Come on, Zaze, they're obviously newbies. Lay off a little, huh?"

Zaze shoots Leather Jacket an ugly look, and I swear for a moment his eyes glow red, "Bal, I'm handling this, okay? Finish your cobbler and shut the hell up!" Bal turns his back to us with a grumble, but I see him make a face at the back of Zaze's head before doing so. Zaze stomps over toward our table and flicks his left wrist out, and in the blink of an eye he's holding a dagger. The blade glows a bright red-orange as if it was just pulled from a furnace, and even singes his sleeve a little when he twirls and spins the dagger in an arc between his fingers. "How's this for manners?!" He growls, reeling back to slice at Matthew's face.

Before the strike can land however, something dazzling white flies across the room and knocks it from his hand. Zaze howls in pain, holding his wrist as the dagger bounces across the floor, then snarls at the door where the strange object had come from. Another man is standing there, his arm outstretched with a glowing silvery hoop the size of a pie plate clutched in his hand. His features are dark and broad, but his eyes are kind and seem to shine like new copper. He's dressed plainly in slacks, boots, and a plain white shirt with short sleeves that show off his large, muscular arms. Zaze hisses at the newcomer, but does not advance, "What the hell are you doing here?! This is our day to visit Purgatory, not yours!!"

The newcomer does not even bat an eyelash as he bends his arm back, preparing to throw the shimmering hoop again. Zaze and his two friends backpedal at the sight; they seem incredibly angered by the newcomer, but also intensely afraid. "Your time is up," the newcomer says, his voice deep and soft but filled with authority, "and you know the laws: until the Souls of the Departed have seen Judgement, you are forbidden from tormenting them. Be gone now, all of you!" Zaze, Bal and Mozz each hiss and snarl at the newcomer, then right before our eyes they vanish in a plume of red and purple smoke. My jaw drops open wide in shock, and Matthew seems just as shaken from the encounter. The stranger then approaches us and pulls up a chair at the end of the table to join us. "Sorry about that," he smiles, "You two must be new here. I'm Luke."

We both nervously introduce ourselves and shake his hand. His grip is very strong, but his hands are surprisingly soft and gentle. I think he might just as easily be able to hold a baby bird and bend solid steel with them. "You probably have a lot of questions," he says, "and that's okay. My job is to help you through this process as quickly and easily as possible. First, though, I have a few questions for you if that's alright." Matthew and I share a look, then nod our consent to Luke. Luke looks over his shoulder a moment, then inches closer to us, his features suddenly stony and serious as his voice drops down to a near whisper, "How in Heaven's name did two living souls manage to bumble their way through the Veil into the Land of the Dead?"