Railroaded

"Let me tell you about my pocket watch."

I sat in the passenger compartment of a train across from a man dressed like he'd walked out of a gangster film set in the 1920s: flat cap, three-piece suit, slim tie. He held a polished pocket watch in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"What?" I coughed, trying to shake the sleep from my eyes.

"My pocket watch. Get a slant on this. I swiped it off an uptown cat—real hoity-toity type. I bumped him off outside a clip joint. When I held him up he reached for my gun—tried to take it from me. The gun went off in my hand. All I wanted was the guy's dough. Somebody heard the ruckus and called copper. I ran off. Next thing I know, I'm on this train."

I shook myself awake, but it was like I'd been in a deep coma. I couldn't understand half the words this stranger was saying.

"Bullet in the stomach. Pop!" He made a shooting motion with his index finger. "Now that's a painful way to die. I always wonder what's worse right before it happens—dying from a slug in the gut or in a train wreck."

I sat up a bit straighter. A jolt of acceleration leaned me back in my seat. I looked out the window next to me to see trees and shrubs whiz by. "We're on a train." I said.

"Well, ain't you a sleuth."

"Where am I?" I asked.

"This your first time, ain't it?" he said. He shook his head and made a clicking sound with his mouth. "Lemme ask you this—what's the last thing you remember?"

I reached back in my memory. The fog in my head was clearing up. Then I remembered where I'd been a moment ago. I looked down. My breath hitched. Flecks of blood stained my shirt. My hands were covered in it. I felt the blood drain from my face. My stomach churned.

"Easy there fellah. You don't look so good. Don't hurl on me."

"I—I just—"

"You just killed somebody."

My knuckles. There was blood on them. Her blood. "I didn't mean to hurt her that bad," I said.

"Crime of passion, huh? Yeah, we get a lot of those." He took a long drag from his cigarette. "Lemme ask you something. What year are you from?"

"What?"

"What's the year?!"

"2022."

"You don't say. I'm from 1922. A hundred years apart. Ain't that swell? Well, let me fill you in, Mr. 2022. You're a murderer. Everybody on this train is from a different time and place, but we all got that in common. Every day, we wake up on a different train. And every day, that train is gonna crash, and we all die a horrible death."

"You're lying."

"No I ain't. But you'll figure that out soon enough. It's always a different train, always a different train track. But it crashes and we all die—that's always the same."

He stood and brushed the cigarette ash from his trousers.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, sliding the compartment door open. "I like to a stand at the front of the car when it happens. I think there's a smaller chance of dying a slow death that way. Adios!"

I shoved my way out the compartment and ran the opposite direction. Through the glass doors of every passenger compartment I passed, there were people—mostly men—wearing clothes from different time periods and places. Some of them sat quietly. Some of them hung their heads and cried. One man was on his knees, screaming, "no more" over and over again.

I ran for the back of the car. I grabbed at the handle and heaved at it but it wouldn't budge.

When the train crashed, I was thrown through a window and struck a telephone pole, shattering every bone in my body.

Then I woke up. Just like he'd said, I was on a different train, a different place. But that train crashed, too. And so did the next one. Killing me over and over again.

I'm not trying to say we're in hell or anything. I couldn't say for sure. All I know is that we're here to suffer. So, you better start getting used to it. I'd say this train is going to crash any second now.

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