Remembrance

I notice three things when my eyes open.

The first is that I'm laying on the floor of a train carriage. It's difficult to make out my surroundings because the lights are all off, but there's a faint glow emanating from the windows that's lightly illuminating rows of dusty old seats around me. They're bolted to the floor, guarding the aisle in which I lay like battered soldiers; worn, but undefeated.

The second is that the train is moving at an incredible speed. I can only just see the blurred shadows of objects flying past the windows from where I lay, but I can feel the carriage swaying. There's an unsteady stagger to its motions, as though the train could derail and send the carriages flying at any second.

The third is that my left forearm hurts like hell. I squeeze my eyelids and blink, trying to wake myself from the daze while sitting up, and turn to investigate the source of pain. A blood stained sleeve alludes to the cause. At its edge, just below my bicep, a grubby bandage clings tightly to my arm, squeezing it like a hungry snake.

Perhaps the most unusual part, however, is that the wound on my forearm, which, I conclude, must be the culprit of this graphic crime scene, remains uncovered. The blood which seeps from the seemingly circular pattern of puncture marks is a deep red, but the rest has now dried on my skin, leaving much of my arm painted muddy brown like cracked clay.

Realising the bandage is doing little to stem the blood flow, I begin to unwrap it, fumbling as I try to undo it with a single hand. I wince in pain as I re-apply it to the oozing wound, watching as the the delicate white threads turn to red. The fog in my head is starting to clear, but I still can't remember anything. I'm an empty book.

It's as though my very being, my life memories, my persona, my essence, have become lost in the endless plains of amnesia deep within my mind. Nothing makes any sense, so I turn to my surroundings for answers. Yet, as I stand, steadying myself on the shoulder of a seat, I'm only greeted with more questions. Taped to the seat beside me is a half torn page with bold, and somewhat aggressive, handwriting.

STAY IN THE CARRIAGE.

DON'T OPEN THE WINDOWS.

FIND THE PHONE.

Blunt and to the point. There are no formalities here. A series of questions fire through my head; why? Who wrote that? Is it meant for me? Where's this train going?

There are no plausible answers to be found. The carriage seems fond of secrets. It trembles and sways slightly, as if to chuckle at my confusion, while blurry shadows continue to stream by the windows. My head is spinning but now that I'm standing, I can see the entire interior of the carriage. It's only about eighty feet in length, with old fabric seats aligned in parallel with the central aisle. They're garnished with cobwebs and have clearly remained unoccupied for many years. Thick and dusty air clings to my throat as I breathe in another shallow breath, anxious at the animosity of this place. The windows are lightly fogged and covered in dirt which has almost completely obscured any view I may have had, with the exception of those streaking shadows.

There are six doors; one vestibule door behind me, which I can only assume leads to a gangway, and seems to be staring at me through its dust-painted oculus window; a second identical door which taunts me from the opposite end; and the remaining four, which must be used by the non-existent passengers when boarding and departing, are placed evenly along each of the longitudinal sides of the carriage.

It's abundantly clear that the carriage has been devoid of life for quite some time, but still, I try my luck and let out a weak, "Hello?"

Nothing. Aside from the old tattered seats, the carriage interior is entirely empty. I'm alone.

Strange.

I glance down at the page again.

FIND THE PHONE.

Giving in to the command, I begin to walk to the other side of the carriage in search of answers, steadying myself by placing a shaky hand on each of the seats as I step forward. My foot catches on something. A backpack. If one could call it that. Its entire surface, which appears to have once resembled green canvas, is covered with small holes, dirt and tears. It's barely holding itself together, but I stoop down to investigate its contents nonetheless. A few tins of canned food; a pocket knife; a bottle of water; some tape; a notebook; a solar powered battery bank; a pen and a small pencil case containing Band-Aids, bandages, swabs and a bottle of alcohol.

No phone.

I sigh and drop the bag to the floor in frustration, my disappointment echoing in the sound of the loud thud as it slams into the linoleum, and I continue my search. I'm greeted by the carcasses of dusty old seats as I pass by the seemingly endless rows, but there's no phone to be found.

The very last row of seats is now behind me, and I'm standing at the far door. It taunts me, as if to say it knows I'm not supposed to leave. Like a curious eye, the oculus window on the door stares me down, questioning my every movement. Presumably, it was once a transparent window, but now it's almost entirely opaque from dirt and fog.

Every cell in my body is telling me to stay, but I've checked the rest of the carriage and there's no phone. I begin to turn the handle, then pause and, for a brief moment, consider listening to the note once more, but my patience has long since expired. Perhaps whoever wrote the note meant it as a joke? I think, trying to justify my decision as I continue slowly turning the handle.

A loud bang rings in my ears. Something has slammed into the other side of the oculus just centimetres from my face. I stumble backwards in fright, letting go of the handle and landing on my back as the door handle snaps back to its resting position. Looking up, my gaze locks onto rows of serrated teeth, encased within a salivating circular mouth. The creature has latched itself onto the window. I can't see its eyes, and it's difficult to see the creature properly through the window's filth, but I can feel it looking at me. It can't be more than a foot in length, but its size makes it no less terrifying. Meaty bare-skinned wings, like those of a bat, protrude from its slug-shaped body. It has no limbs but from the look of its teeth, I doubt it has much need for them. After a moment of staring at the creature in disbelief, it unlatches itself from the window and flies off, joining the millions of other blurry shadows as it streams past the windows on the side of the carriage.

I'm numb. Not just with fear, but with utter disbelief. The aching in my forearm anchors me to reality as I try desperately to make sense of things. I'm drifting, and am soon paralysed by an onslaught of questions.

What was that thing? Am I delusional? Is this real?

I remain there on the floor, helpless and confused for what feels like hours, but is likely mere seconds. It's not until a familiar sound dances by my ears that I begin to resurface back to reality. Music. Normally, it would be a pleasant surprise, but given the circumstances, the orchestral sounds seem to make everything more eerie. Still, it's what I needed. I scrape my shivering body off the floor. I can't feel anything, but I'm moving towards the sound like a mindless zombie.

I should have listened to the note, I think to myself.

STAY IN THE CARRIAGE.

It was a simple enough message.

I float by the rows of fabric and steel, feeling the gaze of carriage seats as I pass. They seem to be judging me, as if to say, "we told you so".

Yes. You did.

The carriage is swaying more violently now, as if to passive-aggressively tell me to hurry up. I don't. Instead, I anxiously throw glances at the windows while slowly staggering down the aisle, then come to a sharp halt as I notice something outside. The realisation hits me. There's a building. It's impossible to tell what type, but through the dim glow of the moonlight I can see it's made of brick and its windows are all broken in. Yet, the decrepit state of the building isn't what stopped me, it was the fact that it's not moving past the window. It's stationary, which means, the train isn't moving either. It never was.

I step closer to the window and peer out of a small semi-dirt-free gap. I want to vomit, but there's nothing there to bring up. The blurry shadows streaming past the windows aren't trees or buildings. They're thousands of whatever it was that slammed into the window, all flowing in the same direction like a flock of birds. Some of them slam into the carriage now and then, causing it to rock and sway, but that's about as much movement as the carriage has seen in quite some time from what I gather.

Flinging back from the window in a panic, I'm reminded of my task once more by the gentle sound of music, and continue my search with quickened pace. After a few more moments, I end up back where I started on the other side of the carriage. The music is much louder now, and there's a light coming from underneath one of the seats. Leaning over and reaching underneath, I pull out a mobile phone. It was on the floor beside me the whole time. I press 'stop' on the alarm and the music turns to silence. For a brief moment, hope bubbles within me as I consider calling for help, but my naivety is exposed when I glance towards the error symbol at the top of the screen. No signal. I sigh in disappointment.

The phone's screensaver is black with words written on it in bold white font.

WATCH VIDEO.

Again, no formalities. Blunt and to the point. I open the video folder and play the only file that's there. A young man in his early twenties is self-recording. He has wavy dark brown hair that would be any barber's nightmare, sandy stubble, and is wearing a seaweed green t-shirt. There's something familiar about him, like I've met him before, but I can't remember where. It's difficult to tell where exactly, but he appears to be inside the carriage. I can recognise the faded brown colour of the dusty seats behind him. As he begins to speak, I can hear the deep panic and urgency in his voice, "I don't have a lot of time, and I know you're probably very confused, but please, PLEASE listen to me."

I collapse onto one of the seats, still engrossed in the video and paying no notice to the cobwebs which latch onto my thighs.

"Your name is Tom. You're twenty-five years old and you grew up in..."

The man pauses for a moment as his eyes lose focus. He's thinking. Deeply.

"Shit, it's already starting... Never mind. Those things," the man pauses again for a second and looks out of the carriage window, zooming in on one of the creatures that has adhered itself to the exterior of the window beside him. "We call them 'Getors. Their saliva contains some sort of... toxin that induces memory loss... On their own, they're not much of a threat..."

The man raises his left arm to the camera, gesturing towards the circular wound on his forearm, and the bandage that's tightly wrapped around his bicep. He continues talking but I'm barely listening now.

It's me. I'm the man, I think to myself in disbelief. How could I forget what I look like? What I sound like? Who I am...? In the background, I can still hear the video playing.

"...Will help delay the effect of the toxin, but it won't prevent it. Once bitten, they attract the rest of the flock and by the time they arrive, you'll have either passed out or completely forgotten what you were running from in the first place. Don't let that happen."

My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, thrusting violently, but I try to keep listening. I have to.

"One last thing... Uh," the man rubs his forehead and trails off deep into thought once more. Seconds go by. He's muttering to himself in a frustrated voice, and then suddenly turns back to the camera. "It's safe during daylight! They don't like the sun," he exclaims as he finally remembers. Then, as though whispering a prayer, the man mutters one last thing under his breath, "Run. Hide. Remember. Lest we shall perish." The recording ends.

I'm shocked, but a small part of me is relieved that I have answers. I don't like the situation at all, but at least I understand it now. I want to scream, to cry, to blame someone for this nightmare, but the carriage is my only company, and it doesn't want to listen. I slump over in resignation. The seat on which I'm sitting consoles me, drawing me in like a nurturing parent. The train is still swaying with the flock's motions but it's peaceful in a way.

***

At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I find myself opening my eyes once more, dazed and confused. This time though, I'm splayed out across the seats. My memory is still gone, but I can recount the events of the last few hours at least.

I steal a quick glance through the glass beside me. There's no movement outside anymore. The things are gone, and sunlight is spilling in through the windows, creating a serene glow. The carriage is silent now, its purpose fulfilled. Cobwebs hang from every corner like macramé and dust in the air is glimmering like confetti. It's almost beautiful in a way, as though it's the carriage's final gift; a goodbye. Whether it was a safe haven or a prison is still unclear, but I know without it I wouldn't be here.

Realising my hellish sentence is over, I quickly dust myself off, scooping the battered bag from the floor and slinging it over my shoulder as I make a beeline for the exit. The thought of freedom breathes life into my motions as I float closer to the door. I don't know what I'll do when I get there, but I know I can't stay here forever. The carriage was but a temporary refuge, a friend in my time of need, but my welcome has expired.

I never had a ticket, I think to myself as I walk, and a thought dances into my mind. I'm not sure if the old me had a sense of humour, or such sentimental tendencies, but I slip the bag off my shoulder and pull out a can of food before placing it on the floor.

Creamed corn. This is my fare. It's not much, and certainly wouldn't have passed in the world I remember, but something tells me that world died a long time ago. The carriage's rusty metal frame lets out a light creak as if to acknowledge my gesture. I throw a smile towards the oculus as I open the door and step out into the daylight.