Sleeper 33B

Thump-clack, thump-clack, thump-clack, thump-clack.

Elizabeth's eyes opened heavily. She was exhausted, and stifled a yawn as her bed moved beneath her.

Moved?

She jolted herself upright, and the room spun around her. Something clattered heavily down to the floor, invisible in the dark. Her head throbbed abominably, and her thoughts moved sluggishly, as if wading through treacle, as she tried to gain her bearings. Though the room was almost completely dark, there was no mistaking the rumbling thump-clack, thump-clack of a train. Moving uncertainty, as if underwater, she fumbled at the crack of light to her right until she managed to undo the shutters. She slammed her hands to her eyes as pain stabbed into them, driving deep into her brain. She gasped for air, trying to dull the pain through sheer force of will! At last, she dared a peek through her fingers, squinting in the unforgiving glare from the window.

She was in a sleeper car, and had, until moments ago, been lying in a bed, fully clothed. Her powder-blue Sunday clothes were rumpled and disheveled, and her hat hung from a rack in the corner. She could just see the shapes of trees and buildings whizzing past the window of the compartment, though none she recognized off hand.

How had she got here? Her last memory was reading Adam's letter Saturday evening. Her fiancé was always diligent and thoughtful, and the army censors almost never had to strike or remove any of his carefully chosen words. Yet his normally neat handwriting reduced to near scribbles when he was excited, and she had chuckled at deciphering his words as he wrote how he so looked forward seeing her again after such a long absence. She and him had made plans to meet in London the following Thursday, with her travelling to meet him by train...

But if that was now, then what had happened to the missing five days? Or Was she riding for some other, now forgotten purpose! Leaning back, her hand brushed against a rough patch on the pillow. It was brown and crusty, and crumbled into fine powder. It smelled faintly of iron, and copper. Blood. Gently, she felt over her scalp, and found her bun was caked with the stuff! She suppressed her nausea, and resolved to wash her hair thoroughly at the next opportunity. For now, at least, she suspected why her memory was a blank page. And where her headache had sprung from.

She hurriedly checked her handbag, emptying the contents out, but there was no ticket stub. No money, either. She dared not ask a conductor for help, in case he eject her with no way to return! Her head throbbed even harder as she stood, the pain lingering at the base of her skull. Walking over to the window, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass to try and soothe the pain, at least a little.

She was startled by a flash of red flying past! As the track curved slightly, she looked back down the tracks, and saw that the train's signal was bright crimson, a clear indication to stop! But the train hadn't even slowed! She craned to look up at the engine, but the track had straightened once more.

She catalogue her surroundings once more, looking for anything she might have missed. She was in a sleeper car, her bags neatly stacked to the side, the bed fully made, as she had lain down on top of it. She must have been tired to do so, but from doing what? Her first instinct was to lay down and go back to sleep, and hope this uncertain nightmare would end. But she knew that would do no good. She donned her wide-brimmed hat, glancing briefly in the small wall mounted mirror, and returned the spilled contents of her handbag to their home. Presenting a confidence she did not feel to anyone who might be outside, she slid open the compartment door.

The corridor was empty, but Elizabeth had travelled with her family often enough to know that people rarely left their compartments unless necessary. She took note of her own compartment, 33B, and closed the door firmly shut. She strode purposefully up the train, towards the engine. She passed through another windowless sleeping car, and into one filled with standard compartments. As she walked past, she was surprised to find them empty. No passengers. More disconcertingly, in the last one, there was luggage stowed in the upper rack. Had the train been evacuated?

Abandoning austerity, she quickly trotted up the corridors, each car as empty as the previous, but with traces of occupants. A dropped bag, a cane, even a cigar in an ashtray, the smell of tobacco heavy in the air. There were no passengers, no stewards or conductors. And yet the train plunged on, and she felt as though it were speeding up in response to her frantic movements!

At last, she found someone. Sprawled on the floor of the First-Class car, dried blood pooled about him, the young man was dressed as a steward. She felt at his throat, and though she knew very little practical medicine, she was certain he was dead. Even through her expensive leather gloves, the could feel the clamminess of his flesh, and there was no pulse she could find. Shaking, she stood again, and her head throbbed harder than before. Ignoring the pain, she now sprinted towards the engine, clutching her hat tight to her dark auburn hair.

The sudden squawk of a car horn outside made her stagger and stop! Looking out to her right, she saw a dark green Cadillac Roadster rocketing along the road beside the train. Several figures were waving to her, and at first she thought they were just thrill-seekers trying to race the train. But she saw them gesture at her frantically, ahead of her towards the engine. She shook her head exaggeratedly, cupping her ears to emphasize she couldn't understand. One of the figures, who looked to be in his twenties, jabbed desperately ahead of them on the road. Bemused, Elizabeth pressed against the window to see what he could be pointing at.

Far ahead, the track turned off to the right, letting Elizabeth see exactly what the problem was. The stone bridge, which should have crossed the small stream, was destroyed! At the rate the train was going, she had minutes. Less, she realized, as the Roadster was falling behind! The train was speeding up! Glancing up, she saw the red lever that her father had always warned her not to pull as a child. The emergency stop, which signaled to the engineer that something had gone wrong, and to stop the train immediately! She yanked on it, hoping against hope it would do something. But as nothing happened, the Roadster slipped further behind. Cursing something truly unladylike, she bolted towards the front of the First-Class car, dropping her handbag along the way. She burst through the connecting door, and was confronted by the solid wall of the tender car, stacked high with coal. She considered clambering on top of the pile, but her skirts got in the way, and her desperate scramble slid free as the coal shifted. With no choice, she clung to the rim of the tender, edging around on the metal lip that circled it. It was barely wide enough for her feet, especially in the boots she had strapped on, but she still pressed on! Her hat was whipped from her head in the high winds, and she stopped herself from trying to grab it! Moving too slow would destroy the train, but she knew if she lost her footing, she'd be unlikely to pull herself up on her own strength!

At last, by some miracle, she made it to the engine! The pain in her head returned with a vengeance, refusing to be ignored, as she tried to find which lever was the brake. She fumbled with the inscriptions until, she found one that was clearly indicated to be the brake.

And it was snapped clean off!

Ignoring the confusion, ignoring the pain, she looked around until she found a small secondary lever that she could just barely read the word EMERGENCY. Out of options and time, she threw it, and slammed forward as an unholy hell-like scream came from the wheels below! Pulling herself up, blinking blood out of her eye, she looked out the forward porthole to see where the bridge was: directly ahead of her! She groaned, knowing that even with the brake thrown there was too much weight behind the train, and both it and she would slam down into the broken bridge, unleashing thousands of pounds of steam out all at once!

Still the brakes shrieked in agony, their crescendo driving her head into throes of agony, pounding, pounding, pounding! Desperately staggering to the back of the engine in a vain attempt to jump clear, she was surprised as the man who had waved at her from the Roadster leapt off the the roof of the First-Class car into the tender car's coal, sliding down into the engine with her! Ignoring her, he lunged at the broken brake lever, and cursed something most ungentlemanly on seeing it! He snatched up the coal shovel, and bashed it into the padlock of a small chest Elizabeth hadn't noticed!

As he worked at it, the Roadster rocketed ahead of them, overtaking the now slowing train. After several strikes, pieces of the shovel flying every which way, the lock snapped off, and he grabbed a grimy screwdriver out of it. Slamming it into the broken brake handle, he hit the back end with the handle of the shovel several times until it was firmly wedged in! He threw his weight into it, and without prompting, Elizabeth added her own to the makeshift lever! After only a second of straining, the broken nub jolted forward a step. More screeching and wailing, both he and Elizabeth swayed, and still they pushed, until at last it jolted forward to the end!

The train roared louder than ever, and Elizabeth was sure something had gone wrong! The wailing began to die down as she was thrown to the side of the compartment, and just as she was sure they would reach the bridge, she realized she could see it off to one side! Propping herself up to the window, she saw the Roadster parked next to a track switch, the people inside it having just managed to shunt train to an emergency siding.

She had just enough time to wonder at this when, once again, she was flung back into the engine compartment, as the train finally slammed into the emergency buffers! Coal poured out of the tender into the compartment! There was a great heaving and rocking as the thousands of tons of iron and steel pushed the weights back on the track, and off it, but with the engine now disconnected from the wheels, the train at last came to a stop!

Groggily getting to his feet, the man offered his hand to help her up, as her headache returned once more. "Thanks for the assistance," he said. "I wasn't sure we'd reach the switch in time."

Elizabeth nodded numbly. Her headache and the mystery of her circumstances weighing her tongue down. Unperturbed, the young man took of his hat. "Marcus Scale, of Scale Investigations Ltd., at your service! I'm sure you've heard of us!"

She shook her head.

He shrugged. "Fair enough. This is our first case, after all." He gave her a worried look. "That's quite the shiner you've got. Let's get you to our medic!"

Marcus gently ushered her, still trembling, off the wrecked engine, back to the Roadster. Ms. Callaway, or the "medic," as Marcus had called her, was a rather frumpy middle-aged woman that reminded Elizabeth strongly of her mother. As police arrived, Marcus and the others in the car with him dispersed to debrief. As Ms. Callaway tended to the various cuts and scrapes she'd gained, she listened as Elizabeth recounted her ordeal.

"...and you really don't remember what happened after the hijacking?"

"No. I didn't know there was a hijacking. I can't even remember getting on the train!" Elizabeth frowned. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday," Concern darkened Ms. Callaway's face. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head too hard on that blasted engine?"

Elizabeth felt her resolve begin to crumble. She had kept her stiff upper lip through this whole thing, but at last it was becoming too much to bear. Refusing to let her voice break, she whispered instead. "If... if today really is Wednesday, then I don't remember anything that happened since Saturday evening, when I read Adam's letter." Her lip refused to tremble, but she couldn't stop the flood of tears. "I was supposed to meet him by train in London tomorrow. But why was I on that train today? What's happened?"

Against her will, she dissolved into sobs, and without invitation, Ms. Callaway, held her against her breast, stroking her hair. Elizabeth was so grateful for the tiniest bit of relief, she didn't notice when Ms. Callaway fiddled with her hair, as if plucking a snarl. She didn't notice when she gestured over one of the men in the car. "Elizabeth, what car did you say you woke up in?"

"33B, the second sleeper car, I think." Elizabeth mumbled, still shuddering. A young constable approached with purposeful look, but was warned away by a steel-eyed glare. After a few minutes, the man she'd sent to Elizabeth's room returned with her bags, and a small bundle of cloth he held very gingerly, careful not to scrub it. He whispered to Ms. Callaway, who at long last, nudged Elizabeth upright.

"Elizabeth, you said you've been suffering from headaches, right?"

"Yes," she sniffed.

"And you don't remember how you got on the train at all?"

"No." Elizabeth felt completely useless.

"May I see your hair?"

The question was so completely bizarre that Elizabeth had to blink a few times. Then, she remembered the blood on her pillow. "I suppose," she said, turning around in her seat, and she felt Ms. Callaway's gentle caress as it teased at the hair. There were several small stings as she undid the matts, and a strange powdery sensation trickled down the back of her blouse. "Don't squirm." The command was quiet, but firm, and Elizabeth obeyed. At last, she felt the bun come apart, and felt Ms. Callaway's fingers exploring her scalp. She could both hear and feel them rubbing a strangely rough wound beneath her hairline, and heard more murmuring behind her.

At last, Ms. Callaway turned her around, and her steely eyes were a strange mixture of warm concern and cold fury. "Elizabeth, do you own a gun?"

Elizabeth just stared for a moment, stunned. "N-no, I don't. Why do you ask?"

Ms. Callaway gestured the the package the man was still cradling. "This revolver was found in your sleeping cabin, wedged between the wall and the bunk. Do you remember seeing it at all?"

Elizabeth started to shake her head, but stopped. "I think... I remember something falling to the floor as I woke. But it was dark, and I was distracted by everything else." She looked quizzically at Ms. Callaway. "Do you think it's important?"

"Very." Came the immediate response. " Elizabeth, you've been getting headaches, and you have a wound on your head you don't remember getting, right?" After seeing her nod, she continued. "The weapon we found is empty, save for a single spent cartridge." At this, she looked Elizabeth dead in the eye. "Your wound is a small, scabbed hole in the back of your head, and your hair smells faintly of burnt powder."

Elizabeth's insides hollowed at the horrible picture that had been painted. She felt at her head, feeling the scabbed nub, not daring to tear it. It throbbed harder than before, and she was sure she could feel it worming its way inside her skull! "How? How am I still here?"

Ms. Callaway shrugged, sighing. "Who knows? Perhaps some fault in the cartridge? Regardless, near as I can tell, it's lodged in the bone, and no further. Frankly, it's a miracle you're still with us, much less able to race to a train's engine to slow it down!" She glowered at the police still milling about. "We need a doctor to have a proper look at you, so I'll have the Sergeant summon an ambulance. Not sure why they aren't already here, but I'm sure I can speed them up!"

"Wait!" Elizabeth stopped Ms. Callaway as she was getting up. "Can... can I see it? The gun, I mean?"

At a look, the man carefully unwrapped the cloth, cradling it gently to not to wipe away any prints. Ms. Callaway's eyes raked over each detail of the weapon. "Webley. Standard-issue service revolver. Hasn't been used often, but regularly cleaned and maintained..." She glanced up as she saw the color draining from Elizabeth's face. "You know something?"

"Can you turn it over? Please."

The man obliged. Etched into the other side of the handle was a monogram: AJG. Ms. Callaway caught Elizabeth's hand as she reached out to it, tears streaming down her face! "What is it girl? Who's gun is this?"

Choking back sobs, Elizabeth forced out the hateful words. The words she refused to believe.

"It's Adam's. That's Adam's gun!"