"See, Alex, I told you I wasn't a baby!" Seven-year-old Danny beamed down through the gap in the boxcar door at his older brother, daring him to contradict. He came close to sticking his tongue out, but figured that would undermine his argument, so he just stood with his arms crossed and watched as his brother's discomfort grew.

"Okay, Danny, you're not a baby. Now come down." Alex held his arms up to the boy, but Danny just shook his head.

"Not until you say it."

"Danny! Get down here now, or I'll tell Mom you wouldn't listen."

"Then I'll tell her how you dared me to climb up here."

Alex knew he had been trumped. "Fine. You are the bravest kid in the family. Now come down." Danny smiled in triumph, but just as he was about to jump down, the car lurched and began to move.

The sudden jerk knocked Danny off his feet, and he sat down hard enough to make his teeth click. He could see Alex walking beside the slow moving boxcar. He could hear him shouting to jump. But it was all like a bad dream; Danny couldn't move or scream as the terror engulfed him and the train accelerated.

He sat paralyzed and watched Alex start to run, and then fall behind. A moment later there was nothing to see but the landscape blurring by as the train cruised through the countryside. When he found his voice it came out garbled by tears, and Danny curled up on the cold wooden floorboards crying softly and whispering, "Mama."

A soft touch on his shoulder startled Danny out of his cocoon of self-pity. He sat up with a scream stuck in his throat and looked into the dim boxcar, searching for his assailant. The scream came unstuck when his eyes settled on a grizzled face, looking back at him from the shadows of the freight car.

"Sorry, son. I didn't aim to give you a fright." The raspy voice matched the weathered face perfectly, and somehow, Danny found himself strangely reassured by the congruity.

"I'm not scared. You just snuck up on me." Danny scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeves. "I'm the bravest kid in my family."

"No doubt you are," laughed the old man. "I was just wondering how far you were planning to ride."

Danny thought about that question for a long while. He hadn't planned on riding at all. And now that he was, he had no idea how, when, or even if he could quit. He looked down through the door at the ground whizzing by and knew he was stuck at least until the next stop, wherever that was. "I'll probably get off in the next town."

"Taylorville, eh? Got friends there, do you? Or maybe family waiting for you."

Danny didn't answer. Everyone he knew was back in Sheffield. Thinking about his family brought fresh tears to his eyes and he turned his face away from the old man. A single thought kept circling in his mind, "Oh, Mama. Will I ever see you again?"

The man went on, as if Danny has responded. "We'll be there in a couple of hours or so. I was fixing to get off soon myself. If nobody shows up to meet you, you can stick with me. Name's Gil, what's yours?"

"I'm Daniel," he replied. He hoped the full name would make him sound braver. Danny couldn't decide which was the more frightening scenario: being alone in a strange town or spending the rest of his life with a stranger. He hoped it wouldn't come to that choice. Somehow, his mother would find him. But how would she know to look for him in Taylorville?

"If you're hungry, Daniel, I have some beans. They're cold, but they ain't rotten or anything." He held out a can of Bush's best with the white handle of a plastic spoon peeking above the rim.

"No thanks, Mr. Gil. I'm not hungry." Danny didn't even like beans when they were cooked.

"Why don't you come away from the door, Daniel? I'd hate for you to fall out if we hit a bump."

Danny scooted away from the door, and sat down with his back to the wall, staying well away from the old man. Gil just chuckled. "I don't bite," he mocked, but he didn't press the issue.

They passed the time in uncomfortable silence. The old man tried small talk, seeking to comfort the child, but Danny's emotional reaction whenever conversation led to thoughts of home stifled him. And so he sat and watched the brave little boy fight back his tears.

Two hours later, as the train slowed, Danny could see the reflections of flashing lights from the small town just ahead. The train was almost at a complete stop when his boxcar passed the source of the lights, a Taylorville city police car.

When the train ground to a halt, half a dozen police officers began pacing the length of the train, pulling open the doors and shining their flashlights into each of the cars. When one of them finally got to Danny's car, he was at the door, ready to jump down into the policeman's protective grasp. Holding Danny tightly with one hand, he used the other to key his radio, "I've found him."

Within seconds, Danny's mother was there, embracing him so tightly he thought he might pop. She was crying and repeating his name as she stroked his hair. Over her shoulder, Danny saw Gil slip out of the boxcar. He watched, stricken as the police converged on him, with weapons drawn. Danny struggled in his mother's arms. "No! Mama, make them stop. Gil's not a bad guy."

As she turned to see what had riled him so, she saw three police officers with their guns aimed at an old man in bedraggled clothes lying prone on the ground while a fourth applied the handcuffs. Her face went white when she put the scene together with her son's anguished cries. Danny had been in the same car with that man. She hugged him tighter as horrific visions of what might have been flashed unwanted through her mind.

The incident was over in moments and as the police led Gil to a waiting car, he looked over at Danny and smiled. He raised his eyes to meet the frozen stare of Danny's mother and winked.

"Choo-choo!"

I glanced over at the young boy sitting across the aisle. I'd first noticed him while we were waiting at the station. He appeared to be about five-years-old and it was quite clear from his dress and his demeanor that he was really into trains. Every visible article of clothing, including his shoes and socks, was adorned with trains. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that Thomas the Tank Engine or one of his ubiquitous pals was also adorning the young man's little boxers or briefs.

The child clutched a miniature train in each fist. He would occasionally roll them on his leg or gently tap them against each other, but mostly he was content to spin their wheels and whisper,"Choo-choo."

He was an incredibly handsome child with short, curly, blond hair and deep, blue eyes that stared blankly through me when he happened to glance in my direction. It was that blank stare, along with an extreme paucity of language that caused me to suspect that he had some type of developmental delay, most likely some form of autism.

My suspicions were confirmed when the train finally arrived. At first, he covered his ears and moaned when the train rumbled in and squealed to a stop; but, as soon as the noise ended, he jumped up in excitement. As we waited for the doors to open so that boarding could begin, he jumped up and down flapping his arms wildly in front of him shouting, "Choo-choo, choo-choo!"

His mom kept a close grip on him as she tried to calm him down. "I see the choo-choo, Jay. I see it. Calm down. Yes, yes, it's a choo-choo. We'll get on the choo-choo in a minute."

Jay did seem to calm down once we got on the train. As I said, he ended up sitting with his mother across the aisle from me, and for the first hour or so of the trip, he simply looked around and muttered to himself quietly with a sing-song mixture of garbled sounds.

As time wore on, however, he began to get restless. The occasional whispered, "Choo-choo" gradually became louder and more frequent until he was jumping up and shouting it every few minutes. When he wasn't shouting, he was rocking back and forth in his seat and kicking the seat-back in front of him.

At first, the mother tried gamely to engage him. She brought out a small bag of snacks. They looked at train books. She even had a portable DVD player that showed a variety of train movies. All these things worked for a while, but then Jay would start again. "Choo-choo?"

The mother smiled apologetically when the other passengers glared at her. She engaged in a futile stream of calming words directed at Jay when they made sarcastic comments about her parenting abilities and her brat. She redoubled her efforts at distraction when they complained to the porter. Eventually, however, she just gave up.

Several of the other passengers had given up as well. As the day wore on, more and more requested, and were granted, new seats. Soon there were only a handful of us left in the car.

"Choo-choo!"

Sighing, I closed my novel. It was clear that I was not going to be able to get much reading done on this trip. I looked over again. Jay continued to ignore me as he jabbered to himself and wiggled his fingers in front of his face. His mother, unfortunately, could not so easily escape from reality. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

The next thing I knew, I found myself leaning over to talk to her. "So, you guys headed to Disney World?"

She turned toward toward me and smiled wanly. "Yes, we're meeting my husband and other two children down there."

It seemed like she wanted to say more, so I gently encouraged her. "Have you ever been before?"

Her smile was broader this time. "Yes, it's a wonderful place for children with disabilities. It's one of the few places we can go as a family and really enjoy a vacation. Jay's on a gluten-free diet and the have food he can eat."

Her smile was short-lived. "This is the first time, we've taken the train though."

I nodded and she continued.

"Usually we take our car, but it's a 15 hour drive, and," she smiled ruefully, "he doesn't travel well." We thought about flying, because it would be a lot shorter, but..." Her voice trailed off.

"Jay's always been into trains, so we thought that maybe this would work," she continued. My husband flew with the other kids and Jay and I took the train." Jay's mom sighed loudly.

"Choo-choo!" Jay squealed.

She continued, "I thought he'd be content to look at his things for a while and then fall asleep with the motion of the train." She looked ready to cry.

I absentmindedly patted her on the shoulder as I thought of my own son. He was in his thirties now, and was able to mostly live independently and take care of himself, but I clearly remembered his early years.

"Choo-choo," I whispered quietly to Jay as I gently touched the front wheel of his train. I stared off into space as I tried to get inside his head and see things from his perspective. "You know, people with autism are visual. They say they think in pictures," I muttered to Jay's mom.

All of a sudden I had it. "Wait here," I said as I jumped up and ran toward the front of the train. I found the porter and flagged him down. "Excuse me, I'm in 726, and…"

"Sorry," he interrupted me, "I have no where left to move you. We upgraded 20 people from that car already. You’ll just have to deal with the kid for now and talk with the main office when we stop."

"No, I'm not asking to move. I think I have an idea how to stop him. Would it be possible to get him a map with a layout of the train?"

The porter looked skeptical, but I managed to convince him that this could help and at this point he was just desperate enough to try anything. "I'll see what I can do."

I ran back to Jay’s mom to explain my plan. "I bet he doesn’t even understand that he's on the train," I told her. "He’s never seen the inside of a train before, and this doesn't really look much like the outside."

Once the porter returned with several maps, we got Jay settled without too much trouble. "Look, Jay, it's the choo choo."

You should have seen the rapture on his face as his mom pointed out the parts of the train and then showed him where his seat was.

The rest of the trip passed in relative peace. Jay did drag his mom all through the train with the maps in his hand pointing and muttering, "Choo-choo" as he went, but it was a small price to pay for a happy child.

“How much longer, Azzy?”

Libby is hunched in her corner, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. The plastic tarp wrapped around her tiny frame makes her seem even smaller than she is, and days with little nourishment has left her pitiful.

“Soon, Lib, it’ll end very soon,” I say, tucking myself in next to her, though I know of no such thing. It has been days, many days, since we had left Fargo behind. The lack of windows in our small storage car has made time seem to melt into nothingness; only our diminishing supply of food and water suggest that it still exists. Our sparse supplies are a constant worry on my mind. What if we do not make it to the outside before we are to starve?

But I mustn’t think that way, for Libby’s sake.

Libby looks away, her hand still tightly clenched around mine. Her face is drawn, and before I know it, I see a tear slide down her cheek. I hastily try to brush it away, but more keep coming, and soon, a torrent of tears is cascading from her eyes. Her arms stretch around me, and I cradle her in my arms.

“Why did we leave her?” She looks so tiny, in my lap, sobbing like a fish out of water. She has not cried for days, not since Mother had seen us off at the back lot of the train station, waving us off with all the gold she had. I realize that she has been suppressing her emotions, for me. Why wouldn’t she? All that time I had thought I was the one being strong for the two of us, when in truth, it had been the other way around.

“We have to, Libby.” I stroke her matted hair, my face stony and clenched from the strain of emotion. My baby sister was doing enough crying for the two of us. My strong-willed, porcelain-hearted little sister, who sang during her shift at the sewing shop, danced while drying laundry on our balcony. It was all too easy to just drop her and break her. “They would have taken us away from each other.”

We both knew who they were. The Patrol from our capital, the city of Ronan, who had taken our father away from us, stolen away our mother, in a blink of an eye. It was essential that the two of us got away safely, or the Patrol would take us as well. Separate us and brainwash us, into the soldiers that we saw marching in the streets after dark, blank-eyed and hard-faced, mere puppets that were barely out of their teenage years. That was what they did to orphans, particularly in times of war. So many parents are dying that orphans are an easy source of troops for the governors in Ronan. To them, we are just fresh blood that exist to fight their fight for them.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, but it is a lie. Libby knows it; I can see it in her eyes. She moves away from me, untangling herself from my embrace, and hunches in her corner again, face hard and jaw set. Stubborn little girl. But that is probably her way to cope with the misfortune that has befallen on her.

I know, because I do the very same.

Suddenly, I feel the lurch. The train is slowing. I rise, and am thrown by how weak my legs are. Days of crawling and hunkering down in weak torchlight have stolen my muscles from my body. Staggering, I brace myself against the force of the slowing movement, and stumble to our crate, where we keep our bags of provisions and meager changes of clothing. I gather up our things.

“Lib,” I say, holding out her bag to her. Our escape has been planned from the beginning, but now that we must actually execute it, I feel almost uncertain. But I must hold it together, stick to the plan, for Libby. Because while we are both escaping, she is the one we are really doing it for. She still has hope for a future, while I, already in my teenage years, is already too full a cup to make anything of myself.

“Be ready,” I whisper at her, and turn off the torch, our only source of light all these lonely, anxious days. As the streamlined acceleration of the train continues to slow, I take off the tarp covering Libby, and fold it carefully into my pack. We both move toward the door.

It is barely a second after the train comes to a complete stop that the doors slide open, to reveal blinding whiteness.

It is another second before I feel a pair of thick, gloved hands roughly grab my neck.

“Lib!” The word rips from my lips like the screech of a wildcat, or perhaps just the weak wail of a newborn kitten. I do not know what is happening, but I need my sister. Where is she? Where is Libby? I am sobbing, as I am wrenched away from my baby sister. “Lib!”

I struggle, but whoever is handling me is strong. I cannot break their grip. I am blinded by the daylight, so I cannot see Libby, but I can hear her wails.

“Azzy!”

They are pulling me back now. I am dizzy with exertion, having remained stationary all those days on the train. My vision clears just enough for me to recognize Patrolmen uniforms and razor stun guns before something akin to a mask is wrenched over my head. I am enraged. They can do all they want, but they are not about to keep me from seeing Libby.

I feel a surge of adrenaline, and by some miracle, break free of my captor. I rip the blinding mask from my face, and I have the feeling that I must look like some half-crazed animal. Gasping desperately, I push my weak body to its limit as I run, run toward Libby’s voice, toward some unknown place where only danger awaits.

I blink the spots from my eyes, and see Libby, being handled by a single Patrolman. She is fighting, but the man seems to be unaffected. It is said in our city, among the civilians, that troops of the Patrol are given a drug that erases their ability to feel emotion or physical pain. I am beginning to believe that the stories are correct.

I reach the man in time to crash into thin air. My mind is empty of all thought except of Libby as I whip around, fear on my face.

My body crashes to the ground as I see Libby thrown back in the blast of a shotgun.

The bullet. It had been meant for me.

But I had dived past, and Libby, my baby sister Liberty, had taken the bullet.

I close my eyes and my mind shuts down.

I pressed the suction plug against the glass and twisted the handle until it would turn no more. I pulled against the plug to ensure it was properly secured and held tightly with my right hand, my feet still safe on the platform.
All the way along the platform people watched me, some concerned, some just confused. They talked and pointed in my direction but no one tried to stop me or asked me what I was doing. No one wanted to be seen to leave the crowd. The shrill sound of a conductor's whistle rang out throughout the station and I took my customary deep breath.
The train started to roll along the track and I walked next to it matching its speed, still holding the plug tightly, until I found myself running at full sprint. I'm sure the people on the platform were all looking at me but I was concentrating too much to notice. It was the moment of truth. I jumped to my right and felt the soles of my shoes slam against the metal rear of the train.
The train pulled me behind it as it tore along the track, quickly getting faster and faster and faster. Soon I was ripping through the air at ninety miles per hour, riding a furious wave of metal past the trees and through the tunnel, under the arched brickwork and through the darkness and back into the blinding, beautiful daylight.
There was no other feeling like this. Nothing that could ever compete with the thrill of surfing the planet on one of many man-made monstrosities. Nothing more fun than conquering man and nature in one glorious journey. Riding that metallic shooting star straight to perfection. The risk felt like no risk at all. I was complete.
I would arrive at the next station, probably to a police welcoming party waiting on the platform with the station security, all of them pretending not to be impressed, taking their anger out on me for what they would forever be too afraid to do. I didn't care. Even if I had to spend a night in the cells, it was a small price to pay.
The wind cut through my hair and made my eyes sore. Roaring in my ears, it was all I could hear. I screamed a scream of sheer adrenaline. Faces looked out of the train's back window at me, the faces swapping every few seconds as they were pushed aside by other bodies desperate to see the lunatic clinging to the back of the train. I waved to them and did my best to smile, my teeth already on show owing to the extreme wind forcing open my lips, the mechanical bull nearly throwing me onto the tracks more than once.
Eventually, after six of the most time transcending minutes of my life, the train began to slow as it approached the next station. I was still rushing, I felt the blood pumping through my body and felt like I could do anything.
I concentrated on pulling tight against the plug and keeping my legs mostly straight, bent a little at the knees. This was the hard part. The less momentum that the train had the more difficult it was to remain on the back of the train.
As the train pulled into the station, there they were, just as I had predicted. Two police officers and three security guards. The security guards would be the obnoxious ones. They would feel the need to assert their jurisdiction and power in front of the police officers. I'd be better off in the cell than listening to the lectures about what my parents would say and how valuable my life is. They would never understand the thrill, the adrenaline rush that I got from being so close to the edge. They would never understand because they were too scared to understand, and for that reason they would hate me. The train slowed to a stop and I felt the security guard's hand wrap under my arms and pull me violently onto the platform.

Colt leaned back on the hard, straight-backed wooden bench and stretched his legs forward; crossing his feet at the ankles and propping them on the rusted spur that clung to his worn black leather boot. He peered out of the small window that has been painted over time with dust and black smoke that the train emitted.. He could feel the wheels beneath him rumble over the cold steel of the rails that carried him from one life into another. He was tired, exhausted really, but the anxiety that fluttered through his chest could not be ignored; and would not allow him to rest. In the distance he could see the track disappear into the base of a mountain range that steadily inched it's way nearer. The sun began to dip behind the tallest peaks, ready to submit to the darkness that would soon consume it. As he stared into the final moments of light; he realized that like the sun, his heart too will soon be giving in to the darkness.

He closed his eyes and pulled the dusty cowboy hat down across the top of his face. He knew he needed to slow his heart beat.
“Son, you can't aim if you can't grip; you can't grip if you can't achieve dry palms; you can't achieve dry palms if you can't steady your heart.”
His father was hardly an educated man, but he was a sure-shot, and a genius at staying calm during an intense moment. Murdered in front of Colt at a tender age of 12, his father was his sole inspiration of traveling the country to seek justice for those who were wronged. But these were such memories that Colt had to bury now.

A traveling lawman, Colt made his living moving from town to town putting order back into the lives of the weary. He visited many towns that were being hindered by gangs running fear into the lives of the townsfolk, and killing whoever tried to show courage against them. Every towns' council was the same, nervous and unsure; to which Colt would just point out the fact that they are running out of options and need to act quickly. After a few months, he always walked out of each town with it running smoothly under the new set “Colt's Law”. For ten years he single-handedly restored peace and order in town after town. A life that kept him running from the revenge-seeking gang members.

No town presented a challenge like the last town though. Colt was used to making little money, and riding through the plains; but she made him want more. Madeline Rose Johnson, or Maddie as she preferred. She stayed upstairs in the towns' hottest saloon with nine other young women; none of which were as beautiful as Maddie. Her hair, as golden as the sun's first morning rays, poured over her delicate pale shoulders, curling and twisting down her petite frame. Her lips pouted and her eyes were as green as the wealthiest man's pastures in the middle of spring. Her scent was sweet and spicy; a scent that drove even the most stable of men into a whirlwind of confusion and lust. On Colt's second night in the town; as he walked into the saloon, the sight of her enthralled him. He had never been in love, but he imagined this is what it would feel like.

His work in this town was the hardest of any. The thought of Maddie always seeped into his brain like a determined poison, and clouded his ability to make quick judgments. She was an angel to the senses, but a devil to the soul. He wanted her anyway, and was determined to accomplish whatever it took to have her.

He felt the train sway and slow as the engine tipped up toward a steep incline. He peered out into the darkness until his eyes hardly caught glimpse of what he was searching for in the distance. A dimly moonlit silhouette of a carriage drawn by four horses so black, they almost disappeared entirely into the darkness. He caught the dim glint of a few golden locks of hair twisting from underneath a large floppy black hat. He smiled at the thought of the family she had promised him once they made way with their riches.

He removed the bandanna from his pocket; red like the color used by the large gang that plagued many towns in the area, and wrapped it around his mouth and nose. He pushed his black hat down so that his eyes were barely visible. Pulling his pistol from his waist band, he exhaled the deep breath he had been holding and stood up. He made his way to the next car; where the richer folk rode.

He busted through the door and screamed demands for the passengers to empty their pockets. He was silently congratulating himself for his courage when it hit him. He realized how calm he was. And it terrified him. The thought seeped into his mind of how easily he had become exactly what he fought so hard to rid this world of. All the faces of the terrified men before him morphed into the face of his father. Every single man wore the same twisted, distorted look of fear that his father wore the night of his murder. The face that for so long had haunted him in his sleep.

As his mind clouded with the back and forth pull of good and evil; of Maddie and his father, a shot rang out. The sound instantly burned his ears. He hit the floor with force. He lay still and felt as if a thin layer of ice was quickly consuming his skin. Then he felt the warm liquid of his life pooling around him. He let the pistol fall free from his iced hand and looked up into the face of a screaming woman. He could see her screams were forceful and dramatic, but he couldn't hear a thing. Staring at her, he imagined the disappointment in Maddie. His mind played his life from the beginning. He visioned his father and mother and all that he had learned from both. He saw everything; every town he had saved, every life he had taken, every achievement he accomplished and every mistake he had made. But as he stared into the face of the screaming woman above him and the blackness slowly swallowed the edges of his view; it wasn't his past he mourned over. It was everything he never got to accomplish. His own home, his own family; faded images of his desires floated into his soul. He felt as though his heart sank and he could feel the beating of it slow to a steady pace.
“My palms won't sweat anymore Daddy, I got my heart to slow like you said.”
The very thing he told his father as a young boy learning how to handle a pistol. The very thing he imagined his young boy would say to him.

As he concentrated on his slowing heart beat, the blackness moved in quickly, and swallowed every last image.

Peterson looked across the tracks to the human skeletons materialising on the platform. He watched terror fill their bones as they looked around at the skeletal forms moving all around them, most of them dressed in black suits or dresses, before they looked down at their own fleshless hands and realised that they too were one of these forms. Every time the reaction was the same. The shoulders sank, the head lowered and they began looking for a place to sit down.
Peterson had experienced this shock himself less than five minutes ago before a skeleton in a blue uniform had approached him.
'Let's see your ticket, pal', the uniformed skeleton had demanded.
'Um…I don't have a ticket. I don’t even know where I am.'
'Everyone has a ticket, pal. Check your top pocket there.' Peterson had reached inside the breast pocket of the black suit he had no memory of purchasing and found a small rectangular piece of card. Before he really had a chance to look at it the uniformed skeleton had snatched it from his grasp, torn off one of the corners and put it back in the same breast pocket.
'Go jump on that one, pal', he'd said, outstretching his index finger in the direction of a sleek looking train waiting further down the platform. For the first time, Peterson noticed how long human fingers look without flesh covering the bone. In confused resignation Peterson had boarded the train, handed his ticket over to the conductor and been directed to the comfortable compartment which he currently occupied alone.
The platform across the tracks had a uniformed skeleton of its own and a train of its own, but the train looked much older and did not look capable of the same levels of speed or comfort as the one he was sitting on.
There was a brief knock, the compartment door slid open and for the second time that day Peterson’s bones filled with terror. Lowering his head under the doorframe, and being careful not to catch his curly orange wig in the door as he closed it behind him, the clown took a seat opposite Peterson. He was huge, about seven feet tall, and had on a yellow one piece outfit covered in circular pink spots and green, oversized shoes. A sinister red smile was painted on his skull in cheap make up. Peterson sat, frozen.
'Hi', the Clown Giant said cheerfully.
'…Hello.' Peterson replied, cautiously. The Clown Giant looked around the compartment for a moment, then looked Peterson straight in the eyeholes.
'How did you die then?' Peterson was completely taken aback by the question. Firstly, because it was the first time he had heard it acknowledged out loud that he was really dead, and secondly, because it had only just occurred to him that he did not know the answer. He looked back at the Clown Giant.
'I don't know, I can't remember. How about you?'
'I can’t remember either.'
'If you don’t mind me asking, why are you dressed as a clown?'
'I'm not really sure, I suppose I must have been buried like this. Don’t know why.' He appeared to be un-phased by the whole thing.
'But…you have make up on your skull.'
'Oh, yeah, I just put that on myself, I found the paints in my pocket.'
'Why?'
'I don't really know, I didn't know what else to do.' The Clown Giant looked out of the window and across to the platform opposite. 'So which one do you think we're going to?' he asked.
'Which what?'
'Which one, Heaven or Hell?' This question had not occurred to Peterson and the nature of it made him very uncomfortable.
'What makes you think we're going to either?'
'Oh come on, one train going in one direction being boarded by recently dead skeletons, and another train going in the other direction, also being boarded by recently dead skeletons, it doesn't take a genius.' Peterson knew that the Clown Giant was right. 'So, which one?'
'Heaven, surely!' Peterson’s firm tone did not reflect the doubt he felt in his chest.
'I'm not so sure', The Clown Giant replied, 'I've done a lot of good in my life, but I’ve done some bad as well.'
'Me too.' Peterson had to admit. 'But who hasn't? I've never done anything to warrant eternal suffering, that”˜s for sure.' The Clown Giant shrugged.
'How do you know? What’s the worst thing you’ve done?'
'That's none of your business!'
'Come on, what does it matter now, it's judgement day.' The Clown Giant was right. It didn’t matter now.
'I had an affair. Got my secretary pregnant and paid her off so my wife wouldn't find out.' The Clown Giant nodded.
'That's not ideal, but you're right. Eternal suffering does seem a bit much.'
'So what's the worst thing you've done?' Peterson asked.
'Hmm…I've gotten in some fights and things like that. I've never killed anyone but I've put a couple in the hospital. People tend to want to challenge a big guy, I don’t know why. I guess they're threatened by me. It was only ever self defence though, and that's the truth.' Peterson believed him. There was no point in lying.
'And that's the worst?'
'Yeah I'd say so.'
'Well, we must be heading for heaven then!' The Clown Giant nodded, the pair relaxed and Peterson thought about his life. There were some things he wished he'd done differently but overall he had enjoyed it. And now, eternal bliss awaited.
There was another knock at the door.
'Come in', the Clown Giant called out.
The door opened and in walked a uniformed skeleton wearing a brown shirt, brown trousers and black boots. The skeleton, who was himself quite small in stature but stood upright and proud, looked at the Clown Giant for a few moments, looked at Peterson, and then took the empty seat next to the Clown Giant. Peterson and the Clown Giant looked at each other.
'Are you in fancy dress too?', the Clown Giant asked the uniformed skeleton.
'No', the uniformed skeleton replied, with a thick Russian accent. 'My name is Joseph Stalin'.
'Well,' said the Clown Giant to Peterson, 'I suppose that answers our question.' Peterson nodded slowly and, as the three skeletons sat in tense silence and the train pulled away from the station, terror filled Peterson’s bones for the third time that day.

I sighed and glanced at my passport once again. My own face stared up at me, not smiling and younger. How long had it been since the photo had been taken? I hardly knew, but guessed about seven years. The last time I had traveled out of the country was with my mother. I shake my head, sending the thoughts away. Now’s not the time, I reprimand.
The floor shudders and I rise slightly from the bed, arms flailing wildly to steady myself. My ears are reacquainted with the rumbling I had grown accustomed to. Now, however, a screeching sound adds harmony.
“So much for first class treatment…” I mumble, trying to stand on the shaking floor. Three knocks at the door interrupt my thoughts. “Yes?” I demand.
“Miss, the conductor would like to speak with you.” The speaker was slightly French and sounded as if speaking English was hard for him.
“Okay, I’m coming.” I told the man and stumble toward the door, swinging it open and almost hitting him. I pitch forward and he catches me mid fall.
“Careful, Miss. We’re on bumpy tracks.” He gives a small grin and shrugs, helping me to stand. I nod at him, too embarrassed to speak. “This way.” He instructs, leading me down the dark corridor. I glance out the window and see the scenery flying by. There is a full moon over a low valley, back dropped by a mountain. The moon lights up the entire thing making it seem glowing and unreal. I pause, staring at it.
“Beautiful?” The man asks, stopping next to me and taking in the view.
“Truly breathtaking.” I manage, following his now extended hand further down the corridor. We come to a door separating the overnight cabins with the dining car. I had been here for lunch earlier that day, although then the tables had been covered. Now I felt as if I shouldn’t even be looking at it! Red velvet tablecloths with sterling silver candle holders and silverware. The plates had to be actual china and the wine glasses were obviously crystal. A low whistle of appreciation escaped my lips.
“Very nice, yes?” The man asked, turning to me. “Only for first class.” I smiled.
“Now this is more like it.” Said I, speaking more to myself than him. At the end of the car we passed a few waiters carrying pitchers of water. My stomach told me dinner was beginning soon.
After a few long cars lined with rooms closer together than the ones in my car had been the rumbling got increasingly louder. It vibrated within my entire chest and felt as if my eardrums were going to explode. When the man turned to speak to me I couldn’t hear a thing. He put his lips right beside my ear and shouted.
“This is the conductors cabin. He would like to see you now.” I nodded and he opened the door. Once I stepped inside he closed the door behind me. The noise dropped. Sound proof walls, something said in the back of my mind. Ahead of me there was an older man. He had white hair topped with the typical train conductor’s hat and wore the usual jacket. He turned and saw me then smiled. His teeth were yellowed and his face was so wrinkly that he looked about two-hundred. I smiled back and he beckoned me to come sit next to him. I did.
“Miss Cale.” He spoke with a French accent as well. I mentally slapped myself. We were going to France…
“You can call me Megan.” The words came out automatically. I hated formality. As did my mother. The man smiled again and shrugged. I had guessed my reason for being called here but hardly dared to ask. Turns out I didn’t have to.
“Megan, they have successfully shipped the casket. It will be waiting for your pickup at the next station. I was told to go over the itinerary with you. Is that acceptable?” I nodded, too numb to speak. The French seemed to accept that as a response.
“Your grandmother has booked a hotel for you not five minutes from the station. The casket will be held until tomorrow morning where you both will be taken to the funeral home. The funeral will be from three to five, with a reception afterward. Then you can either stay at hotel or return with your grandmother to her house. Do you understand?”
Instead of answering I stand and walk to the window. We’re in the front of the train, with a window facing our destination. Two mountains loom before me, and I see we are going right in between them. I guess the station is on the other side of the pass. With the moon shining at it full intensity and the lack of light pollution, it was just magnificent. It reminded me of my mother, whom I would be burying tomorrow. I turn away from the view and rub my eyes.
“When is the next station?” I ask.
“After we go through the mountain pass its only another half hour.” The conductor tells me. He comes and stands beside me. “How about we get you some dinner.” He suggests. I almost smile, and nod.
He leads me out of his car, where my ears are barraged with the train’s rumbling. I walk to the dining car in sort of a trance. My thoughts just keep drifting to tomorrow. I’m only eighteen years old and I’m burying my mother tomorrow. I sigh and the Conductor turns to me.
“Megan, I would like to say something to you that a wise woman said to me. ”˜Leave your worries for today and let tomorrow take care of itself.’” The man sat me at a table with only one place setting and called some waiters bearing food over. He bowed to me and left. I whispered thank you to him but I know he didn’t hear.
The wise man was right. I should just eat my dinner and enjoy the rest of the trip.
Tomorrow would take care of itself.

Sam eased himself gingerly into his seat wincing slightly as the cabin lurched forward. With a slow groan and the squeaking of the metal wheels on the track he felt the train get under way. Cradling his arm under a folded jacket, Sam attempted to get comfortable in his seat as the train picked up speed.

The pain in his arm began to throbbed and grew more intense. He began sweating profusely, his heart rate increasing. A young woman sat down across from him and gave him a polite nod. Taking no notice of Sam's discomfort, she reached for a magazine and hid her face from his view.

As he squirmed in his seat, Sam glanced over to the woman, and saw the cover of the “Newsweek” she was reading. The title read, “Africanized Rabies, the Plague of the 21st Century” Sam shuddered. Was that what was wrong with that crazy homeless man who attacked him? There was definitely something wrong with that guy. His eyes were clouded over, his face and hands almost skeletal. When Sam offered the man some money, the lunatic grabbed Sam's arm and wrenched it up to his mouth! That nut job actually bit him! What kind of freak would do that?

“As soon as I get off this train," Sam thought, "I'm going to have clean this bite!” The more he thought about it the worse it felt. Was he imagining it or did it look worse now ? It hadn't been that discolored a few minutes ago, did it? Sam tried not to think how many germs and bacteria must be in the mouth of a homeless person. The more he thought about the look of that transient , the more Sam was convinced there had been something very wrong with him.

Sarah sat reading the main article in her “Newsweek” about the increase in reported cases of "Africanized Rabies", that kept popping up in less remote areas on several continents. The article went on to say that the CDC had begun instituting screenings for International travelers coming from areas where the virus is known to be more prevalent. “The CDC has things well in hand and we expect containment by the end of the month." The article continued, "Furthermore we urge the public not to panic, we have everything well under control.” Quoted the CDC agent . As she finished reading the article, feeling somewhat relieved that whatever this disease is, it is a long way from where she was. Of course the government would most likely have it under control soon. Sarah glanced over the top of her magazine at the man sitting across from her. She thought that he looked a bit flushed and seemed to be sweating rather profusely. “Great,” thought Sarah, “This guy's probably got some nasty bout of the flu or something. Just what I don't need.”

Glancing around the train she checked for any other open seats, but everything was taken. Sighing to herself, “Oh well, I guess I'll just have to load up on the antioxidants when I get to work.” Sarah thought.

Sam shuddered in his seat. There was a funny taste in his mouth now, and his joints were really starting to ache. “What wrong with me?” He thought. Looking down at the bite he saw that it did indeed look bad. His skin was a waxy grey tone. His breathing was becoming more labored. Looking around the full cabin he noticed that everyone else seemed preoccupied. The only person really paying any attention to him at all was the woman sitting across from him. She gave him a quizzical look, then asked, “Are you all right?”

Sam gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded. He noticed, that she was nicely dressed and wearing a hat with a little sunflower on it. “That's one big hat.” Sam thought. “Probably because her head is so large.” He mused. “Bet she's got a big brain in that noggin of hers.” Sam paused over this last thought. Why would he be thinking about her nice, big, juicy, brain like that? “I mean just because she has a big head doesn't mean that her delicious brain is proportional.” Sam paused again. He wondered why he was worried about this random stranger's brain. “I mean, just because she looks smart and has a gigantic head doesn't mean that if I cracked it open I'd find some big, juicy, succulent, braaaiiins.” Sam mused. What was wrong with him???

Sarah was now openly staring at Sam's behavior. She noted that his skin was beyond pale now. His veins were quite visible beneath the semi transparent skin. His eyes had become pale too. Glancing around she caught the eye of a fellow passenger near the door to the next compartment. After mouthing the words “Go get the conductor,” She turned back around facing her seat mate.

A moment later the conductor walked up to where Sarah was sitting. Sarah tilted her head meaningfully at Sam, her eyes wide, the conductor nodded in answer. He turned his attention over to the man slumped in his seat.

The conductor visibly blanched. Composing himself he spoke to the man,“Sir, “ said the conductor. “Are you all right?” He looked down at the now groaning man. Sam slowly turned his head up towards the conductor. His eyes now milky, skin ashen, his mouth opened slightly. The conductor continued, "Sir, may I see your ticket?" As he extended his hand, the train approached a tunnel. Seconds later it plunged into darkness. The roar of the train's engine echoed off the walls of the tunnel. The train emerged from the tunnel and the echoing sounds of the engine and the click-clack of the wheels on the track subsided.

As Sarah's eyes readjusted to the brightness, her voice joined that of the conductor, the two of them screaming. The conductor, flecked in shocking red blood screamed in pain ripped his hand back. Agony gripped the man's face as he looked down at his remaining digits.

Sarah screamed again as the man across from her lunged at her. The screams of the other passengers echoed throughout the train car as chaos erupted. In the next moment the other passengers tried desperately to get to the next car as the maniac aggressively pursued anyone within arm's reach. Several people were bitten in the scuffle before they could slam the sliding door between cars. Sam collided with the door several times before turning and slowly shuffling back to the woman bleeding on the seat.

Hours later the train eased to a stop, having been remotely disabled when the train's Engineer became unresponsive. The sergeant looked at it with dawning horror. There were bloody handprints and splattered blood on all the windows. He could see movement inside the train and a low moaning could be heard. There was a shuffling noise as the occupants of the train limped towards the doors. “My God.” said the Sargent. The doors opened, and all hell broke loose.