There’s a rumble.
It starts slow, louder than the rain, which continues to fall.
I sit up, a mix of excitement and fear. No trains run at this hour. There’s never a good reason to have so much noise. I look left and right, searching for the source of the sound.
Nothing.
I push my way out of the vestibule to open air, grabbed by the rain. “I didn’t bring anything to cover me!” I squeal, frustrated that my earlier concern for the others was overruled in my panic. There’s a sharp pain in my shoulder. A slight tear, nothing big. I’ve managed to grab an old shuttle tarp, a thick black plastic thing. I wrap it tightly around myself. The cold, the madness. The rumble of the train grows louder. The sound, not the train itself. It reminds me of a tornado in the middle of winter. Something unfurling inside of my heart and mind. I’m excited, afraid, curious. Everything feels like an adventure. The world is a giant playground. Disappearances were not uncommon, especially around here. No one ever went looking for the lost children. They had a saying that went something like; what happens in the woods, stays in the woods. How could we do this? How could we live like this? Not just how we had to live, but why; why were we here? Where had we come from? Why were we here in the woods? These questions I didn’t ask. Nobody would have answered anyway. I am standing now, the wind whipping at my face and my small frame. The rumble is overwhelming now. I am soaked to the bone. It doesn’t bother me. I feel like I’ve been soaking wet all my life. I want to see it for myself. I step onto the platform, the gray wood under my feet splinters and cracks under my feet. The train is about to arrive. I start to run, my arms flailing about like a bird. The rain comes in torrents. The train slows as it leaves the tunnel. I can see it now, an old-style one from the time before the ‘If you don’t have a seat,’ campaign. That must be why it’s empty. I am not going to get onto a train that pulls into a tunnel vacant for another half a mile. I look upwards, upwards to the roof of the train station. There’s a wind-breaker there. It’s probably smashed in half, but at least it’s waterproof. I take a few of the makeshift flaps and try and reattach them so that the rain doesn’t flood the vestibule. I place them around me, like a makeshift roof.
Cars are moving. The train doesn’t stop in the tunnel. This place is still working. It’s still running. The platform is still there. The cars can still drive through. This is happening. It feels like a dream, like I’m dreaming this all. The rumble of the train washes away in the wind. The carriages click and whirr as they slow into the station. I take one of the flaps from around my body. I’ll need it for the journey home. I climb onto the roof of the train station, my fingers clinging on to the roof’s lattice. I’m not getting off this train. I have never seen a train in the station at this time of night, but I know it exists.
I hear the door of the train close. I look at the front of the train, panicked. It doesn’t move. The puddles are making the plastic flap sound as it swings back and forth. I stand up. I steal a glance at the wreckage of the vestibule. I’ve gotten soaked to the bone. The tarp is useless. I look up, at the roof of the train station, and I can’t stop myself. It’s the strangest thing. I’ve never seen this roof. I’ve never seen anything of this station before, apart from inside a game. I slide down to the side, my feet landing on the metal tracks. I run my hand along them, inspecting these foreign objects. The carriages open. Strangers are staring. The carriages are empty. I look at my feet, the muddy puddles, my hands. I look up at the roof of the station, a half-hope that I’ll be allowed through.
Then I hear a voice, an old man’s voice. I look up and I see the face of a train engineer. I’m right. This is a dream. The train station is gone. The tarp is melted and no longer holds shape, it’s just a square of old tarp. Yellow and torn with small stitching every few feet. “You have to get off this train!” the engineer barks. He has a gruff voice and a stare I can’t look away from. He’s an old man, with a moustache. He looks slightly like the man I am expecting him to look like; Anthony Kraszkiewicz. “You can’t stay here, young lady. This train doesn’t run at this time of night. It doesn’t run on the weekend either. Now get off this train or I will have to report you to the authorities!”“What?!”
“You heard me! You have to leave this train. I can’t let you stay here!” he grumbles, sternly. I stand there, unsure of how things have turned out like this. “I don’t understand,” I start, a shiver running through my body. “If you don’t get off this train I’m going to have to report you to the authorities. I don’t want to do that, I like you, but you need to leave the me train!” He says, calmly, almost friendly, but stern. I’m shaking, I can’t help it. I don’t want to get off this train. I spend nights like this all the time. I don’t need to go home. I don’t want to go home. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, taking a step forward. I’m going to hide behind the nearest car. The conductor’s eyes dart from side to side. His eyes adjust to the darkness, the thin orange light from the lights on the front of the railways shines on them. I step into the darkness. I don’t want him to know where I’ve gone. I’ll emerge from the darkness. My knees are up to my chest. I’m huddled up. My mind is finishing the dream.
