The Iron Serpent's Maw

The air hung thick with the reek of ash and too many desperate bodies. Elias shoved a shoulder into the man in front of him, grunting. No apologies, not anymore. The platform, what was left of it, pulsed with a frantic energy, a hive of lost souls clawing for a space on the rusted iron snake. His lungs burned, chest tight, a raw knot behind his ribs that hadn't loosened in weeks. The overhead lights, what few flickered, cast long, twitching shadows that made everyone look like ghosts already.

He clutched the canvas bag tighter. Not much inside. A shirt, a half-eaten loaf of bread hard as rock, and the small, heavy tin box. He could feel its weight, a cold comfort against his hip. Ahead, the massive engine, a black beast, coughed plumes of acrid smoke into the cold morning, a sound like a giant clearing its throat before a long, arduous journey to… well, no one knew. No one really cared, not when staying meant choking on the dust of what was. The conductor, a gaunt man with eyes like burnt holes in a blanket, barked something unintelligible over the din, waving a lantern that seemed to shed no actual light.

A woman with a child strapped to her front stumbled past, the kid’s face buried in her coat, small fists batting weakly. Elias didn’t meet her gaze. Couldn’t. He’d seen too many of those faces lately, too many blank stares, too many red-rimmed eyes. This was the last one out, they said. The last breath. The last chance. After this, the tracks would be ripped up, the city swallowed by the creeping void, or so the rumors whispered through the smoke-choked streets.

He fought his way to a car, an old freight car retrofitted with splintered wooden benches. The stench inside was worse than out: sweat, fear, stale piss, and the metallic tang of something else, something he didn’t want to think about. He squeezed onto a bench already packed with three men, their faces etched with a weary resignation. One had a missing ear, another stared straight ahead, unblinking, his hands folded on a worn bible. Elias just dropped his bag and slumped, letting the hard wood dig into his backside.

The train lurched. A collective gasp, then a soft rumble that grew into a grinding, bone-shaking roar. They were moving. Slowly. Painfully. He pressed his face against the grimy window. The city, a skeletal silhouette against a bruised, orange sky, began to slide away. Buildings, once proud, now gutted and crumbling. The familiar street where he’d lived, just a blur. He didn’t look back again. Couldn't.

Hours crawled by. The constant rattle and sway became a part of him, a new heartbeat. The faces around him blurred into a single, somber tableau. A young man, probably not much older than eighteen, started to cry softly, his head in his hands. No one said a word. No one moved to comfort him. What was there to say? What comfort was there to give? Elias just closed his eyes, the image of his wife’s face, pale and still, flickering behind his eyelids. He reached for the tin box in his bag, his fingers tracing the cold metal.

The sun set, a sickly purple bruise on the horizon. Darkness pressed in, broken only by the occasional, weak bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. The train was no longer moving through what he recognized as land. The sparse trees had thinned to nothing. The moon, when it appeared through a break in the clouds, illuminated a landscape of barren, rolling hills, devoid of life, a vast, empty canvas stretching to infinity. The track itself seemed to disappear into the blackness ahead, a single thread stitched onto the cloth of nothing. It was nowhere. Just like they’d promised.

He heard a child cough, a wet, rattling sound. Someone shushed them. The train, an iron leviathan, groaned and shrieked. It was slower now, the rhythm uneven, as if it, too, was weary, uncertain of the path. A sudden, violent jolt threw him forward, slamming his forehead against the windowpane. A muffled scream from further down the car. Then, slowly, agonizingly, the train began to decelerate. The grinding of the brakes was a banshee’s wail. It shuddered, creaked, and then, with a final, protesting sigh, it stopped.

Silence. Utter, complete silence. For a long moment, no one moved, no one breathed. Then, a collective murmur, hushed, terrified whispers. Elias pushed himself up, his muscles screaming. He looked out the window. Nothing. Just an endless expanse of dark, featureless plains under a sky choked with stars. No station. No lights. Just the vast, terrifying emptiness. The train stood motionless, a forgotten monument in a forgotten land. A man near the door tried to force it open, grunting, struggling with the rusted latch. Elias watched him, the heavy tin box still cold against his hip, and wondered if he’d found nowhere, or if nowhere had finally found them.