The Last Train to Nowhere

The diesel coughed, a wet, rattling sound that tasted of rust and stale piss. Leo wiped his hand on his jeans, the fabric gritty under his palm. Cold seeped through the thin floorboards of the decrepit car, straight up his bones. Mick was pacing, a human metronome of nerves, his worn sneakers scuffing the filthy linoleum. Every beat of his foot, every twitch of his head, grated on Leo's last nerve. They'd been cooped up for hours already, waiting on a siding outside some forgotten industrial park, the air thick with the smell of old oil and unspoken fear. The duffel bag, fat with the take, lay between them, an ugly, irresistible promise. Elena sat across from Leo, still as a statue, just her eyes moving, tracking Mick's frantic circles, then flicking to Leo, then to the bag. She didn't say much, never had. That was fine. Talk just stirred up dust, and they had enough dust already.

It was supposed to be clean. A bank, late night, easy in, easy out. But the alarm had sung, a screeching banshee in the quiet street, before Mick even had the safe fully open. Then the sirens. A blur of blue and red, a near miss with a cruiser that left the passenger side of their getaway van crumpled like tin foil. They'd ditched the van, split up, met here, like they planned for the absolute worst-case scenario. This train. Leo had pulled this old route from some dusty archive, a forgotten line, a ghost train meant to carry coal out of a pit that closed down decades ago. "It goes nowhere important," he'd told them, "but it goes." And that was the whole point. Anywhere but here.

A jolt, sudden and violent, threw Mick off balance. He cursed, catching himself on the grimy wall. The train lurched again, a groan of tortured metal, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, it began to move. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the rails started up, a lullaby of escape, or maybe dread. Leo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For a few minutes, the tension eased, just a fraction. Mick even slumped onto the bench opposite Elena, rubbing his temples. The dim bulb hanging from the ceiling swung with the train's motion, casting long, dancing shadows. Outside, the city lights receded, swallowed by the vast, indifferent dark. Trees became indistinct blurs against a bruised sky. But the relief was thin, brittle. Too much had gone wrong already.

He watched the darkness outside, his reflection hazy in the streaked window. Every decision had been his. Every wrong turn, every split-second call. The weight of it pressed down, a cold hand on his chest. Mick was too jumpy, always had been. Elena, well, she was a wildcard, too quiet, too contained. He’d picked them for their skills, not their personalities. Now the personalities were grating, fraying the edges of what little trust remained. He thought of the noise, the sheer, mind-numbing noise of the alarm, how it had echoed in his skull, even now, hours later. They were running, but from what? The law, yeah, but also from themselves. From the bad luck that clung to them like cheap cologne.

"You hear that?" Mick snapped, eyes wide, jerking his head towards the far end of the car. "What?" Leo grunted, tired. "That noise. Sounded like... a whistle." He strained his ears over the constant roar of the engine and the clatter of the wheels. Nothing but the train. "You're hearing things, Mick. Just the wind." Mick scoffed, leaned forward, a manic energy sparking in his eyes. "No, man. It was a whistle. Like... a cop whistle." Elena shifted, her gaze fixed on Mick, a flicker of something, maybe pity, maybe contempt, in her dark eyes. "You're spooked," she said, her voice a low murmur, barely audible over the din. "We all are," Leo cut in, before Mick could retort. "Just keep your eyes open. And keep your mouth shut."

Hours passed. The train slowed sometimes, then picked up speed, but it felt like they were going in circles. The landscape outside had changed from industrial wasteland to dark, featureless plains, then to dense, oppressive forest. The trees pressed in close, their bare branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the train. There were no more scattered lights, no distant hum of traffic. Just the train, hurtling through the black, and the three of them, trapped inside its rattling shell. The air grew colder, and a damp, earthy smell started to creep in. Elena pulled her jacket tighter, watching the trees. Mick kept checking his watch, then pulling out his phone, holding it up, desperate for a signal, any signal. Nothing. Dead. Like everything else out here.

Then the slowing began in earnest. Not a brief pause, but a gradual, deliberate deceleration. The clatter of the wheels softened, turning into a metallic grind. Leo pushed himself up, his muscles stiff, and peered out the window. Nothing but a wall of trees. No station. No lights. Just black. The train groaned, then hissed, and with a final, shuddering sigh, it stopped. Utter silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the distant drip of water. Mick jumped up, fear twisting his features. "What the hell? We ain't nowhere!" Leo’s stomach dropped. He knew this feeling. The bottom falling out.

"This ain't a stop," Elena said, her voice unnervingly calm. She was already on her feet, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Leo turned to her, a cold suspicion growing. "What do you know?" he demanded, his voice rough. Her eyes met his, unblinking. "I know this line. Goes to an old logging camp. Abandoned fifty years ago. No way in, no way out, except by this train." Mick was panicking now, tugging at the door, trying to force it open. "She set us up, Leo! She's got to!" A distant sound. Faint at first, then growing louder. The unmistakable growl of an engine. Not a train. Something else. Tires on a gravel road, closing in. Leo stared at Elena, her face impassive. "Who are you working with?" he snarled, taking a step towards her. The duffel bag, heavy with their stolen future, felt like a lead weight.

Elena didn't answer. She just looked past him, towards the far end of the car, where the door now rattled, not from Mick's frantic pulling, but from someone on the outside. A flashlight beam speared through the grimy glass. Then another. And another. Mick whimpered. Leo reached for his pocket, for the pistol he still carried, but his hand froze. Too late. The engines outside grew louder, a chorus of dark machines. Headlights cut through the trees, illuminating the side of the train, stark and unforgiving. A voice, amplified, boomed through the quiet night, distorted but clear: "This is the county sheriff's department. Step off the train with your hands where we can see them." The door at the end of the car shuddered, then burst inward with a sickening crunch of splintered wood. Shadows flooded the opening, carrying rifles, flashlights. Leo looked at Elena, really looked. She gave him nothing, just a slight tilt of her head, her gaze steady, cold. The duffel bag, still clutched in her hand, suddenly felt lighter, empty.