End of the Line

By Rick Hartford

I wake up just after dawn to the rocking of the train as it begins its journey. My journey. Hannah’s journey. I am lying on the floor. I drag myself into the overhead bunk to look out an open window, the train picking up speed, the breeze feeling good on my face. Hannah is still asleep on the floor. Her eyes flutter in a dream.

Neither of us has any memory of how we got here.

We just woke up here.

Now we are in place.

This is not unusual. We don’t even know our real names. We are Tom and Hannah.

That’s all.

Well, not quite all.

I open the door a crack and look out into the passageway. The conductor is making his way from berth to berth, clipping tickets and checking on passengers.

I tap Hannah on the right shoulder. She turns and says something that I can’t make out.. Then she is sitting up and I hand her some coffee I had bought at the dining car. She likes sugar. I put a lot in.

It used to be that Julie and I were grounded. In life. We belonged. We had equilibrium. No so anymore. But we are still going to go through with it.

No backing out now.

We used to buy into our handler’s view. We don’t any more. We just know that this is what we do for a living.

That which keeps you alive.

Except that this wasn’t going to end up like that.

Hannah is fully awake when I turn back from the window. We fuck on the floor. She stares at the ceiling the entire time.

Afterwards we both shower together and have breakfast at what they call the Chuck Wagon, the diner car which is now full of life. The families on vacation, the businessmen, the lovers and the losers.

We both order Eggs Benedict. We both go over the plan. The train is picking up speed and the countryside rushes by: the farms, the rows of corn and he bales of hay, the stark white church steeple.

Inside that church is a priest who is listening to a confession. The confession is disturbing and he priest rubs his rosary in his fingers although suddenly he can’t pray. He can’t remember the words. It is as iff al his prayers have flown screeching out the window. His hands are clammy. Holy Mary Mother of God.

Well that’s something anyway.

The man making the confession stares at the ceiling as he pulls out the garrote.

We were here to accompany the train on its final journey. From the southern boarder to the crossing into Canada. There the train will derail and catch fire and explode, releasing the payload we have stored in the engine compartment into the air..

The politicians, world leaders, dignitaries and their wives and families at a peace conference there will return to their homes and infect everyone around them and they in turn will spread it to others. Nobody will ever know where it came from and no one will take credit.

The project is called Ashes to Ashes and as Jim Morrison said, nobody here gets out alive.

Time for the microbes to take over and clean up.

The collective we had our chance.

We finish our coffee. We both light cigarettes.

I reach over the table and put my hand on Hannah’s. She pulls back immediately.

“Sorry,” she whispers. Her eyes on the table.

“We are running out of time,” she says.

“We are going to have to talk to the conductor,” I say. “He needs to know the truth.”

And so we do.

It’s awkward because the engineer is tied up to his chair with zip ties and he is gagged. We explain to him that the train has to go rogue That we are so, so, sorry that it has come to this.

Surely he can understand.

He tries to answer through the duct tape. It is so difficult.

I understand, I say.

The train has accelerated to top speed. I look out the window for a long time, savoring life as it slips away. A church with a white steeple rushes into view.

Mysteriously, the train slows to a halt.

I see a single man on the platform. The door slides open and he gets on board. Then the train swiftly accelerates again.

My heart is pounding. Who is this man! How did this occur? Who is in control of the train?

It is then that I realize it. I had seen that church steeple before!

We have been going in circles the entire time.

Obviously, our employer has had a change of heart and now he has decided to eliminate any loose ends, such as ourselves.

I understand. Hannah and I do this all the time.

The assassin walks through train cars. He finds the engineer, still tied to his chair, struggling to free himself.

The engineer sees him. The assassin smiles and waves and points to his knife.

The engineer nods vigorously.

The assassin is so looking forward to meeting Hannah and Tom.

We have to get off this train, I say to Hannah..

“They fill find us, no matter where we go,” she says.

“When you are running you feel alive,” I say to her.

But first we must introduce ourselves to our opponent.

We walk through the cars, finally arriving at the caboose.

The assassin is relaxing on the edge of his seat in that car, smoking a cigarette. He French inhales, he smoke coming out of his nose making him look as if his brain is on fire.

“Tom! Hannah! How good to see you!”

“This is where we get off,” I say to him.

The assassin shrugs.

“I have my instructions,” he says.

“And yet, there is a job opening at the white church back aways. Their pastor has passed away. There is an open position.

I’m sure you will keep it to yourselves. We won’t want anybody to find me, do we?”

The assassin rises and puts the garrote on the table between us.

This is a disturbing new element in our relationship.

The assassin wears a fedora and he tips it in our direction. The train slows and the doors open.

The assassin steps out onto the platform and walks away in the early morning fog.

It is time for Hannah and I to start running.

I am beginning to think we should split up. I mention it to her.

“Oh no,” she says.

“I want to be close to you.”