No. 5

He woke gradually. Even as he wakened, the sway and fluid speed of the train worked to hold him in the slumber that had clearly had its way for quite some time. He searched his sluggish mind for information on his location or how he’d arrived. His mind rummaged through the nearby whispered conversation, overheard by his wonderfully alert ears in the final moments of half-sleep, searching for clues to his questions and security in this vulnerable, slow retreat from exhausted rest. He gleaned no valuable intelligence.

His eyes blinked a few times, working out the blur while objecting to the bright contrast of even the dimly lit space. He glanced suspiciously at the other occupants of the compartment: one slept soundly and two others were the source of the still useless dialogue. He had no recollection of boarding a train, purchasing a ticket, choosing a destination, any of the myriad decisions that should have led to this moment. His fellow passengers were strangers to him; his mind scanned past experience to determine if that fact argued in favor of his safety. No, the man in the corner possessed familiarity; had they embarked together, willing companions, or did this man harbor within him sinister plans? Did the man rest in innocence, or, believing his prey effectively corralled by the dangerous pace of the train, had he simply relaxed his vigilance? Of course, given the man’s sound sleep, it was possible they had both been unwittingly and adversely deposited aboard this train.

Perhaps a stroll would lend clarity, or shake some memories loose. The conversation had continued unabated by his wakefulness; it was as good an opening as he could hope to be offered. He slipped silently from the bench and through the open door. A moment’s pause in the corridor was enough to confirm the exit had raised no alarm. He turned to match the direction of the train, pulling information from every window along his route. He saw nothing recognizable; no landmarks lent a hand in determining his whereabouts or destination. They appeared to be far from civilization, passing the infinite openness of unsettled country, in pursuit of some distant target at an alarming rate.

Was it the lingering effects of his dead sleep, or were they truly traveling faster than any train he’d used before? He stopped at a gangway, peered along the length of the vehicle, and chose an oncoming tree, quickly calculating its orginal distance and the seconds until the green of it shadowed him: there weren’t nearly enough seconds. Where, and why, were they headed in such haste?

A sudden idea sent him through his pockets but failed to return anything enlightening: a few coins, a small pencil stub (but no paper), and a fascinating bit of string. There was a peppermint also, which quickly found a useful job in his mouth, working his tongue round and round, keeping time with the machine in his skull. No ticket: possibly he had not chosen this method of travel or its goal. He stepped into the next car, another Sleeper, and hurried on as though eager to meet a mysterious fate. The sensation of moving rapidly forward, accentuated by his own pace, with the landscape falling swiftly backward was both disorienting and exhilarating, and he quelled the urge to sprint to the head of the car.

He passed through three Sleepers without incident, but neither did he encounter anyone from whom he might gain information. All other compartments beyond his own were either unoccupied or concealed the murmurings of privacy seekers. The dining car was next; a plethora of sights, smells, and sounds met his entrance, like a symphony warming up, all in crescendo together, baffling in its lack of theme. This raised another mystery: when had he last eaten? His stomach abruptly implied the fast had been prolonged.

A waiter turned into his path, his massive frame filling the aisle, and momentarily distracting the gastric introspection of the traveler.

The server seemed to frown down on him, accosting his progress with a question:

“Whoa, what are you doing here, li---"

His instincts took charge and he was suddenly ducking through the bridge of the waiter’s wide stance and darting for the far door. His lithe build gave him a moment’s advantage and he was through to the gangway before the man had fully embarked on pursuit. Now in the Lounge, the waiter’s longer stride decreased the traveler’s lead, the commotion of the chase pulling its occupants from their gazing reverie. But their confused lethargy favored the escapee and Coach was gained whilst the hurrying waiter resentfully fielded questions.

He dropped beneath the first empty bench at the tail end of the car, indebted to his small stature for the first time in his life. He inhaled the raw air of growing things that accompanied his pursuer’s entrance and tracked the hounding footfalls on full lungs, closing his eyes to filter out every other sound but the click-click of the doorlatch at the far end. It came, followed shortly by another, weaker, whiff of fresh air. The temptation to alter his hiding place clamored for consideration, but experience kept him crouched and cramped: the waiter would soon retrace his path. Ten seconds, fifteen seconds, twenty sec--

Click-click.

He shrouded himself in blindness again, concentrating on one voice threaded among all the others; he could hear his description being given, every query generating confident but disinterested denials. Disgruntled steps approached, the voice muttered complaints on insufficient payment and babysitting work. A second’s pause at the door suspended the blind listener’s heartbeat.

Click-a scent of green-click.

He unfurled his limbs into the bench more comfortably designed for travel and began estimating the recall capacity and enthusiasm of the various human obstacles between himself and the next car. How invested would they prove to be in the waiter’s hunt? He knew the vital components of his next move would be timing, confidence, and irrelevance. He couldn't be sure the precise number of cars remaining, but the passengers in this and any forward Coach cars were ruined as sources. The engineer was now his goal; there remained at least a baggage car before the locomotive and twenty seconds argued against the waiter’s having made it so far or conferring with that esteemed individual. A moment’s conversation would be sufficient to satisfy questions of destination and whether the train was indeed running away with its cargo.

He counted another sixty seconds, settled his ruffled clothing, and stretched to his fullest height. Arming himself with poise and purpose, he made for the door, eyes like arrows flying true to their target. He didn’t seem to have enough residual concentration to tune into the remarks as he passed; was it enough that no one stood or raised a voice? A moment more and he would know.

Click-click. Rich and hard-working earth greeted his relieved inhale. What had been the scent of Coach? Or the Sleepers? It seemed they hadn’t earned notice; stifled, most likely.

The next door’s windowless design revealed Baggage was indeed next. Under less urgent circumstances he might have spent an hour nosing about, like a dog acquainting himself with a new environment. Clearly the waiter had not conducted an energetic examination here; there would be a dozen superb hiding places in the unlit interior. That observation spoiled his eagerness: perhaps the waiter’s cursory search indicated the presence of an accomplice, now concealed in one of those numerous ambush shelters.

He sealed his eyes tightly for several minutes to initiate their acclimation to the darkness before entering the car; he still felt his disadvantage enclose him. He squeezed along the righthand wall and worked quietly around the baggage down that side. After several minutes of solitary caution, he relaxed his vigilance, satisfied that any assailant advantage had expired. He moved into the narrow pathway and made for the last gangway.

Simultaneous with his arrival at the door, it opened from the outside, releasing a flood of light into the car and drowning him in exposed blindness.

“Well! And what are you doing way up here, little man?”

It had to be the Engineer, surely; hopefully. Then he felt large hands take hold of both arms, but just as he turned to dash for the rear door, it swung open and delivered the other sleeping passenger from his original compartment.

“Calvin! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You can’t just run off, Son.”

“Curious one, isn’t he? How old?” the Engineer asked.

Father chuckled wryly, accepting the captured boy from the Engineer, “Precocious, I would’ve said, but he gets it honestly so I don’t suppose I can complain. He’s five; first cross-country trip.”

And then to Calvin, “What d'you say we find some dinner, eh? You tell me all about this adventure that ran away with your imagination, hmm?”