Retribution

"All aboard!"

There is an air of urgency about the people on the train platform. Cigarette smoke and steam create a fine gray haze, lacing everything with the smell of burning nicotine and the occasional whiff of sweet tobacco.

Virgil Creed cannot recall his reason for being here, as if he has awakened in a dream. The feeling passes quickly, replaced with his usual misanthropic musings as sweaty people push him aside to get to the front of the line.

An attendant punches holes in their tickets at the entrance to the train, small paper circles dotting his coat. He smiles as he takes Creed’s ticket, the puncher delicate in his small, strong hands.

"Enjoy your trip, Mr. Creed,” he says brightly, eyes glittering. When Creed shoves past him, the attendant glances at the line behind him, unfazed. “Next!”

The first passenger car reeks of wealth, leather lounge furniture circling coffee tables laden with empty martini glasses. No one gives Creed a second glance as he enters, their chins held high, holier than thou smiles on their lips. Creed eyes their flashy brands and loud patterns, and while he himself sports a Rolex and an expensive suit, he feels out of place. Creed finds a place to stand beside the window covered by a thin velvet curtain. Peeking behind it reveals only a dark void, interrupted by flashes of light he hopes are stars.

His attention is stolen by the sound of laughter. He looks to his left and sees two women lounging on a couch, martinis in hand.

Noticing Creed gawking at her, she gives him a once-over. “Can I help you?” She sneers.

Creed straightens his tie and clears his throat. He flashes his best smile. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation."

The blonde's companion scoffs. She addresses her friend directly, not sparing Creed a glance. “These men, always inserting themselves into women's conversations.” She adjusts her dress and gives Creed a doleful glance.

“Oh, honey, don’t flatter yourself.” The blonde chides. “He addressed me.” She flashes Creed a pearly smile, flipping a business card out of her purse without preamble. He smiles thinly and places the business card in his pocket, intent on discarding it the first chance he gets.

“Apologies.” Creed tips his hat, but the women have already lost interest in him.

Creed moves through the car in an effort to find something to do, but most of the passengers are too absorbed in their own egos to pay him any mind. Irritable, he finally reaches the attendant standing at the door to the next car.

“May I stand here?" Creed says.

The attendant nods. He looks Creed up and down, putting on a knowing smirk. "You know, sir, you don't really seem like the type of person who belongs in this car." He winks. Creed recognizes him as the same attendant who was punching the tickets.

Creed straightens his blazer. He couldn't stand another moment attempting similar conversation with the others in the car during the entirety of his journey. His thoughts skitter to a momentary stop. Where is he going again? They tumble onward before he can find an answer.

Creed squints at the snarky attendant. "Which car should I go to?"

"I can't decide that for you, sir," the attendant replies, his sincerity polluted by an overtone of sass. "But you can choose any car that seems like a good fit."

Creed pushes past the attendant. "All right, then." He pushes open the sliding door.

The air is warm and stale, thick as a down pillow in Creed's lungs. Colorful beanbag chairs litter the floor, smothered by the people slouching on them. Remote controllers shimmer in the slick grip of loose fingers, and the raucous tempo of video games assaults Creed’s ears. Where Creed expects to see children clustered about the consoles, grown men and women crouch instead,

Creed sinks into a too-large beanbag chair and observes the game being played in front of him. Sensing Creed’s presence, the man’s concentrated mask cracks into a smile.

"You like what you see, buddy?" The man says, his voice hoarse with disuse. The man sits up in his chair, stretching his back and wincing as he rubs his shoulders. He slumps back and sighs, pausing the game and rubbing a hand over his face.

Creed says, "I'm not exactly sure what to think about what I see." When the man looks at him again, Creed gestures to the rest of the car, stating his point.

The man snorts. "If it’s not your thing it’s not your thing.” His eyes glaze over for a moment. “As long as I can play, I’ll be happy." Creed feels the atmosphere of the room slowly sapping his energy, and he struggles to keep his eyes open. How long has he been sitting here?

The man's eyes drift toward the screen, unblinking. Creed is mesmerized by his rhythmic clicking of the buttons on the controller. "I should've seen it coming." Click. "When I realized..." Click click. "How absent I'd been, it was already too late. She was gone." His digital avatar bursts into flames. "And so am I."

A memory surfaces in Creed's foggy mind. He cruised down Sunset Boulevard in the early hours of the morning, on his way home from a gentleman’s bar after a New Year’s party with his employees. He was tired, drunk, alone on the road. His mind wandered at a stoplight, and he closed his eyes for just a moment.

The light changed from red to green to red again, and as he unconsciously punched the gas too late, he heard a shriek and felt his car jostle over something in the road. Panicked, he punched the gas and sped away, watching the woman’s body on the pavement fade in his rear view mirror.

“Want to play?” The man asks, holding out the controller.

Creed stands. “I’ll pass.”

Creed opens the door to the next car with shaky hands.

The third car is cooler, freeing Creed's lungs of the stifling melancholy clouding his mind. The lights shine fluorescent, people filling the car with loud chatter. The shaggy rug chokes on cigarette butts and unidentifiable spills.

Creed peers at the desserts, his mouth watering. All are labeled with the sign “complimentary” in bold black letters. He orders a slice of cheesecake and takes a seat.

At the table beside him sits an scrawny old woman, her skin taut against her frame. Her wrinkles give the impression of a cracked porcelain doll, with sunken eyes to match. In front of her sits a plate stacked so high with sweets it makes Creed nauseous just looking at it. Oddly, she hasn't even touched her spoon.

The woman gives Creed a chilling stare, and he faces his own treat, digging in. As soon as the food touches his tongue, he promptly spews it onto the table in disgust. Wet, bitter ashes scatter on the tablecloth, dribbling from Creed's mouth in a gray ooze.

"Don't taste very good, do it?" The woman drawls. Her teeth whistle as she speaks.

"No, it doesn't." Creed tosses his napkin on the table.

An anguished look flits across her face. "It’s all your fault," She whispers, yet Creed isn't sure if she's addressing him or the sweets.

She shakes her head. "I used to be like them, once," She nods her head at the obese passengers around them, voraciously eating their ashen slop. "...Till mah funds dried up an' I couldn' indulge no moah. Now here I am with all I could eat, and it tastes like dirt. Nasty bit a karma."

"I suppose." Creed nods. “Why don't you just leave? Go to another car?"

The woman shakes her head furiously, eyes wide with panic. "I lived fifteen years on the streets after I lost mah fortune. There ain't no food in the other cars, is there?" When Creed shrugs she glowers at her plate. "Then I rest mah case."

Creed pushes away his meal and marches to the next door.

"I hope everything was to your taste." The attendant beams at him.

Flashing lights jeer from the ceiling of the fourth car. Slot machines tinkle and splutter, coaxing the eye and measuring the weight in people’s pockets. People sit, backs hunched, claw-like fingers gripping various levers and buttons.

Creed takes a seat at an open slot machine. His fingers brush along the colorful buttons, recalling a time when her temptations for boundless wealth would have gotten the better of him.

A lanky boy stares at Creed from the machine at his left. Soured with the buzz of insomnia, his dark eyes flash like a cat’s in the dim light.

“Can I help you?”

The boy guffaws. “A fancy man like you, thinking of someone other than himself, says he wants to help a guy like me? Please.” His eyes glitter with a familiar hunger.

Creed studies him. “You remind me of someone I used to know.” Creed faces away from the machine, resting his elbows on his knees.

The boy doesn't seem to hear him. “Don’t worry about me. I can look out for myself.” He sticks up his chin. “Nothing and nobody can stop me from getting what I want.” Cheerful noises chime in response to his tapping of buttons on the slot machine in front of him.

Creed chuckles. “You’re just like him. Had a mouth for shooting sass at anything looked at him sideways.” He pauses. “How old are you?”

“What’s it to you?” The boy spits. “You gonna card me for sitting at the machine? I don’t see you asking anyone else how old they are. Who was your friend, anyway?"

“Look, kid, I’m not going to card you. You can sit anywhere you damn please. Just stop asking stupid questions, all right?” Creed stands, dusting the tops of his pants with his hands and readjusting his tie. It was painful looking into his own eyes.

The boy grabs his arm with bony fingers, claws in a vice grip. "If you’re not going to play, can I have the money you were gonna use? I’m so close to the jackpot, I can feel it!”

Creed yanks his arm away, raising it in the air. The boy flinches, and after a moment Creed lowers his arm slowly and shakes his head. “Just like him,” he mumbles.

The attendant thumbs through a stack of bills as Creed approaches. “Leaving so soon? And without cashing out, Mr. Creed?”

Creed shoves past him, grasping the door handle in hot fingers. “Stop asking questions.” He ducks his head through the doorway, leaving the obnoxious sounds of his youth behind.

The steam of the fifth car fogs up the windows. Through the fog he can just make out long wooden benches lined against either side of the car, the middle aisle occupied by whisping pools of water. He recoils at the nakedness of the passengers lounging about, none of them relaxed.

“How many times do we have to show you the science to get it into your thick skulls?” A man screeches from the left. His towel hangs loose about his pudgy waist, his eyes blazing.

On the right, a tall man stands. His lips try to keep up with the stream of words flowing from his mouth. “What would your precious welfare brats say when they’re transportation costs skyrocket because the cost of gasoline increases?”

A woman stands from the left. Her towel falls to the floor, revealing her naked, muscular body shaking with rage. “Where’s the economic perspective on women’s health, then? What could benefit for having women’s bodies limited by the supposed morality of a patriarchal few?”

“So you’d rather kill innocent babies for a few more doctor’s appointments.” A woman of wide girth on the right bench matches the naked woman’s stance, clutching her towel to her breasts. “I bet you’ve never been a mother, or you’d know how precious a child’s life really is!”

“Hey, you!” Creed startles as the thin man points a finger at him. “Don’t you think these fuckers wouldn’t know sense if it slapped them on the ass?”

Creed throws up his hands. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some goddamn peace around here?”

“Peace! Peace!” The naked woman screeches. “Why can’t we all just live in peace?”

“If your indecency wasn’t offending me, maybe I’d consider it!” The thin man retorts. Their voices crescendo into a wrathful tempest.

Blood pounding in his ears, Creed ducks through the center aisle, avoiding puddles of clothing abandoned on the slick floor. His heart pumps at the words tossed over his head, words that make his knees buckle. His back itches with the memory of his father's belt against his spine, his mother’s apathy as she watched. You showed us how you felt about our family the moment you booked that one-way ticket to Los Angeles, his father screams.

The attendant seems almost sympathetic when he sees Creed storm to the door to the next car. He opens his mouth to say something, but Creed’s glare shuts him up. The door handle is slick in his palms.

The air of the sixth car is quiet and cool, the bar musky with the scent of cologne. Creed's shoulders relax. The throaty voice of a standing bass reminds him of the cheap hotel bars he frequented during his business trips.

Creed hails the bartender, and a glass of scotch greets his outstretched hand. The sultry music buzzes in his ears, and wisps of cigarette smoke curl around the delicate ceiling lamps. He plays with the silver band on his finger, feeling it grasp tight to his skin.

“Where’d you roll in from?” A gentle hand traces the line along Creed’s shoulders. He stiffens, turning his head to each side. The voice chuckles, and a figure emerges from the shadows to take the seat at his left. Their eyes shimmer like broken glass.

The delightful smell of lavender and oak rolling off the stranger sends a thrill down Creed’s spine. “I, uh, I’m just passing through.” The buzzing in his ears grows louder.

The stranger chuckles. “Come now, stay awhile.” Their smile is bright in the darkness.

Creed shifts in his seat. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that. He becomes acutely conscious of how a mouse must feel, cowering before the lion's maw.

The stranger draws circles on Creed's palm with the tip of a finger. “Married?” Creed pulls his hand away.

Creed eyes the stranger, his palms sweaty. The scotch comes back up his throat for a moment, sentimental of a previous encounter. “Listen, I don’t know what you want from me...”

The stranger smiles. The smell of lavender grows stronger. The next thing Creed knows, their soft lips wrap around his own. As soon as they touch, however, Creed lets out a cry of pain and pulls away. Where tenderness should’ve been, the searing heat of open flames pierces instead.

The stranger looks surprised. “What's wrong, darling?”

Creed puts a hand to his stinging lips. He can’t find any words to say. He recalls the look on his wife’s face when she embraced him to find the scent of lavender on his skin. That was the last time she ever did. "I-I can't."

The stranger, eyebrows scrunched with contempt, hops off the bar stool. “Suit yourself." They melt into the shadows.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the attendant asks Creed in a confidential tone as Creed approaches the end of the car.

Creed shakes his head, rubbing his lips with their faded sting. “No." Though Creed can't figure out how the attendant gets from one door to the other without passing Creed by, his familiarity is comforting among so many strangers.

This time, however, as Creed moves to leave the sixth, the attendant stops him. "This next car is the last one, sir." He warns.

"No turning back, huh?" Creed clears his throat. "Good riddance."

The attendant gives a shark-toothed grin as he steps aside.

The seventh car is familiar - in the drab, run-down way all subway cars are familiar. The seats, furnished with synthetic cushions, line up in twos down an aisle, fluorescent lights flickering with the movement of the train. The passengers bear similarly wistful expressions. The posters that once hung in the plastic display cases by the windows are torn to shreds.

Creed takes a seat beside a young woman. She looks him up and down, tuts. “Ah, poor sucker.” She murmurs.

“Excuse me?” Creed asks.

The woman gives him a wry smile. “Yes, I’m talking about you.”

The passengers stare at him. “What do you want?” Creed demands.

“I'd eat ashes every damn day if I could go back,” a small woman rasps dolefully.

“What kinds of broads they got at the bar?” A sharp Boston accent chimes from the seat across the aisle.

The woman beside Creed runs her hand on his shoulder, kneading the silk of his jacket between her fingers. Creed jerks his arm away. “It’s been awhile since we’ve had someone new.” Her eyes darken. “We’re just wondering what it’s like back there.”

“Well, for one thing,” Creed growls, “they sure were a lot nicer looking.” Creed feels a twinge of panic, remembering the attendant’s words. After this, there’s no turning back.

Punctuating his thoughts, a larger man pounds his fist against a window. “I knew it was better than in here! What was I telling you guys?"

“Tell me about it. All I can think of is the jackpot,” Another hisses.

The voices grow and blend together into a creaking chatter. They bear down on Creed with eager faces, hungry with avarice. Creed’s panicked mind spirals back to the memory of a gun wavering in his hand as he pointed it at the officer, blind with envy. Wifeless, his business in shambles, his paranoia driving him mad, he tossed the gun to the floor and dove off the Santa Monica Pier. He remembered the icy cold of the water, his body sinking quickly to the depths.

“Shut up!” Creed shouts. The passengers quiet, and they stare at him with curiosity. “I didn’t come all the way up here to have my ear talked off about missed opportunities.”

Creed blinks, the room a fuzzy picture through the tears of anguish in his eyes. “I don’t need your jealousy. I don’t need your judgment.” He takes a tired breath. “All I want is to be left alone.”

The crowd parts as Creed stands, loosening his tie. A stir breaks out among them as he strides toward the end of the car.

As Creed yanks open the final door, the room behind him gasps. “Nobody’s been able to do that before." The woman exclaims.

"It was a pleasure to meet you all," Creed says cordially, gathering his wits, "but I must be moving on." He ducks through the doorway.

Creed squints in the brightness of the room. No flashing lights of slot machines or video games, no slobbering diners, no chink of ice in martini glasses, no shouting or burning lips. A control panel lines the back wall beneath a wide window where he can see darkness moving swiftly past.

At the control panel sits a white chair, the three numbers claiming the train embroidered on its surface. It spins to reveal a familiar face, dressed in a white train conductor's uniform.

Creed rolls his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me."

The attendant—no, the conductor—smiles playfully. "Aw, don't be like that. I thought we were just starting to get along!"

Creed takes an empty seat at the console. He leans one elbow against the control panel for a more comfortable view of the conductor, who hums a tune as he flips switches and pushes buttons.

"...Are you...the devil?" Creed asks meekly.

"That's a good one." the conductor chuckles.

"Who are you, then?" Creed demands.

“I've been waiting for you for quite some time now; it was getting lonely up here.”

Creed snorts at his evasion. “Well, the company of the other cars isn’t something to think twice about missing. Where are we going, exactly?”

The conductor continues. “Just like you, I never quite fit in any one car, until this one. I can't say this car is much better, but it sure beats the others. At least in cleanliness."

"And what about us?" Creed says. “Where’s our stop?"

The conductor shakes his head. "Seems the only way out of boredom is dragging someone here with me, but everyone is too wrapped up in their own lives to think about it. Funny little loop, isn't it?"

Creed looks out the window, his brow furrowed. "What happens if one of us leaves this car?"

"Oh, I’d imagine something grand," the conductor replies wistfully. "I mean, we’ve come this far; we deserve a reward for the hell we’ve been through."

Something glints in the corner of Creed's eye. He sees a silver and red contraption suspended on a steel rope hanging from the ceiling.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, here," Creed says, poking the handle. "But I'm pretty sure this is an emergency brake." The conductor turns to look at him, and Creed gives him a questioning stare.

The conductor scoffs. "Knowing our luck, it's probably broken."

"So it doesn't work?"

The conductor rubs the back of his neck. "To be honest, I've never pulled it. It's never been pulled by any conductors."

Creed touches the handle. "What do you think would happen?"

The conductor shrugs, yet his shoulders tighten with tension. "Who knows where we'll end up."

Creed moves his hand to grasp the handle of the brake, and the conductor frowns. "Careful, Mr. Creed." Creed only clenches the handle tighter.

Creed plants his feet firmly. "I've had enough wandering around. You can't stop me." Creed yanks the chain as hard as he can.

When Creed opens his eyes, he sees red lights flashing quietly on the walls. The furniture is tossed about the room, the console throwing sparks, the smell of melting plastic in the air. Creed stands on shaky legs, looking in awe at the door gliding open on the wall before him, a white exit sign flashing above it. The conductor runs toward it, his giddy laughter unnerving.

"Hey, wait!" Creed calls to the conductor, who is almost out the door. The conductor's eyes transform into savage chasms, his smile twisted and sharp as shattered glass.

"Thanks for the help, Creed. I couldn't have done it without you." The conductor laughs at Creed's stunned figure standing a few feet from the doorway. The conductor leaps off the train and into the shadows.

The next thing Creed knows, he’s lying flat on the floor. The white fluorescent light shines above him, cool tile soothing the fluttering pulse on the back of his neck. Creed pushes himself to his feet.

He's still in the conductor's car, everything set to rights. It’s as if nothing happened, except he is alone.

He catches a glance at his reflection in the glass. A white conductor's hat adorns his brow, a key ring at his belt, utter horror written across his face. He stumbles backward, his chest constricting in a panic.

Creed touches the emergency brake handle. He tries to pull it but to no avail.

Funny little loop, isn’t it? The conductor’s words mock inside Creed’s head.

A soothing voice speaks after a soft chime. "Platform One."

The chime sounds again, and a drawer opens of its own accord from the center of the console. Creed walks over and looks inside. He laughs bitterly to himself.

He clutches the ticket puncher in his hand. The weight of it fills Creed with the overwhelming desire to be rid of this place, no matter who gets in his way; a selfish desire. Creed looks at himself in the reflection of the window: A middle-aged man, handsome, cold, his eyes void of regret.

Creed shakes his head. “Enjoy your trip, Mr. Creed,” He mutters to himself. “You’re in Hell for a reason.”

Somewhere on the platform, a whistle blows.

"All aboard!"