The Crash of the Silver Star Express

Pain and biting cold ripped into Alexander. Panic-filled shouts roused him from unconsciousness and he opened his eyes. The blazing, fiery sunset licking at the base of cumulonimbus clouds greeted him. The breathtaking sight momentarily distracted him from the pain. His home in the smog-filled city of New York with its towering skyscrapers rarely allowed for such glimpses of nature.

Rough, calloused hands removed several pieces of wood covering Alex before grabbing hold of him. The man pulled him from the car loaded down with split wood with the aid of an overweight, balding man wrapped in a wool coat with shiny brass buttons. They spoke as they pulled him across the gap between the wood-laden cart and the coach.

“What is your name, son?”

Alex stared at the man in bewilderment for a long time as he attempted to remember his name. Finally, he spoke, "Alexander Picket."

“Where’s your coat? It’s the middle of winter, don’t you know? I need to see your ticket.”

“What?” Alex barely managed to squeak out a response as his head throbbed. The man repeated his question while Alex looked around the rickety wooden room stacked with goods. Confused, he attempted to remember the last thing he did while his integrated translator did its job.

“Ticket? Ticket for what?”

“The train.” The man spoke while looking at him like he was touched in the head.

“Train?”

As the words left his mouth, Alex heard the rhythmic chugga-chugga of a train. From the sound, it was an ancient model of train. A brief memory of watching black and white videos of early trains with his fanatic uncle flickered through his thoughts.

What is going on?

“You don’t look so good, son. Why don’t we get you back to the passenger car? Maybe someone there can help you.”

Before he could respond, the balding man reappeared and draped a blanket around Alex’s shoulders. Both men helped him to his feet and he took a moment to study his now soiled dress slacks and scuffed Italian leather shoes. His once three thousand dollar suit was ruined, and the suit jacket was not in sight.

"Where am I?" As he spoke, he heard the delay in his speech from the verbal translator designed to take his words and mold them into the dialect and language of the native speakers of the era. The sound made him wince, and he knew he needed to pull out his phone and recalibrate the delicate device before it gave him a migraine.

“Well—” The balding man spoke—“you’re on the Silver Star Express. I’m Howard, the conductor, and I hate to bring it up but I need to see your ticket.”

“Ticket?” Alex dug through his pockets as he spoke but came up empty-handed. The only thing he had in his pocket was his phone and something in the back of his mind told him not to pull it out. With a sigh, he said, “I don’t have one.”

“Well, you didn’t just fall out of the sky. It must be back with your baggage, Mr. Picket.” He turned to the other man and said, “Charles, will you escort Mr. Picket back to the lounge and keep an eye on the McCann brothers? If someone’s robbing folks, it’s sure to be them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles led him toward the next car and sat him down at the small bar. Immediately, warmth from the wood stove slammed into Alex making him realize how cold he was. Charles eyed three men at the other end of the bar before heading off to the next car. Alone, at last, Alex let his gaze wander around the wooden lounge car and caught his reflection in a mirror. His face was already bruising and swollen around his right eye. His black hair was slicked back from his face and his green eyes seemed to glow in the lamplight.

Surely, one of my friends is playing a prank on me.

Alex pulled the blanket tighter, propped his elbow on the wood, and rested his forehead in his hand. The last thing he remembered before waking up in a pile of wood on a train was leaving work and heading to the bar where he was meeting a couple friends. The smog-filled streets were so clouded that he'd strained to see twenty feet in front of him and relied completely on a respirator to breathe. Once inside the bar, he removed the respirator and his suit jacket before sitting down. The bartender took his drink order and quickly set to work, making it a moment before a strange sound and a vibration shook him.

“You look like you could use a drink, stranger.”

Alex glanced at the gruff-looking man in a worn brown suit. His blond hair curled around his neck in dirty tendrils while a leather hat attempted to hide his blue eyes. He was one of the men from the end of the bar that Charles had glared at. Alex could only assume he was one of the McCann brothers Howard mentioned.

“I don’t have any money. . . Someone robbed me.” Alex did his best not to wince at the lie. Of course, he had money. It was in the bank in New York.

"I didn't ask you if you had money, stranger." Blondie replied as he ordered two whiskeys. He slid one in front of Alex before introducing himself, "The name's Clyde McCann; those are my brothers—" he pointed at the end of the bar—"Otto and Milton." Clyde lowered his voice and added, "Milton's a little slow, so mamma says we gotta take care of him.”

Feeling apprehensive, Alex accepted the whiskey, took a drink, and said, "Alex Picket."

"Well, now, Mr. Picket, what's a fellow like you with an expensive pocket watch doing on a train looking like you crawled up outta the gutter?”

At the mention of a pocket watch, Alex patted his shirt down once more. His hand caught on a chain and he quickly looked down at the strange looking gold watch. Unsure of how it got there, he popped it open and stared at the microchips encased in a see through blue liquid. A digital display in the upper left corner read the date: November 7, 1874.

Before Clyde could see the inside, he quickly snapped it shut and replied, “It doesn’t tell time. It’s broken.” He took another swig of whiskey before adding, “That must be why I still have it after being beaten and robbed.”

“If I were to rob you, I’d take it. Broken or not. Wonder why they didn’t?”

"I don't know. Maybe you should ask them." Alex snapped back before realizing he shouldn't make an enemy out of the McCann brothers. He took a calming breath and said, "I apologize for my outburst, Mr. McCann, but I've had a rough day."

“No worries, friend.” Clyde smoothly replied through a crooked smile, reminding Alex of a snake he’d seen in a zoo as a child.

Wanting to be anywhere but there, Alex looked around and asked, "Where's the bathroom?" At Clyde's nod toward a small room at the back of the car, Alex finished his drink and excused himself. Once inside, he leaned against the wall and let out a long sigh before pulling out his phone. After a retinal scan, it unlocked and quickly recalibrated his translating device. After it finished, he poked around the apps, unfamiliar with some. One flashed with a red warning but it required a password he didn’t remember.

Frustrated, he flipped it over and looked through the cards in the slots on the back. The first was a clear plastic with a holographic tint that flashed in the light. In the center was a microchip and most likely was his bank card.

In the second slot was his New York driver's license. It stated his name was Alexander Grant Picket, born October 15, 2232. Along with the usual personal information and address, it said on the back that it was illegal for his organs to be donated. Weird.

The last card was all black with gold writing embossed on it:

Blanchard & Rhyme

Time monitor

Alex Picket

On the back was a handwritten note in silver ink: When you jump, your memories get scrambled. Be patient until they return.

“What in the blue blazes?” Alex whispered to himself as he pondered how jumping could make someone lose their memories.

The sound of a woman speaking curtly to someone drew his attention. Suddenly nervous, Alex pocketed his phone and walked out. At the table nearest the stove sat a woman who had been reading when he walked by earlier. She sat there, her face flushed as a man attempted to grope her again. A quick glance around the room let Alex know no one was going to step in and defend her honor.

With a sigh of regret, he stepped beside the woman, put his hand on her shoulder, and said, "Sorry I took so long, darling. This man bothering you?”

She looked up at him, gratitude flashing in her eyes as she spoke, “Why, yes, this man is bothering me.”

The drunk started to mouth something unintelligible, so Alex rolled up his sleeves, revealing his tattoos. A brief moment of panic set in as the blanket fell from his shoulders and he worried that he shouldn’t be flashing his tattoos from 2257 but it was too late to turn back now. The man staggered back to the bar at the sight of him covered in ink.

“Thank you.”

Feeling uncomfortable, Alex rolled his sleeves down and retrieved the blanket. He was about to walk away when she asked him to sit with her. Almost every eye in the room was on him now and he accepted her invitation and sat across the booth from her. He introduced himself and quickly looked her over. She was an attractive woman with curly brown hair tied back under a hat that matched her pale purple, ruffled dress with a square neckline.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Picket. I’m Kathryn Wildberger. You may call me Mrs. Kathryn. I’m on my way back home to New York to stay with my father. My husband passed earlier in the fall and I’ve only just settled his estate.” She looked out the window as she finished speaking, the pain of loss still evident in her voice and Alex kicked himself for feeling like he was making a mistake for coming to her aid.

“New York is a fine city, Mrs. Kathryn. I was born and raised there and can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

Her laughter was unexpected, and it brought back a memory of sitting with his sister in her high-rise Manhattan apartment. She chastised him for working for Blanchard & Rhyme and meddling with the timeline. According to her, there was no reason for someone to jump around the time stream and risk messing things up. It didn't matter that history's undocumented mysteries were now uncovered and substantial technological advances had been made since the company first harnessed time travel.

You’re a time traveler, Alex!

The thought, though absurd, suddenly made sense of his current situation. There was no way his friends could mess with his memories and dump him into a replica train from the 1870s. It was impossible because there were only a few hundred railroads left on the planet and the only steam trains remaining were locked away in museums.

Suddenly realizing Kathryn was still talking, Alex refocused on her but his thoughts quickly wandered again. Feeling like he was fighting a losing battle, he glanced down at the book and realized Charles Dickens wrote it. With a smile, he quickly changed the subject to the famous author.

As they talked, his memories slowly flooded back. The whole situation was a nightmare as he realized that someone had sent him back in time without authorization. He needed to excuse himself again, log into his app, and ensure his time-warp core was still functioning. The small, pocket watch looking device that Clyde had eyed earlier was his lifeline back home. He just hoped he could activate the return trip from his end without needing to resort to an emergency exit from the time stream.

A brief lull in conversation gave him the perfect excuse to return to the bathroom. The moment he was inside, he pulled out his phone and logged into the app. Unfortunately, the only message he had was an error message letting him know that he had jumped without authorization and to await contact from 2257. His heart sank at the sight and he knew there was little chance of them finding him on the train. He could only wait until they got to New York and leave a message in the local newspaper that they would hopefully discover before he had to learn to live in the 1870s.

"It's alright, Alex. You've been through worse. You've got this." His words lacked confidence and he quickly went through the five rules of time travel, hoping he could figure out his next move.

1. Never, under any circumstances, reveal futuristic technology to anyone in the past.

2. A time traveler shall never reveal himself or herself to an ancestor, no matter how far removed.

3. Do not interfere. Observe and report only what is assigned to you in the time stream. Avoid direct contact with persons of the past whenever possible.

4. Do not lose time travel technology or allow it to enter into the possession of a person in the past, present, or future.

5. Rules 1-4 can be broken to preserve the time traveler's life.

Before he put his phone away, he attempted to look up information on the time he was in. When he typed in the date on the core, it threw an error, stating that the time file wasn’t downloaded before the jump. Without service, he was unable to do anything more, and he logged out before sliding the phone into his pocket.

With a bit of frustration, he whispered, "You've got this, Alex. Follow protocol and go straight to the newspaper when you get to New York. Unless you get thrown off the train for not having a ticket before you get there."

The McCann brothers were gone when he reemerged from the bathroom. Kathryn bought him another drink and they resumed their conversation about poetry. Suddenly, the train lurched around a curve too fast, throwing them from their seats. Dread filled Alex as he helped Mrs. Kathryn to her feet but he couldn’t shake the sudden nagging feeling at the back of his mind.

Silver Star Express, November 7, 1874.

His uncle's voice sliced through his thoughts bringing with them a chill that had nothing to do with the cold winter night. His uncle only told him stories about train crashes. His mouth suddenly dry, Alex settled back into the booth and racked his brain to remember the newspaper article he'd read years ago while living with his uncle during summer break during his second year of college.

Silver Star Express crashes, leaving only one survivor.

Alex’s mouth went dry at the memory. He was on a train that crashes on the very night it crashed. The article reported that the accident was caused by a collapsing bridge in the mountains. According to the only survivor, the brakes failed to stop the train in time, and the whole thing plummeted to its doom. All the bodies were recovered except for a man who leaped to his death moments before the crash.

Nauseated, he looked up at Kathryn but before he could say anything, Charles burst into the room. He looked panicked as he made his way back towards the engine.

“Charles, what’s going on?” Alex spoke up before he could stop himself.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Picket.” He attempted to keep his voice level but the look on his face spoke volumes.

“It’s the brakes, isn’t it? They’re broken.”

Charles’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stormed out of the lounge car. Every eye was fixed on the door and Alex knew he had to ensure rule number four wasn't broken if the train was going to crash. Feeling suddenly bold, he looked at Kathryn and said, "I know this is going to sound crazy, but you have to get off this train. It's going to crash and everyone will die. The bridge is out and with the brakes not working. . ."

He couldn't finish his thought but quickly rushed out the door after Charles. The moment he was alone in the first coach, he pulled out his phone and searched his apps for the one his uncle made him download years ago. His heart soared when the app for the old railway maps popped up.

I’m so glad I never delete anything from my phone!

It didn’t take long to find the railroad line he was currently traveling on. From the look of it, they only had a short distance before the bridge. Without thinking twice, Alex tossed the blanket aside and rushed towards the engine where Charles and Howard were frantically attempting to slow the train.

When you jumped onto a moving train, you damaged it, Alex.

“What are you doing here, son?” Charles’ frantic voice pierced the night.

Alex stopped beside him, his phone still in his hand, and attempted to explain the fate that awaited them if they couldn't stop the train before the bridge. They looked at him like he belonged in a psychiatric ward and eyed his phone with suspicion.

The bright, full moon burst from behind the clouds, illuminating the mountainside with a silver glow. Up ahead was the last bend before the bridge. At the sight, Alex’s heart sank.

“Go back to the lounge, Mr. Picket.” Howard angrily shouted at him above the roar of the steam engine.

“This is all my fault!” Alex exclaimed as he pulled up the time traveler’s app. He quickly typed in his override codes, prepping the warp core for a time jump before requesting an emergency jump. He had only one chance to save himself and possibly slow the train down. If he jumped off the train at the apex of the turn and engaged the warp core, the blowback force should slow the train enough to give them a fighting chance to save it.

Before Charles could stop him, Alex pocketed his phone and climbed to the front of the engine. The biting cold whipped at him with every step. He was nearly at the front of the train when someone else shouted at him and he turned to see Clyde coming after him. With renewed urgency, Alex pushed himself to the front as the train started around the bend. He had to time it just right.

“Come back here, Alex, before you get yourself hurt!”

“You don’t understand, Clyde. I have to do this. The threat of death is the only way to go back to the future.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

Clyde was almost upon him as the apex of the turn arrived. Without thinking twice, Alex leaped off the train and into the mountainous cliff's abyss. Immediately, a strange sound filled the air and a massive vibration ripped through him as the warp core activated emergency protocol. The jump nearly ripped him in half a moment before bright sunlight blinded him and he crashed into a pool, knocking him unconscious.

The steady mechanical beeping of hospital equipment roused him. A quick look around the sterile room flooded Alex with relief. With a sigh, he sagged back into the pillow.

“It’s about time you woke up, boy.”

Surprised, Alex looked over at his uncle leaning against the windowsill. Beyond him, the brownish grey smog cast an eerie glow into the room.

“What happened?”

His uncle pushed away from the wall, his leather coat squeaking in protest as he fixed his brown eyes on Alex. He ran a hand through his thinning ash brown hair and replied, “There was an accident at Blanchard & Rhyme and you were sent back in time. They managed to pull you back after fifteen seconds and you’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“I was on a train in 1874. I had to implement an emergency jump to get back.”

Robert looked at him, concern darkening his eyes as he replied, “There isn’t any data on your jump, Alex. There’s no way you were in any time period long enough to need an emergency jump.”

“I’m not making this up! The train was called Silver Star Express. When I was force-jumped onto it, the brakes were damaged. I had drinks with Clyde McCann and a woman named Kathryn.”

Alex watched in dread as his uncle shook his head. He didn’t believe him. Determined to prove his uncle wrong, he snatched his phone off the bedside table and looked up the newspaper article about the crash, halfway expecting the record to not exist. His heart sank when it came up just the way he remembered it. Everyone aboard the train perished except for Kathryn Wildberger. It even reported his leap off the train before the catastrophic bridge collapse.

“This—” Alex practically shoved his phone in Robert’s face—“is where I was. I jumped off that train to come home. The warp core detected I was about to die and forced me back here. Kathryn and I talked about Charles Dickens and poetry before I realized the train was in danger. I’m not making this up.”

"They said that with a traumatic jump like you experienced, there was a chance of brain damage. I talked with you about that article a few months back and your mind, for some reason, chose that reality to cling to in order to explain away the trauma." With a sad look on his face, Robert paused and continued, "I'll go get a nurse and have them reexamine your head."

“I’m not crazy!” Alex shouted as his uncle left him alone. Then to himself, he whispered, "I'm not crazy."