The Thirteenth Passenger

The cradle in which I lay rocks gently, pushed by a sweet summer breeze as I gaze up at a robin's egg sky. Its creaking swing is oddly familiar and rhythmic. Suddenly, a new sound imposes upon my reality, the shrill scream of a train whistle. It echoes once more, and my cradle is jolted abruptly. I am falling toward a lush green meadow five stories below. As the ground rushes up to greet me, my eyes flutter open, my heart thudding hard and fast in my chest, my lungs desperately clutching at the air, and I find myself on a train.

Shuddering from the disturbingly vivid dream, I survey my surroundings. I appear to be in a regular subway car. Faded orange plastic seats line the walls facing the center aisle and grimy aluminum poles stretch from the gum-covered floor to the dimly lit ceiling at regular intervals down the length of the car. Everything appears to be in order aside from the fact that the twelve other passengers are all unconscious despite the ongoing scream of the train's whistle.

Peering out the window behind my seat, I'm greeted with the ghost of a familiar landscape rushing by. The train is racing through the meadow from my dream, except this meadow lays barren. The once emerald grass has faded to a shadowy brown and barely shifts as the wind bellows off the speeding train. The air itself appears to be thick with haze the color of a fawn's fur and unidentifiable particles float undisturbed by the subway car's violent motion. Unable to tell what time of day it may be due to the complete lack of a sun or moon, I turn back to face the passengers across from me, a middle-aged couple holding hands and sleeping peacefully.

The audible fabric of interwoven conversation one would expect to find on the subway was absent. The eerie silence of the passengers made the heavy, metallic rock of the train's wheels against the rails an omnipresent heartbeat, its pulse the only sound permeating the air. Enveloped and entranced by the rhythm, I sit silently, my breathing unintentionally falling into sync with the train's pulse. At that moment, the train's shrill scream rang out again, shaking me out of my revery.

Despite the nearly deafening sound of the whistle, the other passengers continued sleeping undisturbed. The couple sitting across from me did not so much as shift in their seats. Getting up from my chair and taking the short couple of steps across the aisle to where they rested, I placed a hand on the man's shoulder and shook him lightly. The man did not wake, his expression remained that of someone in a blissfully peaceful dream, totally unaware of his waking existence. His respirations remained steady and predictable, coming in perfect synchronicity with the train's pulse.

Deeply disturbed at the coma-like trance the man seemed to be experiencing I'm reminded that not only do I not know where I am, I do not know who I am. I remember nothing before my dream in the cradle. It is as if I am grasping at a wall of fog, the smoky tendrils of prior memory slipping through my desperate grasp with ease.

Looking down at my open palms I see no rings, calluses, or other markers that could remind me of my life and what led me to this place. Examining the sleeves of my shirt and pants, I assume I must work in an office of some sort. My pale blue button-down shirt looks to be freshly pressed and my rich grey slacks fit as if they were tailored specifically to fit me. Perhaps I was on my way to work? That wouldn't explain the unconscious people or my amnesia for sure, much less the post-apocalyptic-looking world outside the window. I glance back at the couple just in time to see a few strands of their hair turn pure white.

Suddenly the car jolts and I am thrown back into my seat. I feel the train accelerate, its pulse quickening and the car shuddering its protest. Looking back at the couple, they appear to have aged nearly ten years from when I woke. Fine lines had developed across their foreheads and smile lines told of their happiness in life. Their hair had become a blend of saturated silver hues that seemed to glow under the subway car's flickering florescent lights.

This is impossible. I must still be dreaming. I pinch the back of my hand so hard it begins to purple. Nope, not dreaming. I scramble back to my feet and walk the length of the car, shaking each passenger as I go by, grasping the poles for support as my knees threaten to give out from the effort of fighting to support my swift movement across the shuddering floor.

Breathing heavily from the effort and overwhelming terror, I collapse back into my seat. Gazing down at my hands once more, I notice sunspots that had not been there just moment before. The skin itself seems looser. The once taught, smooth, surface now looks like ill-fitting gloves that crease and fold without the assistance of joints. I look to the window behind me and catch a glimpse of my reflection. I am not sure how old I am supposed to be but it feels wrong to be eye to eye with this graying man with skin reminiscent of fine leather, a texture that can only come from spending many years in beautiful places.

Beyond the glass, the landscape remains the same. I look around desperately for the emergency exit. This madness must stop. Whatever is happening, I have to get off of this train.

I pound on the window to no avail. Suddenly, the car feels like a prison. My gaze travels frantically over the other passengers once more, searching for something that could help me break the window. Finally, my eyes come to rest on a suitcase sitting on the ground next to a woman and her young son. I dive to the bag and throw open the case, tearing the zipper from the fabric in the process. Inside lay nothing but an empty picture frame. Fortunately for me though, the woman seemed to prefer metal picture frames.

Quickly getting to my feet, the train's whistle screams again, louder than ever. I kneel on the seat nearest me and bang the frame against the center of the pane as hard as I can. Finally, a small chip in the glass appears and begins to web outward, spreading as if woven by an invisible spider. One more blow shatters the window, sending glistening shards into the wind, swept away by the speed of the train.

Kneeling on my seat I stick my head out the window and stare down at the dusty ground racing by. I'm not sure who I am but I'm pretty sure I've never jumped out of a speeding train. Glancing back to the couple who seem to have reached the ripe old age of 85 at this point, I realize throwing myself off the train is my only chance at survival.

Squeezing my eyes shut tight I push myself head-first out the window. The wind rips what air there was from my lungs, and I feel myself pulled down like a magnet. The landing is unexpectedly soft.

Unwilling to believe I had actually lived through jumping off a train, I keep my eyes closed and choose to explore with my other senses. The ground beneath me is soft and comfortable. The smell of sanitizing agents permeate the air and there is a constant beep coming from somewhere near my head.

I open my eyes slowly and find myself in a hospital room. The room is small, containing only the bed, a small table, and two chairs. Soft rays of sun filter through the window and bathe the walls with a warm golden glow.

The most absurd part of my current state is the lack of pain. I just threw myself off of a train in a post-apocalyptic world, how could I be physically intact? Looking through the contents of the bedside table in hopes of finding a call button, my eyes settle on the metal frame that had helped me create my emergency exit. This time, it was not empty. Rather, it held a photo of a joyful couple and their young son. The man in the photo looked startlingly familiar. It was as if I were looking at a portrait of my younger self.

My heart had begun to flutter like a caged bird, beating against its cage, seeking freedom. Grasping the remote that lay next to the frame, I frantically press the call button over and over, willing the nurse to get here faster.

The door to my room is flung open barely seconds later by a woman in purple scrubs and a long white doctor's coat. Her eyes are the size of dollar coins and the color drains from her face as she stares into mine. For a moment, time seems to stand still and we are frozen in place, staring into each other's eyes. Finally, the doctor seems to shake off the spell and composes herself enough to say: "Welcome back, Mr. Jones. We thought you had left us forever."