Unhinged

Oliver hummed contentedly when the hand caressed his face. Was he having sex right now? Because if he was, the touch of those hands was escalating, so perhaps his partner de jour was getting a bit rough. Not that good Olly ever minded some pain with his pleasure, but maybe things were getting sidetracked this time?

"OLIVER!" wake up, you little shit! Two hard slaps landed on his face, forcing his eyes open.

"Too much, sweetheart, slow down. Daddy wants some love," Oliver said, or at least he thought that was what he said. Mumbled perhaps?

"Oh, for fuck's sake, we have enough to worry about around here! The train is out of control, arsehole! Pull it together and do something to help! Handle your damn car."

The slamming of a metallic sliding door resonated all over his skull. Then came nausea. Not just any nausea, though; this felt like motion sickness. A sliding door, metallic walls, and a small smelly toilet. Shit. Oliver was on a train. His first instinct was to find a ticket to figure out what fucking train he may be on. A frantic dig through his pockets revealed nothing helpful, only a keychain with strange-looking keys. He was hiding on the toilet of a runaway train, with no ticket, no cell phone, and he had no idea how he got here. The thought must have been too overwhelming because he barely had time to hover his head over the toilet before the entire content of his stomach landed there. It was mostly liquid. Had he been drinking? That could account for the way his brain felt, mushy and confused. After a couple more rounds and finally some dry heaving, Oliver stood up.

He stumbled toward the sink to start the cold water, drinking directly from the faucet and letting it run over his face and neck. It felt like a balm, bringing his scrambled mind closer and closer to being online. Finally lifting his face, Oliver gazed in the mirror. He looked like shit, but a few pieces of information started to fall in place. Olly was wearing what looked like a suit and tie uniform, complete with a name tag, and written beside his name was the biggest clue of all: The Ghan. He was a conductor for Australia's longest overnight train service. A stupid giggle escaped his throat. No wonder he had no ticket. He was at work. This was his job. As for the confusion in his mind, he may have fucked up royally this time. He tended to get bored during the three-day trips, and after 24 or 36 hours, the novelty wore off for many of the passengers when it dawned on them that they were trapped in a luxurious tuna can that ran through the desert, so there was no way out. Oliver would often find a bathroom to smoke a doobie when the people around him got obnoxious or downright feisty. That usually put him in a better mood and helped to deal with the irritated people around him. Something may have gone wrong today, though. He usually sneaked a puff or two but never got shitfaced. Then another piece of information clicked into place:

"The train is out of control." That's what Marcus, the conductor assigned to the front cars, had said. Oh shit. The train is out of control. They were trapped on a runaway train in the middle of the Australian desert. Shit. No wonder he decided to smoke something stronger. Or maybe it was a drink? The third piece of information reached him: a mysterious bottle concealed in a paper bag that his best mate Tom had given him as a parting gift. It was some crazy concoction, a mix of indigenous hallucinogens meant to "transform the shittiest reality into a party for the ages." That was it. Maybe when Oliver first realized that he was on board a train whose only destination was certain doom, he decided to take a swig or two, then passed out in the bathroom. But now, it was time to face the music: everyone on this train would die. And as a conductor, his duty was to keep his assigned car in order. Although in this case, what was the point of order? Maybe since this would be the last couple of days of the passengers' lives, his duty to them was to make them the best possible. To show them a good time. Maybe keep the daunting news to himself a little longer.

Putting himself together as well as he could, Oliver walked out of the bathroom. He was in a sleeper car, the corridor in between cabins empty. The conductor made a decision. When the passengers realized the train was out of control, riots would occur. So the fewer people he needed to deal with, the better. If he locked the door to the gangway connecting this car to the front, only the guests staying in these cabins would be around, with fewer people to control. Without hesitation, he did just that. There was plenty of food and drink in the lounge area, and his car was the furthest back of the train. The guests here were on an all-inclusive package, open to all kinds of fun and delight. It was time to get this party started. His brain detached from the notion of duty; no need to worry about his job now since he wouldn't live long enough to get fired. Walking purposefully, the young conductor stood in front of a double suite. He knew that inside was a couple, a gorgeous woman with ample bosom that kept checking him out during dinner time and her submissive husband. After a couple of knocks, the woman slid the door open and smiled.

"Well, hello, handsome. What a nice surprise. What brings you around?"

"Just wanted to ask if you needed anything, ma'am. Anything at all."

The blonde lady grinned, champagne obvious in her breath.

"You could come in, keep us some company, right honey?"

"Whatever you say, dear," the husband answered in a small voice from inside the car. Oliver walked in and locked the door behind him.

It turned out that the lady in question was a Dominatrix with a kink for denial. What started as a promising sex adventure had now become an agonizing game of restraint. Under other circumstances, Oliver would have stayed until the promised blissful resolution came, but knowing that they may have 36 hours to live at the most put things in perspective. And right now, the 45 minutes he spent with his manhood trapped in a caged-shaped contraption had his hormones revolting and his nerves on edge. He needed release, pronto. Still, Oliver found enough willpower not to reveal the truth of their situation to the couple just yet. Instead, he used the excuse of tending to other guests to leave the cabin. He asked for his privates to be freed before leaving behind a man tied up with a gag on his mouth, his wife preparing to do who knows what to him. Whatever fate befell the manacled man, he would likely consider it a great way to die.

Back on the corridor, the conductor was desperately thinking of a way to satisfy his ardent virility when muffled thuds coming from the next cabin called his attention. Carefully placing his ear to the wall, Oliver could swear someone was being roughed up in there. Suddenly, a shrill voice cut through the buzzing of the train.

"Please, stop, please," a woman cried, only to fall silent after another thud resonated inside the closed space.

"Shut up, shut the fuck up bitch; I'll kill you, I swear."

The conductor quickly searched his pockets for the keychain, remembering it was a set of master keys. Without overthinking, he opened the door to the cabin, where a man was pinning down a woman on the bed, holding a pillow over her face while her legs kicked, ripping open her sari. Fueled by the testosterone and drugs running through his veins, Oliver pulled the man off, turned him around, and with a single headbutt, knocked him out. He then turned to look at the Wife, who was gasping for air, eyes wide in horror. She slowly sat up, then crawled over the bed to see the body lying on the floor. Her gasps turned into sobs, and she seemed about to fall apart, but the abusive husband moaned, and the woman went berserk. She screamed like a banshee and, moving like a possessed creature, reached for a knife from a food tray placed on the nightstand. Oliver watched as the petite lady crouched over the fallen man, howling, and stabbed him repeatedly, blood splashing her face and torso. The conductor's reaction was a strange amusement, a peal of hysterical laughter gurgling on his chest as he reached to close the compartment door. When the Wife finished ripping apart her abuser's chest, she looked up, and Oliver could see the moment when the realization of what she had done hit her. She scrambled back in panic, curling against the bed, about to scream again. But a hysterical Oliver, still laughing, came to her, wrapping his arms around her and making shushing noises.

"It's ok, it's fine. Nothing will happen," the conductor said, frantic laughter cutting his words. "We're all going to die; it doesn't matter."

"What?" the woman asked, shock growing on her face.

"The train is out of control. We are on a runaway train, and there is no stopping it. It will derail, and we are all going to die," he said, punctuating the news with a fresh burst of crazed laughter.

When she didn't move or talk, Oliver gestured for her to wait, histrionic giggles still making it hard to speak. He opened the door, took a quick look to ensure no one was in the corridor, and ran to the bathroom, where he found the bottle disguised in the paper bag hidden behind the toilet.

When he returned to the compartment, the Wife was curled in a ball, sobbing. Oliver stepped over the husband's bloody body to settle himself very close, one arm around the wife's shoulders, the other offering the bottle.

"Drink this, darling. It will make everything better, I promise."

The disoriented woman took a swig and almost sputtered but swallowed it. She was about to complain about the bitter taste when her world shifted. It was as if she could see the whole room from above. The dead body on the floor, the strange man holding her, the blood covering her sari. And yet, somehow, it all looked beautiful. The colors were bright, the light iridescent, and her body felt the relief of knowing she wouldn't be abused again and the liberating certainty of death approaching. Turning to face Oliver, the man looked beautiful, radiant, a hero like no movie had presented before. She climbed on top of him, and they managed to fumble out of their clothes, the remaining acrid liquid in her tongue reigniting his high just enough to bring him to a place of pure debauchery. Time seemed to speed and slow down at random intervals; two actors lost in a play of limbs, mouths, bodily fluids, and, underneath all, the metallic scent and taste of blood dragging them even more into a savage state. The Wife had just collapsed on top of the impromptu lover when a knock on the door startled them.

"Hi, neighbors. Are you having fun there? Would you like to join us in our cabin?" the voice of the Dominatrix called temptingly.

"I want that, yes, yes, I want to be free before I die," the Wife yelled, but Oliver covered her mouth, chortling.

"Maybe we wash off a bit before joining that party?" he gestured to their blood and sweat-covered bodies, then he called loud enough for the Dominatrix to hear: "we will be there in a minute; just need to wash off a bit."

"Oh, you can be as dirty as you want, but whatever makes you comfortable, we'll be waiting," the woman responded excitedly.

The messy pair moved into the small private shower inside the cabin, washing off all evidence of the act that had put them on the road to perdition. The Wife barely wrapped a towel around herself before marching toward the next cabin, where the door was ajar, and letting out the moans of a gagged man. Without hesitation, she entered and slid the door closed.

Oliver thought of joining them, but then his brain had another suggestion: this party was not big enough. He walked to the lounge in the back of the car (the one he should have been manning all along), prepared a tray of champagne flutes, then added a drop from the mysterious bottle to each glass. Trying to look presentable, he knocked on each compartment. All the guests seemed delighted and gratefully took long sips of the offered drinks. Some stayed on the corridor, toasting their neighbors and starting conversations that quickly turned incomprehensible as the laced champagne started to hit their unaware minds. By the time Oliver reached the last two compartments, he had half a mind to close the one with the dead body, then enter the kinky couple's space. The Dominatrix took the champagne before he could even offer and downed it, then went back to watch how the Wife used her husband as a prop to learn how to use a strap-on contraption. Oliver stood by the open door, enjoying the show and even chanting some encouragement. That caught the other guests' attention, and a crowd soon formed around the spectacle.

Seeing his plan grow satisfyingly, the conductor refilled the glasses of laced champagne. When all the guests seemed to have enough booze in their system, Oliver announced:

"This train is out of control, and it will either derail into the desert or crash when we approach the next town. So have at it, folks, enjoy the last hours of your life in any way you can."

The crowd responded with a medley of confused and angry reactions that quickly dissolved into hysterics, loud cries followed by uncontrollable laughter, uncoordinated dancing, impromptu public sex, and a few fist fights. And right in the middle of it all was Oliver, now a different type of conductor that guided and enticed, orchestrating the most magnificent end-of-the-world party. The now crazed passengers offered all their private goodies for general consumption, from hidden stashes of cocaine and heroin to all kinds of prescriptions like valium, oxycontin, Adderall, and viagra. Oliver gleefully set up a snorting station over a mirror that they ripped off a bathroom and mashed as many pills as possible to mix and increase the enticing possibilities.

Among the eager participants, a man in his eighties greedily snorted a mix of cocaine and mashed viagra, pounded his chest loudly like a silverback gorilla, and then dropped dead. For a brief moment, the party around the mirror stood still. But, the always resourceful Oliver came up with a solution; dragging the body to the compartment where the stabbed husband lay, then announcing with his newfound authority:

"This is where we dump the leftovers!"

The crowd cheered, returning to find creative ways to up the ante. After the old man and the husband, the Dominatrix's partner was next on the pile of bodies. Apparently, the submissive had been dead for a while before anyone noticed that adding belt choking to a gagging game was not a great idea. It caused no big disappointment, though, as a burly man offered to take his place and became a willing receptacle of abuse. A few hours later, the compartment also contained a strangled woman traveling with an adult son who hated her, a recovering addict who could not hold his heroin anymore, and a decapitated dog that no one had noticed was on the train. As the night progressed, a second body storage compartment was added when a group of bow hunters took over the party and proposed using some other passengers as practice targets. To make things fair, though, they allowed the potential victims to make offers, whether in party favors or flesh, before deciding if they were a better fit for fun or carnage.

That may have been the point when Oliver discreetly retreated toward the front of the car. The hunters were strong and not easily appeased, and the conductor was determined to die only when the train got derailed. He decided to lock this party in and find a new one. Making his way to the connecting corridor between cars, he locked the door from outside, leaving behind the bacchanalia. But before he could reach the next car, his overserved brain blacked out.

The muffled sound of a serious conversation reached Oliver's ears, although he could not understand who was talking or what it was about. It was as if a black cloud had settled inside his skull.

"Cocaine, heroin, three different benzodiazepines, Adderall, a couple of barbiturates, and some other stuff that we haven't been able to identify, probably a mix of hallucinogenic mushrooms."

"Seriously, doctor? How is this guy even alive?"

"Well, detective, it's amazing what the body can survive when the brain is jacked on psychoactive drugs. Even unconscious, he kept mumbling about the train derailing. But yes, this guy should have died."

"Well, if this Oliver guy ever sobers up completely, I'm sure he will wish he was dead. We've never seen a crime scene like this: thirty-six dead bodies, mostly murders, a few suicides. Oh, and an old man OD'd on a mix of alcohol, cocaine, and viagra. And to think that the rest of the train passengers had a regular, pleasant trip. This motherfucker better have some answers."