The Midnight Meat Train

Leon Kaufman had never liked the New York subway. It smelled of rust, sweat, and something more elusive — like iron left in the sun too long. Yet, the night he missed his usual train, he found himself descending into the bowels of the city, the clock blinking 12:03 AM, past the usual schedule.

He was a photographer, freelance mostly. His last series — "The City Bleeds" — had earned a modest gallery spot uptown. It featured brutal images of alleyways, abandoned carts, hypodermics, and rats the size of terriers. Critics called it "urban Gothic," which made Leon laugh. They thought it was art. To him, it was just what the city was now.

This late train was empty — unusually clean, fluorescent light humming like a dying fly. He sat near the back, camera slung over his shoulder, unsure why he felt compelled to ride tonight.

The train screeched through a tunnel like it was being tortured. The car lurched. Lights flickered. And when they came back on, someone else was there.

A man — enormous, silent — sat three rows ahead. He wore a butcher’s coat, immaculately white. His briefcase sat on the floor, unnaturally heavy. His bald head gleamed under the flickering light, and his nose had a dent, like it had been broken long ago but never fixed.

Leon lifted his camera and clicked once.

The man didn’t move.

He took another photo.

Still, nothing.

The train slowed, but didn’t stop. It roared past the usual platform at 42nd Street. No announcement. No lights.

Leon’s skin prickled.

He leaned forward. “Hey, does this train stop at—”

The man stood, calmly. The briefcase came up with him. He walked to the center of the car, knelt, and opened it with slow, deliberate care.

Inside: hooks. Blades. Bone saws. All polished to surgical precision.

Leon’s mouth went dry. This was no butcher. This was ritual.

The man turned to a darkened corner of the car. That’s when Leon saw it: another body. Hanging from the ceiling like meat in a locker. Naked. Slashed. Eyes wide open, glassy with the stillness of death.

Leon stifled a gasp — too late.

The man turned.

Leon ran.

Car to car, he ran — but each one was empty. It was like he had entered a part of the subway no one else could find. Each door slammed behind him. The butcher followed, never running, always just… catching up.

At the seventh car, Leon found a fire extinguisher. He waited by the door, breath ragged.

When the butcher entered, Leon slammed the extinguisher into his head.

It connected — but the man only stumbled. He grunted, not in pain, but like someone annoyed their schedule was being interrupted.

The cleaver came out.

Leon ducked, the blade catching his jacket and part of his camera strap. Metal screamed against metal as the cleaver bit into the pole.

Leon slammed the extinguisher again, this time catching the butcher square in the chest. The man staggered backward into the emergency exit door — which gave way with a hiss.

Leon didn’t wait. He threw himself through it.

Outside, the tunnel whipped past in grey and black flashes. Metal and shadow and dirt. He ran across the narrow maintenance platform alongside the car, crawling toward the front.

The train began to slow. The conductor’s box loomed ahead. Leon climbed atop the train, his hands bloodied from gripping bolts and rust.

He kicked through the roof hatch.

The train stopped.

Dead silence.

Leon dropped inside.

But the conductor was gone.

Instead, men in dark suits waited. Pale. Silent. Eyes black as wet coal.

Behind them, the butcher entered again, nose now bleeding.

"You interrupted the offering," one of the suited men said.

Leon stared. "What… what are you talking about?"

"The city has a pact," the man said. "The ones who built it are still here, beneath it. They must feed. Always feed. Every night, every day, we pay the fare."

Leon laughed, half-mad. "You're joking. This is insane."

The man stepped aside. The wall of the conductor’s box peeled back.

And Leon saw them.

Creatures. Ancient, slick with meat and moss. Dozens of eyes. Mouths that didn’t smile, only opened. These were no rats. No mole people.

These were gods.

The suited man continued. "Do you think the city works because of mayors and money? No. It works because they are fed. Blood keeps the tunnels moving. Meat keeps the wheels greased."

Leon stepped back. "You’re feeding people to them."

"Yes," said the butcher. "And now that you know, you must choose. Become what I am — or become what they eat."

Leon stared.

The cleaver gleamed in the butcher's hand.

"You took the last train," said the suited man. "You found the truth."

Leon looked down at his camera.

He had always wanted to show people what the city really looked like. And now… he knew.

One Week Later

The midnight train now runs as usual.

No one notices the new man in the third car.

He wears a white coat. Carries a heavy case.

And when the time comes, he feeds the city.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

The lights flicker. The train doesn’t stop at 42nd Street.

And beneath the tracks, the old gods smile.