Carriage 3-8-1

 The train carriage rattled as it entered the narrow tunnel, darkening the windows and forcing the flickering urine-coloured lights to fend off the encroaching gloom. The window frames shook as the old carriage swayed across ancient rails, buffeted from side to side by the tumultuous vortices swirling around the darkness. Tunnel lights lit up the windows at steady intervals, breaking up the gloom and casting feeble hues along the ancient, mouldy brickwork as the train sped past.

Inside, tarnished-yellow intercom speakers hung from disjointed ceiling panels along the length of the carriage, crackling with an electric buzz as they clicked on then off again. It was almost as if the operator was hesitant about what they had to say.

Counting the time between open-line crackles made a welcome distraction from the woman sobbing her heart out several seats behind me. The blather had been incessant, drifting from the rear of the carriage and making the ride even more unpleasant than an episode of the Kardashians. From the moment I had boarded, her dark hair had hung over a face grasped tightly in pale, wet hands. To the best of my knowledge, she hadn’t bothered to stop crying or look up once throughout the entire ride.

‘Carriage 3-8-1-18-15-14,’ I mouthed softly, reading the peeling red paint over the doorframe beside me. ‘Adding this one to the Nope list.’

A group of punk-rocker girls were huddled – half of them standing, half of them sitting – diagonally across the aisle from me. From where I sat the short red skirts, jet black hair and tight white shirts with the words ‘DND: Daughters of Night and Darkness’ emblazoned across their slightly unbuttoned shirts were clearly visible. The length of their vivacious cleavage often caught my eye and – each time I chanced a lustful glance – I would catch them returning my own stare, often with large all-knowing smiles beneath their heavily mascaraed eyes. They would giggle amongst themselves, arching their backs provocatively and accentuating the already-lively bounce of the travelling carriage.

Letting out a soft breath, I pressed my cheek against the rattling window frame and stared out into the gloom.

The view before the tunnel had been somewhat pleasant – green pastures and rolling cornfields, tractors plowing, workers out in the fields; it had felt like we were part of a living canvas, diving in and out of art.

Now – barring the tunnel lights – my yellow-tinged partial reflection was the only thing staring back at me.

I pressed my fingers lightly against my sallow cheeks, tugging down on my droopy eyes. They were baggy and tired; my skin was pale and clammy.

‘You look like crap, Evans.’

I looked like death.

You look like this carriage.

I sighed, lifting my backpack to my knees. With mid-semesters coming up, any free minute I had to cram some study was a minute well spent. Only issue I could foresee was La Lorna back there blowing my eardrums and the piss-themed lighting affecting the readability of the –

With a sharp lurch, the train began to slow. One hand on the window frame, I braced myself and watched as the dashing tunnel lights became less and less frequent before disappearing altogether. With a hiss of jettisoned steam, the train eased slowly out of the tunnel, coming to a gentle halt on the verge of a steep precipice. A lengthy old bridge lay in front of us, stretching from the edge of the precipice into the gloomy, grey-skied horizon. A monstrously wide river completed the scene, carving out the stone valley hundreds of feet below the bridge.

I frowned. Had the weather really changed so quickly?

As the train brakes engaged, the cabin shuddered, sending the wailing woman up a few decibels.

‘Screw it.’ Unzipping my bag, I pushed past the books and reached for my headphones instead. Noise-cancelling at their finest, claimed the label on the side of the case.

We shall see.

A few of the punk-rockers had stood up from their seats at the sound of the bawling woman. Hanging from the support poles, they raised long, pale arms and pointed, sniggering callously amongst themselves.

I rolled my eyes and rearranged my beanie. Raising the headphones to my head, I parted them, just about to slip them over my –

Something grazed the side of my foot.

‘Urgh! What in the HELL!’

Feeling the cold grip of panic, I scrambled up out of my seat; I can’t stomach anything with more than four legs and less than two.

With a face drawn in disgust, I chanced a peak down. Something smooth and tentacle-like retracted into the shade beneath the chair in front of me.

‘A roach.’ I reasoned, swallowing hard. ‘Has to be. Crawled back up under the seat. No snakes on this train.’

Ever seen a roach with tentacles?

I heard a loud snigger across the aisle. One of the punk rockers, slightly taller than her cronies, was facing my way, staring. Her face was pale and her lips a dull red. She winked, slyly poking her tongue out.

Embarrassed, I blushed. ‘Cockroach.’ I pointed to the footwell and smiled half-heartedly. ‘Not a fan of bugs.’

The girl said nothing. Instead, her smile widened as her eyes lingered a moment longer than it ought to have. Dragging away her gaze, she turned to face her groupies.

The latest round of giggles I was sure were at my expense.

Whatever.

I fixed my beanie and slipped the headphones over my head. Pressing the button to resume playing the last song hooked to my phone, I received nothing but static and the same on-off clicking as the intercom system in the cabin ceiling. Before I could investigate further, the headphones screamed into life:

‘IF ALL PASSENGERS OF CARRIAGE 3-8-1-18-15-14 WOULD KINDLY-’

In a swift motion I yanked off the headphones and flung them to the seat beside me. Cursing loudly, I slapped my palms firmly across my ears and rubbed hard in an attempt to stop the ringing.

 ‘-would kindly have their tickets handy.’ The overhead speakers continued indifferently. ‘The conductor will be round in but a moment.’

Hands still clasped to my ears, I stared at the speakers. I felt my mouth drop slightly.

Had that just happened?

The door at the front of the cabin slid open and an ancient looking geriatric ambled in. His conductor’s uniform was a dark blue, well-worn from a lifetime of use, and hung over his frail figure like a ghost under a sheet.

As he passed the punk rockers, he smiled softly, tipping his conductor’s hat and giving a small bow. ‘Afternoon, Keres.’

‘Afternoon, Ferryman.’ They chorused back like some gothic parody of Charlie’s Angels.

Still holding my ringing ears, I looked up as the old man – Ferryman the girls had called him - slid to a halt in the aisle beside my seat. He smelled odd. Not unpleasant, but not pleasant either. It reminded me of –

Death.

- a match that had just been struck.

Ears still covered, I saw his mouth move.

‘Sorry, come again?’ I grimaced, lowering my hands. The ringing was subsiding, but my ears still hurt.

‘I said, have you got a ticket?’ The old man croaked. ‘Need one to cross this here river. If you ain’t got no ticket, you ain’t got no ride. Just like ‘em three out there.’ He raised a gnarled hand towards the window and pointed. ‘Caught the wrong train by miss-take.’

Outside, I watched as a woman and her two children disembarked through a cloud of steam. She seemed happy, hugging her children and smattering them with sloppy kisses as she cried. The woman looked relieved.

I turned in my seat, cheek pressed hard against the cold window, and strained to see what was behind us. All I could see was the old brick tunnel, its dark mouth still swallowing the rear carriages of the train.

There were no roads, no walkways, no nothing. I didn’t recognize the gloomy countryside, the precipice or the gargantuan body of water stretching out below.

How’s the woman getting home then?

‘Ticket, boy!’ Ferryman snapped, shaking me from my stupor. ‘Have you got one? Or do you need to join the people down there on the riverbank?’

‘No, no,’ I stuck a hand into my pocket, rummaging around until I felt the edges of a small piece of paper. I pulled it out and handed it to him. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you.’ He said, holding the ticket up to the light. ‘I’m sorry but I ain’t risking ferrying folk across the river without payment these days. Not after the last time.’

‘What happened last time?’ I asked politely. My thoughts were elsewhere though; staring down the precipice, watching as swarms of people mulled by the water.

‘The Boss chained me up for a year,’ he said apathetically.

My head snapped back to the old timer.

He’s kidding, right?

‘Anyway, you really should count your blessings, you know.’ Ferryman’s eyes stayed glued to the ticket. ‘Back in the day we used to cross this river with nothing but a leaky old punt and a bent pole. It made things a bit slower, especially during an epidemic or a great war. Oftentimes we’d be scooping water out of the blasted thing just to make it to the other side when we were overloaded. Spoilt we are now, what with these carriages and a rock-solid bridge.’

I glanced out the window at the bridge we were about to cross. I wasn’t sure if the term “rock-solid” applied to things that could sway.

‘You sure it’s safe?’ I asked, tapping on the window. ‘I mean, look...it’s moving…’

’Pssssh,’ the old man batted a hand. ‘This thing is centuries old. And it hasn’t once fallen.’ He raised a hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. ‘Although...there was that one-time Hephaestus slipped up and made a mistake with a trestle calculation. Poor fellow was going through something at the time though, so hard to blame him. When he reemerged as Vulcan, it all made sense.’

‘Heff-est-uss.’ The name rung a bell. ‘Right. Is that French?’

‘Hephaestus,’ Ferryman corrected. ‘And no, it ain’t French. It’s Greek. But don’t go calling him that, mind you, not anymore. It’s Vulcan now. Regardless of his identity crisis, he’s still one hell of an engineer, it must be said.’

The old man shrugged his shoulders and plopped my silver coin into his side pocket –

Silver coin?!

My blood cooled.

A coin? I had handed him a ticket; now he had a coin. A coin!

It’s an Obol, Evans. You needed it to cross.

What?

With his pocket jingling, the Ferryman pressed on toward the back of the carriage. As he approached the woman – lo and behold – her crying intensified yet again.

‘Please!’ She wailed. ‘This is a mistake! I shouldn’t be here!’

‘Olivia,’ Ferryman said emotionlessly. ‘You and young Evans up there were both in that Uber. A shared ride, remember, to save some money? Hence the carriage you now share. Your driver on the other hand - one Pratibha Singh – had made alternative plans for his transport.’

Our driver? What was the babbling old fool on? I’d never met the woman in my life, let alone shared an Uber with her! First the parlor-trick with the ticket and now…now here he was saying –

A soft slapping noise came from the punk rocker’s side of the carriage. They had their backs turned to me, while pointing and laughing amongst themselves at something outside their window. Curious, I moved my bag and slid over to the aisle seat, craning my neck to get a better view.

Ghostly handprints dotted the outside of their window. Covered in frost, the palm-prints would appear with a loud slap before trailing down the glass, the fingertips desperately grasping for purchase. Moments later another print would appear – seemingly begging to be let in - only to suffer the same sad fate as the rest.

The girls didn’t appear to be phased by the disembodied apparitions; rather, they seemed to find humour in the sad ordeal.

 ‘The Keres­ are catching a ride home.’

I jumped. The old man was sitting in the aisle seat beside me, arms crossed, nodding thoughtfully.

When had I moved back to the window seat!?

 ‘Our parents live where we’re going, you know.’ He continued obliviously. If he’d noticed my reaction, he made no comment. Instead, he let out a disheartened sigh and said, ‘But, I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? They don’t teach that stuff at schools, not anymore. For what it’s worth, they’re a bit of an important pair. Famous round my parts, I guess you could say.’

The delusional Ferryman had sixty years on the girls – sixty at least – and he reckoned he was their brother?

Give me a break.

He reckons you’ve met Weeping Beauty back there.

Evans: did you ever really hand him a ticket?

 I decided to entertain the fool: ‘Famous? As in, they’re singers or actors?’

He shook his head, pushed out his lips. ‘Important-like, but more so than common movie stars. Ever heard of Nyx and Erebus?’

Nyx and Erebus?

Deciding it was better to avoid lying to a mentally unstable stranger, I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t say I have.’

‘Pity that.’ Ferryman pursed his lips. ‘Can’t say I’m altogether surprised though. People don’t talk about them much anymore, not since they’ve heard the Good News; Christians with their Messiah and all that. Business can be rough when there’s a better offer out there, you know.’ He groaned as he stood up. Hesitantly, he paused before waddling a finger at me. ‘Truth be told, if it wasn’t for me being born into the family business, I’d probably have jumped at the opportunity to follow Him as well. They provide a much better deal than we ever could.’ He chuckled. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he leant in toward me and whispered. ‘But don’t tell the Boss I said that, ok? My wrists still hurt from the last time I was reprimanded!’

I smiled uncomfortably as Ferryman cackled. Without warning, a hot pain coursed through my legs and lower back while a sharp headache hooked its claws into my temples. A water leak, warm and slimy, dribbled from the roof down the nape of my neck.

Not water. Not a leak.

Take off your beanie, Evans.

The woman won’t lift her face.

‘By the way,’ I asked, squirming against the growing pain. ‘Why give the carriage such an awkward number?’ I pointed at the peeling paint. ‘Shouldn’t this just be carriage 5 or 8 or something like that?’

The conductor’s dark eyes followed my gaze. ‘My dear boy.’ He said quietly. ‘We’re much further along than merely a 5 or an 8. Why, on today’s run alone we’re pulling upwards of 150 carriages. Covid doesn’t discriminate, you see; we’re trailing 40 carriages packed wall to wall exclusively with its guests. This is the busiest I’ve been since the Spanish flu. And this number here –’ He jabbed a crooked finger toward the paint. ‘– is not awkward: It’s my name.’

And with that he was gone, tipping his hat to the punk-rockers – sorry, the Keres – before disappearing through the door and back the way he had come.

Before the cabin door had even latched into place, the train had lurched into motion. Accelerating gently, it wasn’t long before the rhythmic tick-ticking of the bridge crossties gave a beat to the moaning woman.

Olivia, I thought, head pounding. Right. We caught an uber to the…station…and, somehow, she caught the wrong train. A mistake.

Was I on the right train?

The thought struck me from left field. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember buying a ticket.

Or even going to the station.

But yet, here you are.

Far below the bridge, dark specks of people mulled like ants in and around the river’s edge. From what I could see, not one group had made it more than a few feet into the water before deciding against it and returning to the shore.

‘It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?’

I looked up as one of the punk-rockers flopped into the seat opposite me. Like a hormonal teen, I gaped.

She smiled. ‘I’m talking about the river down there, Casanova.’ She tapped the window.

‘Oh,’ I blushed. ‘Yeah, sure is. It’s wide though.’

‘The widest around.’

‘Hmm,’ I shook my head. ‘The Amazon’s the widest in the world. This one’s big, sure, but –’

The girl threw her head back and laughed. ‘In the world…ha! You’re a funny one, Evans.’

How did she –?

‘ – know your name?’ Her smile dropped. ‘We know most things, Evans. Although –’ she tapped the window again, frowning. ‘We’ll admit that we don’t know why those fools even bother trying to swim across. This bridge is the only way since the boat sunk. But the people down there? They just don’t get it; you simply cannot swim across this river. We’ve been watching some of them try for years to swim the Acheron but –’

I froze. ‘What did you call it?’

Her dark smile returned. ‘The Acheron, Evans. The first of the Five.’

My hands were clammy. My head hurt and my beanie was soaked in water.

In blood Evans; your beanie is drenched in blood.

‘The Five?’ I asked meekly.

The girl held up a smooth, pale hand. She raised a finger for each point. ‘Acheron…Styx…Phlegethon…Cocytus… and Lethe.’

‘Impossible,’ I whispered. ‘You’re having me on....’

‘Impossible?’ The girl laughed, her eyes turning a deep purple. ‘Impossible was the speed Pratibha hooked that corner at. How he thought he could make it is beyond us.’

Slowly, I reached for the top of my beanie. My fingers came away red.

‘You mean…?’

‘Yuh-huh, we sure do.’ She grinned. ‘Welcome to the Underworld, Evans. Uncle Hades can’t wait to meet you!’