Final Train To Nowhere

Final Train for Nowhere

Sitting next to the window, I glanced down at my I-Phone 13 Pro Max, it reads 1522. I’ve still got 8 minutes till this thing is supposed to pull out, I’m not what one would call, confident in this train’s punctuality. Amtrack, not known for being timely.

This day is an exceedingly overcast one, with thunderclouds gliding through the air, they dump heavy downpours on the entire area. Normally, there are very few days of rain, at least, not the day-long kind. But quite a bit of my life has been filled with thunderstorms of one type or the other.

I’m sitting and minding my own business, looking out into the rainy day, ruminating on past events, the last of my fellow travelers ambling their way onboard. I let my mind wander for the several minutes before the train decides to move. This is going to be one long, slow ride. Another gentleman sat close to me, and we strike up a conversation.

“Afternoon, sir,” Armani said.

“And to you, my friend.”

“What might be your destination on this day?” he asked.

“To the end… as far as it goes… to my final destination.”

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, dark hair, clean shaven, heading up to Newark as well. His hair, every strand perfectly placed, an Armani suit, and boots that must have cost a couple of thousand by themselves. He was sociable, almost, too sociable. I could sense something off with him.

I kept him in constant view, turning back to my window as I returned to watching out the train. Stormy Weather by Ella Fitzgerald, the 1961 version, came to my mind as I allowed the visual of the rainy afternoon to soak into my soul.

 My life is a living Amtrack itself. It seems I’ve always had a schedule to keep, people were always riding on my back, and not in a good way, and I’ve always been behind schedule. Oh yeah, and everyone always complained about myself and my methods, and I’ve constantly been a truly losing business proposition.

The time of change, of new location, of new job, and of new identity, have about come to fruition. I spent a large portion of my life stationed here in Palatka, Florida. I traveled all over the country, and sometimes overseas stalking, surveying, to end a variety of chapters in this life.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time perusing this small mill town of a city called Palatka, and its surrounding area, getting to know quite a few of the locals. But here I sit, my final train ride just pulling out on a last journey, on another rainy downpour day, as I sit looking at the passing scenery through a dirty Amtrack window.

While in Palatka, I met a young lady at the local Walmart, who really got my interest. We went out several times, but the reality of it is, I’m not exactly cut out for a private life, and especially not a dating life. Why may you ask?  Well, first, I’m a serial killer. So, there’s that.

So even though my deceased young bride understood, and overlooked my occupation, most relationships would hit a snag if one party was a killer. Of course, I could have attempted to keep it hidden, but I wondered just how long I could keep that skeleton locked in the closet.

And there are only really two times when it’s okay to lie. One is to spare someone’s feelings, and the other is when killing is involved. If you think it through, surely there’s a certain level of lying involved with any murder.

There are other reasons for my staying unattached emotionally, most of which I won’t share. Because this train is wheeling out of the station, finally. The first couple of stops, shouldn’t be too bad.  

Jacksonville, Florida is the first station, and it takes my mind back to the first time, for killing that is. Boy, that was a messy one. I was young, raw-boned, and inpatient with my technique. Thank goodness I’ve improved my methods over the years, I suppose practice really does make perfect.

The stay at the Jax station was a bit longer than most but I still nearly missed the train taking off thanks to my bathroom break. We were losing daytime and soon it would be gone for this trip, but the dark clouds kept following me, bringing the heavy rain.

My ride on the Amtrack will be done before you know it. As I begin recalling the life I’ve lived, it will seem too short, too tragic, too, final.

The next two stations were in Georgia. The stops were only 5-7 minutes each. No time for bathroom sightseeing at either one of these. I was good without a break anyway. The young man I mentioned earlier, well, he had a slightly perceptible bulge to the left side of his Armani coat. I knew by his overly cordial manner, he was to be the harbinger of the final destination.

The next four stations were all in South Carolina. The last one, in Florence, has a 10-minute stop. I’ll take advantage to stretch out my legs and step off the train for just a few. My deceased wife was born not far from Florence, and she had been the last of her siblings to pass.

I buried her here, never having returned till this trip, in this never-ending storm. All my family were still located in Florida. We’d lost contact after I became a widow, and the memories of them was all I kept. I suppose it’s my penance.  

As we passed through North Carolina and the two stations through here on the journey, the storms still chased after my Amtrack, spatting my window as though punishing it for some misdeed from the past. And God knows, I’ve done quite a bit that deserved punishment.

I’ve kept a cabin in this state for a get-a-way whenever I needed to lay low, my safe house, immediately after I would complete a contract. But I believe I’ll never be needing it again after this train ride.

The next state on my journey is Virginia, which has four additional stations to pass through. Richmond, the second of the four, brings back memories of quite a few contracts, mostly in my thirties. I stepped off the train in Richmond for another stretch and to confirm my theory, which proved correct.

I walked around the corner as though I was headed to the restrooms and zipped around a second corner to speed around the train, get on a few cars back of my original car, and quickly went all the way through to my seat again. No young gentleman to be seen.

A few moments just before our train departed, here enters Armani, wet, disheveled, casting those dark eyes suspiciously around the inside of the cart. Even his perfectly groomed hair, now soaked from the rain, yelled, “I hate you,” as he plopped into his seat. His boots had acquired a bit of mud from the platform.

I turned toward my window again as a sardonic smile creased across my face. It seems even the storm was getting a kick out of my ploy, the pounding against the window seems to have changed from angry hammering to thunderous applause. This train ride has become somewhat enjoyable at last.

Our station we came to as we left Virginia was the infamous Union Station in Washington, DC. The sun had risen just a bit ago, and I am still sitting and watching it’s results out my window. There was a stream of rainwater tapping in rhythm along both edges of the frame, so I kept conjuring up songs to the beat in my mind, songs from over the years coming to me.

I caught the eye of Armani and gave a polite nod and a small smile. He returned the gesture, without the smile.

“I suppose you’re the one I’ve been expecting, yes?” I asked

“You could say that. I hope it’s not a surprise.”

“No, I recognized your position when we first laid eyes on one another. My apologies for my leading you into the rain.”

“I was a bit put out at first, but I was told you enjoyed some bit of jokes, so I shouldn’t have been caught off guard. My bad.”

I leaned further back in my seat, turning my head to face out the window again. The train seemed as though it was trying to set a new time record for this route. Our next stop was Baltimore, Maryland, and after it would be Wilmington, Delaware. Neither stop was eventful, much like my overall life.

My final train’s journey was nearing the end. The upcoming station is in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the City of Brotherly Love. This city was the one municipality my wife had loved to visit. Personally, I’ve never been fond of it ever since I learned how they attacked Santa here at a sporting event some years ago. If you’re gonna attack St. Nick, a little hate is to be expected. Talk about a tough room, geez.

At 10:22 AM, we pulled into Penn Station at Newark, New Jersey. I was still looking out the train window and it took me a couple of minutes before I realized, the rain had dissipated and the clouds were trying to escape, like a jail break from Shawshank Prison as though they realized my final train ride was upon me.

I look over to Armani and give him a slight nod, we stand as one, as though our timing was choreographed, and I wave my left arm in a you first motion. He accepted my invitation, and we strolled off the train. No words were spoken as we walk about a hundred yards, give or take, along a sidewalk away from the train.

There in front of us lies a pedestrian tunnel leading to a park. Two men enter, and after a couple of minutes, only Armani is seen casually exiting the tunnel, wiping his hands on a handkerchief, cleaning something dark and sticky, from his hands.