Trains and Strangers

The yellow-green landscape flashed by my window in a painted smear. Dark brown telephone poles make vertical flashes across the paned glass. If you focused on the smooth surface of the glass you could see long-forgotten hand prints from a child, or fingertips from people pointing at the colorful world outside. I traced a scratch with my nail and winced at the feeling beneath my finger.

As the train picked up the pace on open rails the landscape grew more and more smudged. The train was smooth and it allowed me to rest my head against the window or the back of the seat without being jostled around.

When I first saw the train on the outside, as I was standing at the station, I was worried about the condition inside. The outside of the train was spray-painted and the window frames had rusted and formed rust stains down the corners where the rain had flowed and pulled the rust from the seam between the frame and the train car. The crew that hopped out from the cars to welcome the passengers were dirty and covered in coal dust, like they had taken a bath in the engine.

But now as I sit in my cushioned seat and my own booth, I misjudged the outside. A tiny knock on the booth door shook me out of my shallow sleep. I stood up slowly, my knees aching all the way to the door.

I rolled it open with a smile plastered on my face. The service attendant was startled to see the door opened so fast. I felt bad for a moment but remembered I was supposed to have no feelings. I had already failed that half of the challenge. I clenched my fists in the folds of my dress.

"Can I get you anything?" The attendant asked, motioning to her cart, "A beverage, sweet, or a snack perhaps?" She rested her hands on her cart handle as she waited for my answer. She didn't have to wait long.

"No. Thank you." I said shortly, my smile still plastered on. The attendant smiled and pushed her cart along the short train car. I rolled the door shut a little harder than necessary. I winced and walked away from the door.

As soon as the bolt clicked my smile fell and I flopped into my seat. My head hit the side of the window and I cringed away. I put my hand on the spot that hit the window and leaned my head against the headrest. I didn't fall asleep, although I wanted to, much more than I wanted to be on the train. I wanted to sleep in my comfortable bed in my apartment. I wanted to not be on my way to-

I was pulled out of my shallow sleep again when another, more harsh, knock sounded on the door. I sighed and stood up, crossing the booth in three small steps. I paused before I opened the door to pull on a smile and lower my breathing.

The door rolls open without making a sound and I take a step back at what I find on the other side. My breath catches in my throat and I suddenly can't feel my knees. My grip on the door tightens and I hope that it doesn't roll any farther. I keep my face friendly and open.

"Hello, how can I help you?" I ask easily, my voice light. The person on the other side of the threshold doesn't say anything, but instead holds up a gun to my head. I take a gulp but keep my smile plastered on my face.

"You do something for me and you don't die. You don't comply, you die." They smile, perfect straight teeth and blue eyes behind a mask.

Somewhere in the same train car, a man gets a strange sensation on the back of his neck. Not the kind that says "someone is watching you" or the kind that tells you if there's a car running up behind you. But the kind that makes you feel like you know something is going to happen, but not when or where.

He stands up and tucks his newspaper under his arm and rolls the cabin door open and steps out of the threshold. He comes nose to nose with the barrel of a gun and freezes where he stands. The newspaper falls out from his arm and it hits the floor with a disappointing flop.

"Excuse me?" He asks, putting his hands up in front of him, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. The girl just a few feet away stands with a silly smile on her face, her hands limp at her sides as if she wasn't disturbed at all. But the way her hands were clenching and unclenching in the folds of her dress told a different story. She was clearly distressed. The man's strange feeling from a few minutes ago had been correct.

"Back into your booth sir." The voice at the other end of the gun says, cocking the gun, "Or it's gonna get gross." The person's voice was distorted and ugly. The man wondered why they would choose something so horrible for a train robbery. The man shrugged it off, though not physically, he didn't feel like losing his life today.

"But what about the young woman over there?" He asked, barely motioning to her with his hands, still held up in front of him. The person merely moved the gun closer. He could hear their leather gloves tightening on the handle. The man paled, beads of sweat dropping down his nicely tailored dress shirt and onto the cool skin on his back.

"As you wish." The man said, stepping back and rolling the booth door closed. The newspaper lay open at the person's feet open to the front page, where, ironically, a picture of the duo that's attacking the car currently, stares up at the train car ceiling with horrible faces and guns raised like they sent in the picture themselves, as if they posed for it and sent it to the newspaper themselves. No one got the chance to see anyway.

With a couple of gunshots, the newspaper was splattered with deep crimson blood and the man cowered in his booth, waiting to hear the cry of the woman. Instead he heard another gunshot. More crimson blood joined the drops already on the newspaper. The man wished he had picked a better car to be in.

Outside, the woman dropped all of the bullets out of the revolver and threw it into her booth, rolling the door closed with a slam. She hoisted her bags over her shoulder and rolled open the man's door.

He was surprised to see a woman with blood stains on her beige dress and her hands and face.

"Do you mind if I ride with you until the next station?" She asked, hesitating by the threshold. The man thought for a moment. She had just murdered two men. So what if they were going to kill them? She was a murderer. He shouldn't trust her, but either way, he let her ride in his booth with him.

"Thank you sir." She said, and cautiously stowed her bag in the overhead compartment. She rummaged through it for a moment before she closed the compartment door. She pulled out a shiny object, which the man thought was a pocket mirror, but when he heard the trigger cock, he was ready to jump off the moving train.

"I can't have any witnesses, I apologize." She aimed and shot. Just before the man lost consciousness, he could see the look of pain flash across her eyes as she tucked her gun in a hidden pocket in her dress.

The yellow-green landscape flashed by my window in a painted smear. Dark brown telephone poles make vertical flashes across the paned glass. If you focused on the smooth surface of the glass you could see long-forgotten hand prints from a child, or fingertips from people pointing at the colorful world outside.