Death Ride
Sebastyen Dugas
Contents
Death Ride
Stockholm
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Stockholm Book page
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About the Author
Also by Sebastyen Dugas
I wake up.
Immersed in darkness for what feels like an eternity, I gradually recover my senses.
My eyes don’t yet adjust to the ambient light. I squint to see clearer around me.
I lay on the floor of something that looks like a train. The rancid smell coming from it rips out my nostrils.
The floor is dark, dirty, and sticky and hasn’t been washed for at least a few decades.
I have no recollection of ever boarding this train. I don’t know why I’m here.
I also don’t remember what I did the days before.
How long have I been lying in the dark? Hours, weeks, months?
Years.
My most recent reminiscence is when I was driving my car, but it feels like an eternity ago. I can’t remember where I was heading, but I know I was driving.
And now here I am on this train. What happened in between?
Total mystery.
My hands are covered with shattered glass. Shards have punctured my skin. It’s like I walked through a glass door.
I remove them one by one, expecting sharp pain, but to my astonishment, I feel nothing. I remove more.
Same thing.
I’m amazed that I’m not numbed by the poor posture I was in when I woke up. I should be sore all over, but I feel fine. As if I slept in a comfortable bed.
There are passengers sitting quietly around me, looking straight ahead. They are barefoot and each wear black burlap pants and T-shirts. Everyone is dressed the same.
Including me.
Their feet are as dirty as my hands. The same black powder. The same shattered glass.
They don’t care about me. For them, someone lying in the middle of the walkway is normal.
I try to get up, but I can’t. I don’t feel like I have any strength in my arms and legs.
It is normal I suppose if I was unconscious for several days or weeks. The muscles need time to recover.
Anyone coming out of a prolonged coma will tell you that.
It takes a lot of effort to lift my trunk, so I can see more of my surroundings.
Trying to grab the attention of these lethargic passengers.
The man to my left has no facial expression, as if he is sleeping with his eyes open.
He’s in his mid-fifties.
He looks straight ahead without blinking. A resigned look on his face.
No fear.
The man seems to know why he’s on this train. I wish I did, too.
Am I the only one who doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing here?
No one speaks even though the wagon is full. The only sound is the deafening clatter of the wheels from this freight train aiming at an undisclosed destination.
The ceiling lights shudder from the impact of the rails, illuminating all the passengers with a ghastly glare.
Why are our feet and hands so dirty? As if we’d stepped in ashes before embarking.
I crawl to the nearest vacant seat and climb up onto it, tapping into my inner strength.
I have to pull myself together. I need to know what I’m doing here. Who are these people? Where are we going?
Why do they all look like shit?
I’m startled by a popping sound coming from behind. I look back, but I see nothing unusual, except for other amorphous-faced passengers.
They look like zombies.
I observe the passengers hoping that one of them will look back at me, but they don’t.
I feel like the only toy still alive in a ruined shop.
I would like someone to notice my helplessness and comfort me. Someone to tell me that everything will be all right. Someone to tell me what we’re doing on this train and that it all makes sense.
So, I can relax too.
No one’s looking at me, no one’s giving me much attention.
As I was lying on the floor, tapping into my energy reserves to get up and sit down, no one inquired whether I was okay. Nobody cared, it was every man for himself.
This is like riding on a subway in a major city at rush hour, on those impersonal trains where no one knows who others are. Where no one cares about anyone.
Others are merely an abstract mass. They are only there, so we don’t feel alone.
In cities where everyone lives in oppressive closeness. We have never been so many people on earth, and we have never been so alone.
There’s a huge, filthy compass on a ledge on the ceiling in front of me.
Struggling, I distinguish that the arrow is pointing north. The train is heading in that direction at breakneck speed.
Why north? What’s there? Maybe the compass is defective?
That’s fine, but I still don’t know what the heck I’m doing on this mysterious convoy.
Hypotheses spin around in my mind at a frantic pace.
The most plausible theory I can come up with is that I’m amnesiac. Yet, I remember my name, and I recall a fairly recent past.
If I have amnesia, then it’s rather recent.
I try very hard to remember the moment I stepped on the train, but I can’t.
I look in my pockets for a clue, a piece of paper that would point to where I was before, but they are empty.
No wallet, no ID card and above all no train tickets.
Surprisingly, none of the passengers are staring at their mobile phones or reading newspapers, which is astonishing these days.
I assume that they too have empty pockets since they are wearing the same clothes as me.
I notice that there are no suitcases, as if everyone’s living the same nightmare as me, and they don’t know where we’re going either.
I freak out when I see all the passengers have shaved heads. Like in concentration camps.
I run my hand over the top of my head, and I too am baldheaded.
What on earth is all this bullshit, for Christ’s sake?
Are we heading for an insane asylum?
Why don’t the others freak out like I do? Why are they defeated? Unless I think I’m moving around whilst I’m as stationary as the rest? However, I see my arms moving; I went from the hallway floor to this seat a few minutes ago. Surely, I haven’t been dreaming all this time?
I study the stare of the people near me, noticing no anguish in their eyes. Only haggard, glassy eyes. I would rather see them panicking, or at least sense some anxiety in their blank stares.
They must be high on drugs. There’s no other explanation.
These people are intoxicated.
If they are, so I should be, too. Yet I’m alert and in complete control of my thoughts.
I don’t have the luxury of losing my mental abilities. I have to find out what I’m doing on this damn train and weigh my options.
I close my eyes as I dig into my memory to recall something recent.
My latest recollection.
But it all comes back to this image of me driving with a passenger seated next to me.
I can’t recall who it was.
It’s vague, like trying to see through a fog.
I can’t remember where we were going. I was just there.
With someone else.
And what does that memory have to do with anything, with this train? These clothes I’ve never seen in my life and that I don’t remember putting on?
The carriage is immersed in darkness for long se
conds. Only a faint glow from the exterior illuminates the silhouette of the surrounding people.
There’s a man sitting next to me who couldn’t care less about me. I put my hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t react. He doesn’t even blink.
He’s like a wax statue.
I lean over to look out the window, but I can’t see through because it’s so dirty.
All I can see are shades of white and yellow moving in a nonchalant ballet.
Even though I do everything I can to remain calm, I’m increasingly frightened.
Something will have to make sense soon. Otherwise I’ll go crazy.
If I’m not already mad.
The wagon lights up again. I’m the only one squinting.
No matter how much I think about it, I don’t remember making any travel plans.
I don’t remember buying a train ticket.
With all the stuff I have to do at work, I never have time to take a few days off. Heading to God knows where.
I have so much to deal with daily at work and in my personal life that I sometimes end up at one place in the house without remembering why I went there, let alone what I’m supposed to do.
On the other hand, I never put on clothes without being aware of it. Even less have I ever put on clothes that don’t belong to me.
My rambling is interrupted by a shadow in the distance. Hope mixed with apprehension rises in me.
From where I stand, I believe it to be a man of great stature walking quietly down the corridor between the two rows of seats.
He looks from left to right, quietly, like a train ticket inspector checking out passengers’ tickets.
The riders fail to react when the man is standing next to them, so that’s not it.
After a few seconds, he emerges more clearly. He walks nonchalantly with his hands behind his back.
He dominates because of his gigantic stature. I’ve never seen anyone so tall and imposing in my life. He’s so enormous that he has to bow his head, so he doesn’t hit it against the ceiling.
The fear he instills in me shuts me off, and I do what everyone else does: I keep quiet, looking forward, even though my heart is beating quick.
I should take advantage of the only other soul on board with full faculties to ask him where we’re going, what I’m doing here, and who these passengers are.
And why we’re all wearing the same clothes.
But I’m petrified.
At least he’s not wearing an army uniform. So, we’re not prisoners of war.
If that’s not it, then what? Are we being held hostage by a terrorist group?
When he gets to my side, he stops moving.
I know he’s watching me. He realizes I’m different from the others.
I stay calm, but my lips are trembling from fear. I dig deep into my soul, so I don’t breathe too hard or blink, even if my eyes burn with tears.
Then, he continues walking with heavy steps towards the back of the convoy. I can feel the jolt of his footsteps against my seat.
I close my eyes to ease the pain, but to my astonishment, no tears fall down my cheeks the way I would have expected.
I regret I said nothing. I’m still at the same point as before. I still don’t know what this is all about.
I watch the man next to me for a little longer, and something near his mouth catches my attention.
I move closer to get a better look, and good God, it’s impossible.
I instinctively place my hand over my mouth. I look away, disbelieving what I saw.
The man’s lips are stitched together with large black sewing thread. I look at other passengers, and they too have their lips sewn together.
With a trembling hand, I gently touch my lips, but feel nothing.
I push down my fingers vigorously, still no trace of stitching.
I open my mouth, and I’m relieved to find out that I can fit some fingers into it.
Someone forgot about me.
Yet another inconsistency I cannot explain.
I’m afraid because I don’t know when my turn will come. When will they sew my lips exactly?
I can only imagine the excruciating pain that comes from having your lips sewn so awkwardly together, and it gives me goose bumps.
I suppose the sewer is the huge guard pacing up and down the aisle.
I don’t know who he is or what his role in this is.
I wonder if he’s alone.
Well, of course, he’s not alone. Somebody’s driving this train. But besides those two, are there any other people I should suspect? Others whose purpose is to keep us captive.
Even though my survival instinct urges me to stay put, not to move, not to draw attention to myself, curiosity drives me nuts.
What the hell am I doing here? Where the hell are we going? The same questions from the beginning, but still no sign of an answer.
Anyway, now I know why no one’s talking. Those awful messy seams, the work of someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.
I move my trembling hand near the shoulder of my seat neighbor, who is still looking straight ahead. His stomach doesn’t budge as it would with a normal breathing rhythm.
I could swear he’s not breathing. But that’s impossible. Although he’s lethargic, he’s alive.
I’ve seen corpses in my life, and he’s not one of them.
I gently touch his shoulder. No reaction. I push him harder, and although he rocks slightly to his right; he comes back to his starting position, as if nothing had happened.
Irritated, I firmly grab his shoulder in the palm of my hand, and this time he lowers his head to look at my grip. Just as I think he will finally look me in the eye, he glances ahead again.
As if he wanted to find out what touched his shoulder, and when he saw my hand, he didn’t care.
What puzzles me, however, is the coldness of his skin. The poor man must be completely frozen.
“Are you all right, sir?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
Complete silence.
“Do you speak English?”
Still nothing.
I sigh as I lean back against my seat. I’m helpless. I have no other choice but to poke the behemoth man and hope it doesn’t backfire.
I feel like he’s checking to make sure no one moves. That we are obedient sheep.
I hear his heavy stride coming from behind. This is it. I will make a move. But as he passes by me, towering over me by at least two meters, I notice a huge whip wrapped around his belt behind his back.
I try to grab his attention, but no sound comes from my mouth. I’m terrified. My legs are weak, my hands are shaking.
I feel like throwing up.
When he gets at the end of the aisle, he pulls out his whip and smacks it violently in the air, then returns it to his belt, puts his hands back behind him and walks away.
I don’t get it. Why does he snap his whip when he reaches the end of the aisle? Is it a signal? Is it to hypnotize the passengers around me? If so, why does it have no effect on me?
After several minutes on this merry-go-round, wanting to talk to him, but keeping quiet for fear of having my mouth sewn shut, I can’t take it anymore, I have no choice.
Come what may.
He’s at the end of the corridor in front of me. He snaps his whip and makes a U-turn.
He puts his whip back behind him and resumes his loud walk.
As he approaches me, my throat tightens. Shit, I need to know what’s going on. Come on, you coward. You’re better off with your lips sewn shut than to ignore what this is all about.
“Excuse me,” I say, far too soft.
He doesn’t stop.
Even though I’m disappointed, at least I had the courage to speak up.
Several minutes later, I hear the whip again and the heavy strides coming back.
The more seconds go by, the louder the footsteps are, and I know he’s getting closer. Whe
n I sense that he’s close behind me, I raise my voice.
“Sir, excuse me!”
He goes on his way without flinching. Can’t anyone hear me? Am I mute?
I’m brushing my lips again, still no stitching.
The whiplash again. The guard is coming back.
I scream.
“Sir, for God’s sake, stop!”
He finally stops.
“Sir,” I say with a gasping voice, "I want to know where—”
But he resumes his lumpy walk as if he can’t figure out where the voice is coming from.
I’m so mad. I can’t take it anymore. At this point, I’m angrier than scared.
If it means that I must get up and stand in his way, I will.
I hear him coming back.
By now I figured out that after the whiplash, he needs thirty-one steps to get next to me when coming from behind of the train.
When he gets close to me again, I shout and throw my arms above my head.
“Stop!”
He halts.
This time, I look up at him, but he’s looking straight ahead. I nearly reach for him, but I freeze. Something’s holding me back. I’m afraid of what I might feel if I touch him.
Then he goes away again.
To hell with my fear, I’ll get up and stand in front of him as soon as he returns.
Crack your whip, you asshole. I’m waiting for you.
Once there are only three benches left between us, I push with my legs to get up, but, damn it, I can’t do it.
My legs won’t cooperate, I’m glued to my seat.
I curse loudly as he passes me, but he goes on with his stupid pace. His nagging gait annoys me to the utmost.
The whip slaps again. The steps restart. I close my eyes to concentrate.
I mustn’t miss this time.
Twenty-nine... Thirty... Thirty-one.
I take a deep breath and scream as loud as I can.
“STOP!”
The guard pauses and looks at me this time.
Shivers run down my spine as I realize he has no eyes. Only flames bursting out of his sockets.
He breathes like a wild beast.
I look at him because I need to know
“You can speak?” he asks with a deep voice.
Death Ride Page 1
