Death Ride

by Sebastyen Dugas

  Things are getting out of hand; I have to move fast. I don’t have time to analyze; I have to take action.

  I say a few words to my new fellow traveler, but as expected, he doesn’t answer.

  His mouth is sewn shut.

  I have to find people who haven’t got their lips tied yet, especially knowing that I won’t be able to talk soon.

  The passengers surrounding me are devoid of any emotion. No one on this train will help me understand what is going on.

  I must find out for myself.

  Another flash of lightning, and more pronounced murmurs. This time, I have no more doubts.

  Those are human voices.

  Even if at the moment I can't decipher what's being said, I know that this is it.

  I don't know where they're coming from, but I know they're coming from the outside. None of the passengers talk that way. In any case, they are motionless, and most of them have their lips sealed. They're like cows on their way to the slaughterhouse. I'm the only one who doesn't accept his fate.

  But I'm not the only one who's afraid.

  I'm startled when I see that the window has moved closer to me.

  I can hardly contain my morbid curiosity about this window. I still don't know what I'm going to do if it gets close enough so that I can put my arm or my head through it.

  I don't know what's on the other side. It may be my salvation or my demise.

  A twist of fate.

  My seatmate is blocking my path. I'll have no choice but to step over him if I decide to cross over.

  To throw myself into the vacuum.

  We're heading north, now I know for sure.

  The air has cooled so much that I'm afraid I'll freeze to death if I stay here.

  On the other hand, I'm not gasping for breath like I was at the start. I'm breathing better even though I'm suffering more and more.

  At the beginning, I only felt pain when there was lightning. Now it's permanent.

  Ironically, my mind is much sharper. My thoughts are clearer.

  The guy next to me is breathing heavily, as if he is anxious.

  As if he, too, anticipates danger.

  Can he read my thoughts? Is that why he's agitated?

  No, that's ridiculous.

  I put my hand close to his shoulder, but I can't feel any solid matter.

  Like he's a hologram.

  But he looks so real.

  “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I can hear you.”

  I instinctively recoil when I hear him talk.

  That man sounds just like my father.

  “What's the meaning of this? Do you know where we're going?”

  “Yes, I know where we're going.”

  Holy shit. At last.

  “So where are we going?" I ask, failing to hide my excitement.

  “There,” he says, pointing towards himself with his chin.

  His lips are still held together by a big, ragged thread. But he's able to articulate words effortlessly.

  It's astonishing.

  Why does he have the same voice as my father?

  I understand less and less what's going on. I'm surrounded by ghostly zombies.

  Half the people on board have no life in them, the other half are in obvious psychosis, and a few have their eyes sewn shut.

  A second layer of thread binds my lips. Only two-thirds of my mouth remain intact.

  Time is running out.

  The lookout comes back at us like a centaur, his orbits filled with flames.

  I take my chances facing the man next to me.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  This doesn’t make any sense. Why would my father be here with me? Why weren’t we originally sitting together? Why can’t I touch him?

  I’m playing along.

  “What’s going on? What are we doing here?”

  “But—we’re taking a train north, what do you think?”

  “I’ve never boarded this train—”

  “Of course, you did, since you’re here.”

  I don’t understand any of this gibberish. My mind is playing tricks on me. That’s not my father. I can’t touch him, so it’s just a figment of my imagination.

  I’m delirious.

  The window is closer now. It’s directly in front of me, and I’m feeling lifted by an occult strength.

  I can no longer look away from it. I have only one goal in mind; to get in.

  That’s clear. It’s my escape.

  The flashes of light increase as the window gets closer, but I no longer blink. My eyes have adapted to them.

  However, my body hurts like hell, and my head is about to explode.

  I have to stay focused, despite my face disfigured with pain, and seize the right moment to slip through the window.

  I firmly grasp the back of the seat in front of me, so I don’t fly away, I no longer touch the seat underneath me, I’m hanging in the air, just like the lookout.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see him flying over the hallway once again to get next to me. Only this time, he looks straight at me with his incandescent eyes.

  He stays clear.

  We play cat and mouse together. He doesn’t grab his whip; he tries nothing suspicious.

  He just looks at me.

  The window moves next to me on my left. All that separates me from it is the ghost pretending to be my father.

  I lose my grip from the bench and am pushed against the window by an unstoppable power.

  The pain going through my body is unbearable. I’m distraught by the esoteric strength crushing me against the window ledge.

  I’ve never been in so much pain in my life.

  The suffering is such that I lose all feeling in my limbs.

  I will die for sure.

  I’m in too much pain, I’m too cold.

  It’s winter outside. It’s freezing. If I go out, I’ll die of hypothermia in a few minutes.

  I’ve been told it’s one of the most painful ways to die, just like being burned or drowned.

  The blinding flashes follow one another like an infernal kaleidoscope, and voices get increasingly clear, but not enough to understand what is being said.

  Probably a foreign language.

  Because of the echoes, I can’t tell if they are voices from several people or only one.

  I can’t rule out the possibility that it’s my voice that resonates in my skull.

  I gradually lose my mind.

  I’m going crazy.

  I’m going insane.

  I hear a high-pitched, muffled noise ringing out at regular intervals. I never noticed them before.

  It becomes harder and harder to overcome the force that pulls me outwards.

  I reach into my deepest resources to fight it.

  So, I don’t go out the window.

  I push as hard as I can with my elbows against the wall above the window to get out of my predicament, but I know it won’t do much good.

  I’m just delaying the unavoidable.

  I yell for help, but nobody moves; the lookout is still watching me, floating in the air, with no reaction.

  My throat hurts. I can barely breathe, as if my windpipe is clogged up.

  A few thick threads were added, so my mouth is half sewn up.

  I beg the guard to help me.

  “You want to jump? Jump,” he says through his deep voice.

  No, I don’t want to jump; you don’t understand. It’s the other way around, I want to stay.

  I want to stay.

  “Help me, don’t just stand there,” I shout with all my might.

  “Jump,” he hollers with a twitching fury on his face.

  The lower half of my body is off the train, and the pain in my legs is excruciating. It feels like my torso will tear apart from my legs.

  I’m still hanging on, but I’m wearing out fast.

  I’m stunned to see that all the passengers are looking at me. And e
ven though they have no expression on their faces, I hear them laughing profusely.

  A cacophonous and collective laugh, like a crow’s mocking scream.

  Even those with sewn eyes stare at me and laugh.

  “Help me,” I shout loudly.

  But all they do is laugh.

  They are laughing like crazy. They never laughed so hard in their lives.

  I look at the man who pretends to be my father, and for the first time, I can see him.

  The face isn’t my father’s, but I recognize the familiar, caring look on his face.

  He’s the only one not laughing.

  An incomprehensible clamor builds up, like an incantation. Everyone on board says the same thing, but I can’t hear what they’re chanting.

  “Help me,” I say again weakly, without really believing it.

  I can tell that no one will help me. They’re curious to see what I’m going to do. What will happen when I’ll vanish out the window.

  The pain is too sharp, I can’t take it anymore. I should have lost consciousness a long time ago, but by a cruel twist of fate, I’m still awake and I feel all the fragments of this immeasurable pain.

  This abysmal suffering no human should ever experience.

  Now I understand what the passengers have been saying repeatedly for the last few minutes.

  On the same note, on the same tempo.

  Like a metronome.

  “Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.”

  I find the strength to ask them for mercy one last time.

  “I don’t want to jump, I want to live. Please help me. I’m begging you, help me.”

  My voice is lost in the brouhaha, the train racket, and the lookout’s guttural laughter.

  I know that no one will help me, and that I have only a few seconds left before I disappear into oblivion.

  I will leave this train forever.

  That’s all I wanted when I first woke up on the slimy wagon floor.

  And now that I finally get the chance, I want to stay inside.

  I didn’t know better, but I was fine in there, despite the mystery.

  At least I wasn’t in agony.

  The more I slip out of the window, the more inhuman is the pain.

  I’m going crazy. I can no longer bear this suffering tearing me apart, as if a conveyor was breaking every bone in my body over and over again.

  I hear a long, muffled howl. I have no idea where it comes from.

  After a few seconds, I realize that I’m the one screaming.

  The guard bends over to get close to me. Looking relaxed.

  “You’re not ready. You must jump,” he says in a soft voice.

  I can’t talk anymore.

  Not ready? Not ready for what exactly?

  I watch him helplessly while the rest of the passengers carry on with their cynical chanting.

  The lookout laughs so hard again that his face turns scarlet. His mouth is wide open, showing three rows of teeth.

  It’s dreadful. What is this monster?

  I’m baffled.

  Baffled by this gargantuan, horrible animal of a lookout.

  Baffled by what’s lurking outside.

  Baffled by this mystery I can’t unravel.

  “We’ll meet again,” the lookout tells me before standing up.

  I hope not.

  The lightning flashes follow one another at breakneck speed, and I feel my mind sink into the abyss.

  Out of strength, I let go.

  I know that death is awaiting me on the other side like a treacherous villain. I just don’t know if I’ll die in agony or if it will happen quickly.

  I can’t stand the pain anymore. The lightning bolts give way to a constant blinding light.

  I no longer have the strength to fight. I no longer have the strength to doubt.

  Death will be liberating.

  I feel myself sinking into the most absurd madness, and for the first time I burst out laughing like those passengers on the train.

  Like the monstrous guard.

  Jump. Jump. Jump.

  I giggle as I say that mantra out loud repeatedly.

  I stretch out my arms and close my eyes.

  The die is cast.

  I’m sucked in by the powerful force against which I have valiantly struggled for what seems like hours.

  I swirl around at lightning speed as I watch the glowing window move away.

  I’m still laughing even though the pain is getting worse. I embrace it as if it were a blessing.

  I welcome my suffering as though I deserve it.

  I embrace my fate.

  I embrace death.

  I don’t understand why I don’t pass out. Isn’t the human brain supposed to protect itself from excessive pain? Why does mine remain awake?

  As I twirl in the abyss, I feel my body awakening. I didn’t realize it had gone so numb for so long.

  But now I can feel every inch of my body. My limbs are about to tear off, my head is blowing up, my heart is pounding out of my chest.

  I’m about to puke.

  My head is spinning. I have the worst migraine in the history of mankind.

  I’m dying.

  What’s taking so long? How much longer will I spin around like a cheap rag doll before I’m freed from my misery?

  How long will I toss and turn, screaming and laughing my head off before something happens?

  The intense light blinds me and almost burns my retinas. The mumbles intensify, as do the beeps.

  I scream, but I hear nothing except for the wind in my ears from the fall. Nothing but the shrill laughter of the passengers and that clamor:

  Jump. Jump. Jump.

  My windpipe is narrowed, and I can’t produce any sound.

  I’ve always feared death, but I never thought it would be so horrible, never thought it would be so frightening.

  I’m cold. So much so that my body is convulsing. My back is freezing.

  Like I’m lying on a block of ice.

  I want to quit; I want to faint. For God’s sake, please let me go. Let me lose consciousness.

  Make it stop.

  In a blessed last breath, I open my eyes wide and I see three immense blazing suns with unbelievable power.

  The infamous light you’re supposed to see when you die.

  I’m there, at last.

  I instinctively turn my head to my left, and I see my father, unconscious, his face covered with blood.

  Someone is putting a light white blanket over his head.

  And that’s when I finally feel like I will lose contact with reality.

  My body goes even more numb, my head gets heavier. I’ll finally lose consciousness. I will finally stop suffering.

  Just before I pass out, I hear a relieved voice say:

  “It’s all right, he’s back. We saved him.”

  Stockholm

  Thanks for reading Death Ride. I hope you enjoyed it.

  As a thank you, I give you the first four chapters of my novel Stockholm already available on Amazon.

  After the chapters, I’ll leave a link to get the book.

  Here’s the story synopsis:

  What happens when a man wants to protect the woman he secretly desires from a danger she doesn't know about?

  A series of events that are likely to end very badly.

  Jimmy Carrera has long been in love with Laura Labelle, a famous actress. But when he finds out that her life is in danger, he can't just sit there and do nothing.

  He must act, even if it is against all odds.

  A captivating story with unexpected ramifications. Who's the good guy, who's the bad guy?

  Can an actress play one last role to save her life?

  Isn't there a greater frustration in life than when no one believes you?

  When reality and fiction blend together to create an explosive cocktail. One can come out of it alive but will be scarred forever.

  1

  Jimmy Carrera was circling in his apartment
in the Villeray neighbourhood. He couldn’t stand to wait any longer. Every day around 5:00 pm, it was like hell. The endless minutes remaining to see actress Laura Labelle on-screen and discovering the fate awaiting her was unbearable. He recorded each of the episodes and analyzed them in depth afterwards. He dissected every word, every movement of the protagonists of the TV show “Madeleine’s Crazy Adventure.” Analyzing Laura’s facial expressions, those of her game partners. He wanted to decipher the subtle messages, the secret messages.

  He thought it was ridiculous to fall in love with an actress because of the role she was playing in fiction, but it was involuntary: he had a crush on her. She disturbed him so much that he was intimidated to see her on-screen or on a picture. He didn’t talk about his love for her with anyone for fear of being ridiculed, even though several people had discovered that he was smitten by her.

  Everything was fine until Jimmy detected very subtle signs that convinced him that the young actress was in danger. All the elements Jimmy had analyzed were crystal clear. He could read the subtext: someone was trying to eliminate Laura, to humiliate her.

  Jimmy looked at the wall lined with pictures and articles about Laura on his left. She was beautiful.

  He knew everything about her and her role as Martine. He had kept all the articles, interviews, everything he could find about her. He consulted the beautiful actress’s Instagram and Facebook accounts several times a day.

  He had tried to establish ties with her, but had not been successful. But that was normal—lots of fans were trying to get close to her because she was so popular. She couldn’t answer everyone. He had received some terse responses from her, but he was convinced that they had been written by the team that managed her social media accounts.

  The important thing was the love he had for her. His obsession meant he knew her from top to bottom, as you would a sister, a brother, or a lover.

  From the start, Jimmy had been content to look at her from a distance, refusing to interfere with her life, staying away. Except this time, it was different. He still didn’t want to meddle with her life—he didn’t want to look like a freak—but he couldn’t let things go, sitting there with his arms crossed while she was in tremendous danger. And it certainly wasn’t that idiot François Béliveau, his alleged lover, who was going to take care of her. François was far too full of himself, far too busy taking stupid selfies and polluting his Instagram account.