by Otaro Maijo
I settled down next to Emily. “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mention it,” she said, laughing. I’d always thought of her as just another famous nobody, but her stock had suddenly shot up in my book. Now that I was seeing her up close, I realized she was totally cute. Beautiful skin, beautiful hair, perfect makeup. Wonder how she did that? “We’re off!” shouted Fuyuki Moto, and the car lurched forward. “Where are we going?” I wondered aloud. “First stop, Chofu Station,” said Gucci. Chofu Station? Right smack into the middle of Armageddon? “Don’t worry,” Gucci reassured me. “They’ve moved on, and the middle school kids have all died or run away.” You’re kidding? “No, really.” Then Fuyuki Moto spoke up. “The road’s a little bumpy up ahead. Hang on, everybody!” What? DOKKON! DOKKON! A terrible jolt went through the car and its load of celebrities, as though we had run over something. We inched forward and then DOKKON! DOKKON! all over again. What was that? “Middler, I’m afraid. But don’t worry! They’re sturdy little fuckers.” Not that sturdy, I thought, not enough to survive that! “See,” said Fuyuki Moto, pointing out the back window. “Looks okay to me.” I turned around in time to see a kid about my age struggling to get back to his feet. When he was standing again, I could see it was a boy wearing a school uniform. He bent down to brush off his pants—and he was apparently unhurt. Fuyuki was right, middlers are tough. Super tough. DOKKON! DOKKON!…DOKKON! DOKKON! DOKKON! We raced off toward the station, plowing over kid after kid like so many bumps in the road. I leaned forward, poking my head between Gucci and Moto, and peered out through the windshield. The highway ran straight to the station, with bumps lined up as far as the eye could see. Most looked like middle school road kill from Armageddon, though there might have been a few adults mixed in. I kept an eye out for my brother, but it was kind of hard to make out faces. Then I saw a bus coming from the other direction, running over the bodies in the street just like we were. Were middle school kids bus-resistant? I somehow doubted it, but who knows. As the bus passed us, I scanned the faces of the passengers, hoping to find my brother. But no such luck. A moment later, we pulled into the roundabout in front of the station. It was completely quiet, no middle school kids or anyone else scattered on the ground. Nothing at all to mark the passing of Armageddon. Just Chofu Station, same as it always was—except with nobody going in or out or any sign of station staff. They must all still be hiding. I climbed out of the car, but nobody else followed me. Gucci rolled down the window on the passenger side. “You should head on down to City Hall in Shinjuku,” he said. “Everybody’s going to be there.” City Hall? Had somebody suddenly called a town meeting? And what, I asked, looking back at Gucci, was he going to do? “Daddy’s going to look for Governor Ishihara,” he said. The governor? Sorry about losing him. “Not your fault, Aiko,” Gucci said. “But are you going to be okay on your own?” Not really, I thought, but I didn’t see what good it would do to tell him that. “Should I just show up at City Hall and tell them I’m from Chofu?” “Sounds like a plan,” Gucci answered. “The folks in charge will tell you where to go.” Okay, got it, thanks. “Take care of yourself,” I said, and Gucci gave me one last well-tanned smile. “Don’t fret, sweetie. Looks like Armageddon won’t last much longer. See you, then,” he said. See you. And with that, the big black car stuffed with Gucci and Moto and Emily Henmi and the entire cast of Your Hit Parade made a quick circuit around the rotary and disappeared down the road.
What time was it? I checked my phone: still just five-thirty. Wonder what time the meeting would start? Anyway, might as well go buy a ticket. I went down into the undercroft that led to the ticket machines. A man was coming toward me in the narrow passage, but there was no one else around. Tense. With just the two of us in the whole place, I could hardly pass by without looking at him. It made me terribly nervous. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Keep your head down, just walk by, don’t look up. But as we were passing, he said, “Excuse me.” “Yes?” I said, looking up. What a truly gross guy! Shaggy hair, pale, geeky face, pink shirt tucked into geeky pants—and somehow strangely, geekily familiar? Where had I seen him before? No idea. Maybe I was just imagining it. Then I realized he looked just like Bondo Oki, another TV star, or what passes for one on the late-night network offerings.
“Is this the way to City Hall?” he asked.
“You’re headed in the right direction,” I said, “but you have to get back on the train. You’re only in Chofu.” Shit! We were going the same way. Oh well. It was a little lonely around here. The pink-shirted fellow just thanked me and turned to go, as though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Whatever. Who wanted to hang out with a geek, especially a gender-ambiguous one? The guy was pudgy, maybe even busty, with a little gold ring on “his” left hand. Maybe the guy was a girl? Or gay? Whatever. Gross.
As soon as I got up to the platform, a train pulled into the station, and there were actually some people on it. What a relief. Armageddon refugees? The train was one of those long-distance jobs, not the normal commuter version, with pairs of seats facing each other. I made my way down the aisle, checking out the other passengers—mostly parents with really noisy kids. The train started up before I could find a seat, and as I staggered through the car I wondered whether I should have stayed home to wait for my brother. Then for some reason it occurred to me that this might be some sort of special refugee train and that my brother might even be on it. But as I looked around almost expecting to see him, a woman’s voice came on the loudspeaker. “This is the 5:30 p.m. Hikari Express No. 336, bound for Tottori Prefecture,” she said. Shit! Somehow I’d got on the wrong train. This was a bullet train, heading west—the exact opposite direction from the commuter line that should have been taking me into town. Why hadn’t I realized right away? No Keio Line train has seats that face each other. But now what was I going to do? I’d have to get off at the next stop—though they might make me pay anyway. Did I have enough money if they did? I stopped in the aisle and took out my wallet—two thousand yen. Was that enough? Of course it wasn’t! This was no joke. I decided I needed to find the conductor and explain what had happened. Could I promise I’d send him the money later? Outside the window, the city was disappearing and we were racing through fields and rice paddies at bullet train speed. Shit, shit, SHIT! Had we already left Tokyo? Where were we? I reached the end of the aisle, slid open the door, and stood for a moment looking out the window in the compartment between cars. The cluster of skyscrapers in West Shinjuku was barely visible in the distance, across a wide expanse of fields. What the fuck? Whatever. I should at least try to reach my brother. He was probably home by now, waiting for me. I took out my phone and called him. He picked up right away. “Where are you?” he asked as soon as he heard my voice. “Sorry!” I yelled into the phone. “It’s AWFUL!” “What’s awful?” “I got on the wrong train!” “What do you mean? What train?” “I don’t know. I think we’re headed for Tottori!” “Tottori? Why are you going to Tottori? Do you have the money for the ticket?” “I don’t know! No! I’ve only got two thousand yen!” “Then how are you going to get back?” “I’m not GOING all the way to Tottori!” “Okay, but make sure they don’t catch you at the station. It could get pretty scary.” “What do you mean?” “A friend of mine got way out somewhere without a ticket and when they caught him they made him pay big time.” “You’re kidding. How much?” “You know how much they collect from the family when some suicide case throws himself in front of the train? Well, more than that!” “No shit?” “No shit! Two, three hundred million, at least.” I was starting to feel faint. But hold on a minute. My dad was Yuzo Gucci, right? A guy as famous as Gucci must have that kind of money stashed away somewhere. Or maybe not? Maybe not. Maybe we’d have to sell our house to cover the ticket. Whoa! “Whoa!” I said out loud. “You said it. So whatever you do, don’t let them catch you at the station!” “Okay, but what about the conductor on the train?” “That’s even worse. You’d better lock yourself in the toilet and wait until you get to the
next stop.” “Okay, I’ll try that,” I told him. Three hundred million was no laughing matter. I didn’t see how my brother or even Gucci himself could help me out of a jam like this. As I headed for the bathroom, I glanced back into the car. The conductor was stopped in the aisle talking to a girl—really more like an anime character than any girl I’d ever seen—and then she stood up and pointed in my direction. Shit, shit, SHIT! Shitty anime girl! Remind me to deal with her later. “Yes, Mr. Conductor, sir, I remember seeing somebody like that. She went that way…!” Fuck! And now Mr. Conductor, sir, was heading in my direction. Too late to hide in the bathroom here. I’d have to run through the next car and find another one. When I looked back to see if he was coming, I realized the conductor wasn’t really a conductor—now he looked more like a Mafia don, and he seemed to have a bunch of his boys following him through the car. Whoa! Maybe this was no ordinary Bullet train after all—it was starting to seem more like a trap, laid especially to catch…me! I ran through the door into the next car. Halfway down the aisle, I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the don and his muscle coming through the door. They were wearing flashy suits—Italian probably—and they were giving me the evil eye. When the don’s jacket fell open, I caught a glimpse of a gun strapped to his chest. Shit! If they catch me, I’m toast! At this point I realized I no longer cared what the people around me thought—and I was just noticing they were all foreigners, anyway. So I started screaming in English. “Help! Somebody help me! They’re trying to kill me! Call the police!” I thought my English was pretty good, but they just sat there staring at me like I was some geeky inscrutable Japanese person. Pretty cold. “Help! Please help me!” Still nothing, despite my best pronunciation. Were they just going to sit there and watch me get shot? I bolted down the aisle, through the door and the compartment between the cars, and into the next one beyond. But as I started down this new aisle, I realized there was another group of Mafioso coming at me from the other direction. I stopped and held up my hands. The first don and his thugs were coming up behind me. Totally screwed! I could feel my legs shaking and my knees beginning to buckle. But maybe there were too many witnesses? They couldn’t just shoot me right here in the aisle…could they? I still had a chance. “Somebody help me! Please!” I yelled again. But this time was different. I heard a noise and looked around to see a guy in a nice suit. “Get down!” he yelled, and I instantly hit the deck. There were three loud bangs and a spurt of blood, and then right above me I saw James Gandolfini with three bullet holes in his chest. He fell like a ton of bricks, and that great big gut of his came to rest on my right arm. Warm and heavy. I pulled free and pried his pistol out of his hand. Just then, the door slid open again and Tom Sizemore was standing there—and somehow it was suddenly obvious that Sizemore had been the Mafia don all along. I aimed my gun—Tony Soprano’s gun—and Sizemore aimed his back at me, an ugly grin spreading across his ugly mug. He obviously thought I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to fire. He was wrong there. I put my finger on the trigger and pulled, but the action was sticky and I couldn’t squeeze off a shot.
But as I was fumbling with the gun, a loud voice yelled “FBI! Don’t move!” and in the next instant the windows of the car seemed to vaporize, and several dozen men in black paramilitary gear burst into the car. They surrounded the Mafia guys and covered them with machine guns. There was dead silence for a moment as I lay there aiming up at Tom Sizemore. But Tom wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was glancing around, sizing up the new situation—a whole world of trouble. Yet he still had that grin on his face. “Freeze!” the FBI loudspeaker ordered. “Drop your guns!” But Tom wasn’t listening. He smiled even bigger and spun around on the SWAT team; but before he could get off a shot, he was blown back down the car by a spray of bullets. “Fuck!” one of his guys yelled, and the rest of them reached for their guns. “Freeze!” the bullhorn blared again, but in the next instant a hail of machine gun fire ripped into the Mafioso and they fell where they stood, riddled with bullet holes.
Like they say, don’t mess with the FBI.
The man in the suit helped me up—and I realized he was the guy who runs the control room in Mission Impossible, though I can never remember his name. Anyway, I got off the train with the SWAT team, and it turned out we were at the edge of a desert, a totally barren sea of sand and scrub brush leading off to a sheer cliff in the distance. A network of deep ravines flanked the tracks on both sides, with these deep blue rivers flowing at the bottom. Weird-looking place. And how was I supposed to get home now? The SWAT team was climbing into their helicopter and getting ready to head off, and the Mission Impossible guy had disappeared somewhere. Shit. The rest of the passengers were filing from the train and wandering off in every direction—and not even one of them was Japanese. I was beginning to feel totally desperate. I tried to get help, but no one seemed to understand me. A dark-skinned woman with lots of luggage was standing nearby, so I asked in my best English where I could find the station, but she just started babbling in a language I couldn’t even identify. Shit! Where was I? What was this? It almost looked like America. Had I somehow wound up in Mexico or someplace? If so, then I was really pretty screwed. More and more screwed every minute. The FBI? But why hadn’t they escorted me home? Pretty half-assed rescue, if you ask me. And now what? I didn’t even have any money. Or know anybody around here, wherever “here” was. Like I said, totally screwed. So finally, having nothing better to do, I fell in behind some other passengers as they wandered away from the train. After plodding along for a while, I came up to a stark-naked boy and girl standing in the middle of the dusty dirt path. Well maybe kids in this part of the world go around butt-naked all the time. But somehow I knew I shouldn’t stop too long, that if I did, somebody might come along and strip me too. Without any luggage, I was making better time than the other passengers in the line, so I scrambled off through the cactus or baobab or whatever the hell it was. Then in the distance I saw a man in a suit with white hair. Steve Martin? Gray suit, jacket tucked under his arm. And next to Steve, a fat man in a puffy blue down jacket. Hell no! John Candy too? What luck! This was just like the moment in Planes, Trains & Automobiles when they were headed back to Steve Martin’s house, so if I just followed them, I would at least end up somewhere in the States, which would be better than this hellhole. I started running, but for some reason I couldn’t catch up with them, even though they were walking and I was running. Really fast. I started sweating like a pig, and since I never really get any exercise, I pooped out pretty quick. I was telling my legs to run, but they just didn’t seem to be listening, and by now Steve Martin and John Candy were off in the distance on top of a cliff on the other side of a river with no way across. Pretty much just like the climax of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom—except no rope bridge. You’re kidding me! But as I stood on my side of the gorge wondering how Steve and John got across, they were already disappearing into the shadow of the cliff. Damn it! Left behind again. “Hey!” I called after them, but it was too late, and there I was, alone. Alone? I looked around and it was true. Nobody but me. I’d been so busy following Steve and John that I hadn’t noticed that all the other passengers had gone off somewhere else. The train, too, was now only a tiny line on the horizon; and what good would it do anyway, going back to a train that was no longer running? On the other hand, if I stayed by the tracks, at least I could catch the next train that came along. That was probably the best plan: wait for a train and get dropped off somewhere. Better that than end up sleeping out here by the gorge. But just as I decided I would go back, I heard someone call my name. “Aiko! Hey! Aiko!” A voice that could speak Japanese calling my name! A voice that sounded familiar. I ran back to the gorge, and there, a hundred yards away, on top of the cliff silhouetted against the blue sky, stood a boy, waving in my direction. Akihiko Sano.
