Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “That sonofabitch. I know it’s you out there, Hugh.”

  She turned the lock and threw the door open. Everyone was back at their vehicles, awaiting the final bit of the film. No one was outside the toilet waiting for her. Not Hugh or anyone else. She looked behind the screen and saw the nose of the van still there. Hugh wasn’t really the athletic type and she didn’t figure he could make it that far, that fast. She steeled herself to tell him off and jogged across the field to the van.

  To her surprise there was more than just one vehicle. Three other cars and one small pickup were parked around it. Kara squinted through the windshield of a Bonneville, but didn’t see anyone inside. She turned her attention back to the van. Its horrid music was silent and no other noise came from inside. The metal was cold against her ear as she strained to listen for Hugh and the three girls.

  Nothing.

  Then something moved across her sandaled toes. She looked down in the darkness but couldn’t make out the offender. She tried to convince herself it was a cricket or some other harmless thing. The van’s door slid open suddenly—her scream froze in her throat as the cab light revealed a lone occupant. Her hands fluttered, and she clutched her chest, breathing deeply to calm down. Sitting in one of the plush, burgundy seats was her date, Hugh Mandy, with a bong clutched between his knees.

  “Goddamn you! You nearly gave me a heart attack with that crap at the bathroom and now you pull this?” The van rocked as she climbed in.

  Hugh moved slightly with the disturbance. The bong tipped, spilling its water on the upholstery. Hugh nodded along stupidly but didn’t try to correct the problem. Couldn’t, as Kara soon realized. His skin was pale blue, a yellow-brown bruise encircled a ragged hole in the side of his neck. Kara looked around the van and noticed the crème-colored seats. She looked back at Hugh’s and poked its cushion with a shaky finger. The blood squished from the fabric, oozing around her finger.

  Wide-eyed, she fell backwards and crawled on her haunches to the sliding door. Fingers curled in her hair and then she was outside, on a bed of leaves that crunched under her thrashing. Razors found her throat. Her body convulsed with pain and then she lay still. Tranquility swept in like a tide and washed the pain away. She didn’t even scream as she was dragged under the van. She just listened to the Projectionist carrying on unseen.

  The crowd loved him and the show was starting…

  Part Three

  The camera pulled away from the terrified couple, holding each other as the alien entity burned to oblivion. It backed out the front door and floated into the air, focusing on their small Canadian home and the snowy tranquility around it. A train whistle blew for one last jump scare. Yellow letters materialized on the screen—Horror Express. The screen faded to black and the garish title scroll began.

  “Wow! What a great flick.” Wiley sat up from the pillows clapping. “I didn’t see that one coming. Did you?”

  Amber was already leaning forward, hugging her knees as she had through the entire harrowing finale. She pushed her hair back and sighed.

  “No, that was crazy. Don’t you think so, Kara?” She looked at the end of the tailgate. The folding chair sat vacant. Amber leapt up in a panic. “Where the hell is Kara?”

  “I… I don’t really know. Last time I saw her was at the porta-potties.” Wiley pointed over his shoulder absently. His face contorted with obvious confusion. “She came back right after us. Didn’t she?”

  Amber was staring in the direction of the toilets, shaking her head. She turned slowly, scanning the field with her eyes. Only the Trans Am remained. All the other vehicles were gone. She tugged at Wiley’s collar until he stood next to her.

  “What’s going on around here, Wiley?”

  “I guess everyone left when the train crashed. I mean, maybe they figured it was all over with and just took out early to avoid waiting at the gate.” Wiley rubbed the back of his neck. “I have a really bad feeling about this place.”

  “I told you so.” Amber slapped his chest. “Grr! Damn it, Wiley. Where is everyone?”

  He hopped over the side of the truck and offered her his hand. “Come on.”

  “Come on, where?”

  “There’s still one guy here. Maybe he saw who Kara left with.” He threw his hands up. “I don’t know, babe. I mean that’s got to be what happened.”

  The film’s score ended a moment before the reel did. The projector’s light flickered over the screen and then shut off. The four colored floodlights came on and began their dance across the screen again. Amber ignored Wiley’s hand and jumped down beside him, heading straight for the Trans Am.

  “Let’s get this over with. I want to get the hell out of here.”

  Wiley hustled after her.

  Trans Am Man’s arm hung out the window with a cigarette still burning between his fingers. The motor wasn’t running and the man appeared in no hurry to leave, despite the film being over. A fat raindrop exploded on the back window a half-second before two smaller ones joined it. Amber looked up at the thick clouds. The moon barely managed a glint or glimmer between the rolling waves of darkness.

  “Never mind, Wiley. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. Now.”

  “I’ve got this. Excuse me, sir.” Wiley approached the driver’s door and called out again without response. “Sir?”

  He tapped the man’s elbow and the cigarette fell to the ground. Wiley bent over to look inside. He ran backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling. Amber rushed to his side, kneeling to check on him gave her a view inside the car as well. Acidic fumes crawled along her taste buds as she fought back the urge to vomit.

  The man’s head hung forward, almost completely removed from the rest of his body. Blood ran down the windshield like a macabre waterfall. Trans Am Man’s neck was a ruined stump, with bits of flesh clinging to his exposed spine. His arm jerked back inside the car as his body was snatched away by something in the backseat.

  “We need to be running.” Amber clutched desperately onto Wiley’s t-shirt and heaved.

  He slipped from her grasp and she stumbled but caught herself and turned the momentum into a dead sprint. She heard him calling for her to wait, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Wiley was supposed to save her. That’s how that worked. She threw the passenger side door open and clamored in, slamming and locking it behind her.

  Wiley ran across the field when he stopped suddenly, wide-eyed and stark white. The four dancing lights turned from the screen and shined their colors on him. Even from twenty feet away, she could see he was shaking. She looked in the side mirror and saw nothing. She adjusted the rearview next and still couldn’t see what was terrifying him. The truck rocked lightly, like someone getting out.

  Or off, Amber realized too late.

  The face burst through the window in a spray of glass. It spread its mouth wide and gnashed the air with mangled fangs. Amber scooted across the bench, kicking at it. Her boot heel smashed against the thing’s nose-less face. Empty eye sockets stared through her as it wrestled the door open and tore it from the hinges. She fumbled for the door handle and toppled out of the truck as the beast worked its way inside.

  She jumped up in time to see the other hulking, robed man dragging Wiley away by his hair. The man’s hood was flipped back, revealing the same unholy face as the thing coming after her. She slammed the driver’s door on its outstretched hand and ran for the projection booth.

  The two-story building was little more than a cinderblock square. A single, blue door sat in the front between two windows—one completely opaque with dust and the other missing entirely. Amber focused on the beating of her boots as she ran, on her heaving breaths, and pounding heart as Wiley screamed somewhere behind her. She didn’t want to slow down until she had no choice and met the door with a little more speed than she meant. Her hand slipped form the knob as she bounced against the peeling portal.

  The rain started in the woods and rushed to
ward the theater in an animalistic roar. A wall of water moved across the field, completely obscuring the jumbo screen they were just watching. Thunder boomed overhead and she threw herself inside, chancing one last look out at the Deadlight. She could barely hear her boyfriend’s cries over the deluge and couldn’t see him at all. She slammed the door and felt along the ancient paint for a lock. No one bothered locking their doors in the Ozarks, and the theater apparently felt the same way.

  Amber leaned on the door and checked her pockets for her phone before remembering she left it in the glovebox. Wiley’s stupid rule about no phones on dates was going to get them both killed. She banged her fists on the door and sniffled. Little squeaking noises made it past her attempts to hold back the crying she so desperately wanted to do. Through tear-filled eyes, she noticed the dim light tracing the outline of a staircase.

  She clasped her hands over her mouth so no one would hear her. But there were monsters outside. Whatever was up the stairs couldn’t be as bad as that. A long, roiling fog oozed through the broken window. Amber held her breath. Long, clawed fingers curled around the pane from outside and one of the beasts stuck its face in.

  Amber could just barely see it. Rows of tiny nubs lined its molted olive skin. The thing was mostly featureless, like a leather-bound skeleton with a mouth full of snake fangs that all pointed and curved in different directions. It hovered in the window for a moment, another steaming breath poured from its disfigured mouth. Then it spun away and disappeared into the storm with a high-pitch call that reminded Amber of whale song.

  She counted to ten and when the thing didn’t come back to the window she sprinted to and up the stairs. A flimsy door with a barely lit light over it waited at the top. She paused and stared down at the knob. The brass-toned plastic finish was flaking off the cheap aluminum beneath was showing.

  “It’s like pulling off a Band-aid.”

  She held her breath, turned the knob, and threw herself inside. She slammed the door and spun to see a projector. The tiny room smelled like dust and cardboard. Towers of boxes were marked with the names of old movies, most of which Amber never heard of, and loose film cans stood in leaning piles. An office chair with its wheels missing sat near the equipment, spinning around lazily.

  “It’s an illusion,” someone said, softly.

  Amber screamed at the sudden voice beside her. She whirled around and there was Majaris Dantor leaning in the corner.

  His cape was hanging from a hook on the wall and his vest hung open. He ran a hand over his short, coarse hair and smiled softly. He pointed to the chair.

  “It’s an illusion. The floor is sunken in just a bit. If I give the chair a little spin, gravity keeps it in motion for a few minutes.” Majaris watched her for a reaction and then shrugged. “It amuses me.”

  “Where the hell is everyone?”

  He pursed his lips, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “How should I put this?”

  “You killed them!”

  “I assure you I have not.” He gestured to the windows and moved, graceful as an ocean wave to the small opening. “Look out there and you’ll see.”

  Amber took a tentative step and stopped. She sighed and stepped forward, looking out into the downpour. The two hulking figures were barely visible. They were tugging at something like dogs with a rope. Majaris waved his hand, and the four lights moved to illuminate the scene.

  Amber sobbed as the things tore chunks of meat from Wiley’s body, greedily shoving the bits into their mouths.

  “They killed many of tonight’s patrons. Payment for all their hard work around here.” Majaris pointed out to the field. Wiley’s truck roared to life and puttered around the field. “The hunchbacked fellow you met at the gate—Fergus is his name—he oversees the twins.”

  “Fergus. Twins,” Amber’s voice broke and sobs escaped. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Well, that is unfortunate.” Majaris rubbed the back of her neck. “There is no way around that, I’m afraid. Even I will face that certainty eventually. I am truly sorry about this evening.”

  “Sorry?” She spun and slapped his arm away from her, punching her bony fists into his chest over and over again. “You’re sorry? You’re fucking monsters! You killed all those people. Kara and Wiley and now you’re going to kill me! You sonofabitch!”

  Majaris seized her wrists and pulled her against his tightly muscled body, embracing her in a tight hug. “I did not kill them. I simply facilitate the deaths. I don’t carry them out.”

  Amber wiggled in his arms, kicking his shins to no effect.

  “I truly am sorry. We were beyond capacity tonight. The films are meant to hold your attention, captivate your mind so that you’re completely unaware when your time comes.” Majaris sighed, sadly. “We overreached this year, I’m afraid. I usually run a much tighter ship than this. I must be getting old.”

  Amber’s kicks became less forceful and she buried her face into Majaris’ silk shirt, crying uncontrollably. The projectionist stroked her hair and made shushing sounds.

  “There, there child. You don’t need to worry. The twins and Fergus have had more than their fill, and the Haustblót is over. The storm is thanks from those we aim to appease with this sacrifice. You will not die this night,” Majaris reassured her.

  “You…” Amber tried to control her breathing enough to speak. “You’re letting me go?”

  “Well, of course, my dear.” Majaris framed her ivory face between his powerful hands, clearing away tears with his thumbs. “I wouldn’t harm you. You’re much too precious for that.”

  Amber’s mascara formed midnight-blue lightning bolts down her flushed cheeks. She tried to smile, to speak, but she couldn’t manage any response. She didn’t understand, so she just cried harder.

  “There, there. You’re going to live tonight, my dear.” Majaris kissed her forehead and guided her to the door. He placed a hand on the small of her back. His face stretched into a brilliant smile.

  “After all, someone has to bring in next year’s viewers.”

  ***

  So, it was a pretty cool piece of fiction I think, but I have to agree with my beta readers—it was way too different in setting and tone to work with the book as a whole and I’m ultimately glad that I decided to cut it out. I am even happier that I managed to not delete it, however because I do really like the story and some of the images in it and will hopefully do something with it in the years to come. If you’ve read Babysitter Massacre: Daddy’s Little Killer, you’ll catch a reference to several real films, but also a few fictional ones that play a role in other stories I’ve done. Maybe The Deadlight will show one in the future.

  Now for that alternate ending. I wrote this because I was afraid people wouldn’t get the irony of ending I did use. I loved the idea that everyone in the story wanted to be a hero and, after all the death and sacrifice, the wyrm survived and escaped them… only to be killed by a pregnant housewife just trying to cook dinner. It took all these men, most of them with combat experience, and their combined machismo to almost accomplish what a mom did as part of her routine day. I wrote this alternative ending where Hicks watches the sturgeon swim past and we see Ahanu pulling one out of the water and heading home before this final chapter…

  Alternate Ending

  Alexander Saxton sat in his university office and folded the newspaper delicately, taking great care not to crease the photo buried on the bottom corner of page fourteen. It was understandable that the rising tensions in Europe made the front page. Some even predicted that the England would be entering the conflict if something wasn’t done to quell the violence. Germany’s chest pounding filled the next three pages of the paper and a couple more focused on the Russian mobilization. Adventure no longer interested him, however. He’d had enough of that on that dreadful train some seven months prior.

  It was that picture and the accompanying article that consisted of no more than four paragraphs—neatly aligned with the manure ad adjacent—that
delighted him. There, surrounded by the president and fellows of the Royal Society, was James Wells receiving the Copley Medal for his studies on the pathology of early man. Even splayed out on an operating table, the man still had the wherewithal to pay an orderly to go get the Neanderthal specimen from the train. Saxton didn’t blame him for stealing his find. He took his own trophy from the train, after all.

  He laid the newspaper beside the pewter framed photograph of Irina in her wedding gown. Saxton may not have been a count, but the wife of a Harvard professor had its perks as well. He stroked the glass over her face with his thumb and sat back, propping his foot on the desk—his other having been amputated for frostbite. He didn’t mind so much since it was the one James shot a hole in anyhow. He closed his eyes and smiled at nothing in particular until someone decided to knock on his door.

  “I’m not here.” He sighed and waited for the person on the other side to realize that he was, in fact, there.

  “Are you sure?” they asked.

  There it was. He put his leg down and straightened his jacket. Academia was full of few certainties, but there were two he could count on. The first being that for every bright shining mind in the university there were three dim bulbs. The second was that all three would be assigned to him. He called for the student to enter, but he couldn’t identify the particular gentleman standing in front of him.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked as tried to place the young man. His beard and mustache were scraggly, new growth, and in poor taste for a Massachusetts youth. Likewise, his hair was too long to belong to any of the usual campus crowds. He was also a bit darker than the average student—a plains Indian Saxton guessed, based off his facial features.

  “Well, Professor Saxton, I’ve come a really long way to see you. It’s been quite the endeavor, in fact.” The kid pulled out the chair opposite the Professor and then paused as if he realized the faux pas.

  Saxton waved for him to sit anyhow. “You’re not an early enrollment then?”