“They’re no accident,” Ted said.
“No.”
Charlie bent close to the first grouping of rocks, drew a flashlight from his pocket, and shone it on a large, smooth, white rock in the middle.
“This is curious,” he said.
“What?”
“This one has no moss.”
“Maybe an animal ate it,” Ted said. He was groping.
“I was here a month ago with that reporter,” Charlie said. “They were all moss-covered. Every one.”
“Maybe a kid got in here.”
“With an SOS pad and a sander?” The attempt at humor fell flat.
The two fell quiet again. Gingerly, Charlie lifted the rock.
Fresh blood was pooled beneath.
“Oh my God,” Ted said.
“It’s no animal,” Charlie said. “This came from a person.”
“We have to leave,” Ted said. The sun was gone; they had, at most, twenty minutes of light left.
Charlie closed his eyes.
“She’s here,” he said. “Dear One is with us.”
A wisp of fog rose from the crimson wet. This time, the vapors were not invisible.
This time, they took living shape.
The shape of a little girl.
“Please, Theodore,” the girl said, “help me.”
The Senator
A Short Trip Can Drag on Forever
Alicia considered herself lucky to have found a seat.
Amtrak Train No. 178, The Senator, bound from Baltimore to New York, was absolutely mobbed. Judging by the line at the station, it was obvious that people would be standing - could you believe it, standing? - for the nearly three-hour trip; They were going to be one tired bunch when they got to the Big Apple this Friday evening. She stowed her only piece of luggage, an Adidas gym bag, and settled in her aisle seat, right at the very front of the car. Between her and the window, a middle-aged woman who’d probably boarded at Washington was slumbering. Maybe that’s what most folks do on trains, she thought: Sleep. Alicia wouldn’t know. Except for one quick spin on a mini choo-choo at some kiddie carnival years and years ago, this was her first time on a train.
Across the aisle from her, a young, clean-shaven man was intent on reading. His lips quivered as he plowed along—must’ve been one of those slower types who have to pronounce every word, poor soul. And speaking of souls, the guy appeared to be reading a Bible. Alicia turned her attention back to the book she was carrying, Robert Ludlum’s latest paperback thriller. It was a long time since she’d read the Bible. Being America’s greatest lapsed Roman Catholic undoubtedly had a lot to do with that.
With a modest lurch, the train was underway. Yes, there were people standing in the aisles, all right—half a dozen in this car alone. In their winter coats, they already looked hot and tired. Great ride it was going to be for them. She thanked her lucky star again for finding her a seat. The trick apparently was getting to the station 45 minutes early, as she had.
For the next half hour, their passage fascinated Alicia. The soot and grime of the inner city soon gave way to suburbia, which in turn gradually gave way to farm country. Here and there was a farmhouse, a barn, a creek, barren fields displaying Maryland’s distinctive brown-red soil, frozen by this mid-December cold snap but not yet hidden by snow. What crops do they grow here? she mused. Corn? Tobacco? Tomatoes? She wondered how a farmer could make a go of it here in the heavily industrialized Northeast Corridor. She smiled. These were precisely the kinds of questions her freshman economics professor, a grandfatherly old academician, would surely appreciate.
The train rattled and vibrated, but you got used to that soon enough. A greater force was this pervasive lulling sensation she was experiencing. No wonder the woman next to her was snoozing so contentedly. Even the flow of air was soothing, relaxing. She imagined what it might be like, climbing into a private berth in a sleeper car, a glass of white wine in her hand, her body luxuriant in red silk pajamas. It was a pity jetliners and busses had pushed American passenger trains to the point of extinction the way they had. In their heyday, the railways must have been a grand way to travel, indeed. She made a mental note to ask her economics professor to consider a lecture on the demise of the U.S. system. With Amtrak certain to be in the news again as the federal budget debate approached, it would be a timely topic.
After leaving Wilmington, Delaware, she read a few pages of her Ludlum, but quickly tired of it. Closing her book. she
Great . . . One kook on the train, and where’s he sitting? Two feet from me. Congratulations, kid. You’ve got yourself a winner. leaned her head back and began to daydream. Almost immediately, a confusion of thoughts was parading through her mind. She thought, for example, of how far she was from her hometown, Lexington, Kentucky. Of how her first semester at Johns Hopkins University was going—quite well, thank you. Of this, her first trip to New York City, where she was meeting two friends from Yale, the three of them to share a hotel room and all other expenses.
Ah, New York!
What a young lady couldn’t do in New York, especially at the height of the Christmas season! For the preceding month, she and her friends had plotted out their stay, hour by hour. They would go to Macy’s. The Empire State Building. The Village. Rockefeller Center, of course. The Museum of Modern Art. A club or two, assuming their fake IDs would get them in. Naturally, Daddy wouldn’t have approved of any of it, and so she’d lied on her regular Thursday night call to him. “Going to Marilyn’s house,” she’d said. “You behave, now, OK, Sweetheart?’ ‘ he urged. “OK, Dad,” she’d promised.
On and on her thoughts went. She had almost slipped past the border from daydreaming to light sleep when she heard the voice: “We don’t have long. I urge you, sister, to repent. In the name of Him, repent.”
At first, the voice was distant, vague, fuzzy, as if it weren’t directed at her.
Fingers brushed her left forearm and the voice repeated: “I urge you, sister. In the name of Him. Before it is too late.”
Alicia snapped awake. Looking outside to her right, she could see a river, wide and gray. Probably the Delaware. She remembered from high school geography what a mighty river it was, how important for ocean-going commerce. That would explain the size of the ships she saw. Next to her, the slumbering middle-aged woman slumbered on. No, it wasn’t she who had spoken.
It had to have been him, the Bible-toting guy across the aisle.
And there he was, staring impolitely at her. Alicia returned his stare for a moment, and when he didn’t look away, she had to. Great, she thought. One kook on the train, and where’s he sitting? Two feet from me. Congratulations, kid. You’ve got yourself a winner.
“I know what you’re thinking,” ‘ the man said, never taking his eyes off her.
Alicia didn’t reply.
“You’re thinking I’m crazy,” ‘ he continued in an even tone. “They all think I’m crazy.”
Bet they do, Alicia thought, maintaining her silence. Bet they do, bud.
“How wrong they are! But it’s all right, though. Such is the lot of the prophet in today’s world.”
Should she move? Give up her seat, and spend the next couple of hours, or whatever it was to Penn Station, on her feet? No way would she find an empty seat, not even if she walked through every one of the train’s
Ten cars. And wouldn’t that be a bitch, pulling into New York half beat, the whole weekend still ahead of her.
No, for the time being the best strategy seemed to be to wait it out. I mean, he’s probably harmless. Probably lives in New York. You know all those stories about New Yorkers... yeah, that’s gotta be it. A rugged individual practicing rugged individualism. Isn’t that what America’s all about, the freedom to be what you want to be? Free to be . . . you and me . . . as the slogan goes?
“So little time,’ ‘ the man said. “So little time. See these people around you?”
“Yes?” Alicia said, almost instinctively. She hadn’t real
ly planned to respond. But there it was—a monosyllabic response.
“They look very absorbed in themselves, don’t they.”
“I suppose they do.” ‘ He was right—they did look awfully preoccupied. Seemed almost to be going out of their way to ignore him, those that were within earshot—and at the volume he was speaking, that had to be a good number of people, 10 or 15 in all.
“Like their cares are the biggest cares in the world.”
“I suppose so.” In a funny way, she was almost fascinated by this guy. I mean, he’s really very well-spoken. Logical, in his own way. Clearly devoted to . . . whatever sect he’s devoted to. He reminded her of missionaries for the Jehovah’s witnesses that came knocking on her door every spring back home in Lexington. Squeaky clean and articulate, Holy Book in hand, just like this guy.
“But there are other cares,” ‘ the man continued. “Other concerns. Bigger than them. Much, much bigger. Do you think they realize that?”
“Well, I—”
“No, they don’t! That’s the pity. The shame. Let me ask you another question, sister. Do you imagine they know how little time they have left?”
“What do you mean?” Could he be talking about the rest of the ride into New York? Doubtful.
“I mean time. Time on earth. Time with the here and now. Time, as measured out and allocated to each of us by Him, please bless us.”
“Time?” Alicia said dumbly.
“Yes, time. Do you think they know? Do you, sister?” His voice was rising. “THEN LET US ASK THEM, SISTER! JOIN ME IN ASKING THEM!”
The man stood, his book in his left hand, his right hand gesturing, as if he was preparing to preach—as evidently he was. Alicia shrunk back into her seat, hoping that his performance was not going to involve her, as he had suggested. She made herself as small as she could, but she did not turn completely away from him. Visually, he was an impressive human—tall, thin, conservatively dressed. About the only piece of the picture that seemed out of place was the gaudy gold bracelet he had around his right wrist. It was a diamond-studded piece of jewelry, probably quite expensive, Alicia thought.
Just what is his gig, anyway? she wondered. She wasn’t exactly afraid, but she was...
...apprehensive about what might happen next. She should’ve stuck to her first impression, that he was a whacko, and not responded to him. Instead, what does she do? Egg him on. Just what we all needed, right folks?
“And so I beseech you, brothers and sisters,” the missionary declared in a booming, anxious voice, “do you know how much time you have left? How few the moments before He, please bless us, must pass judgment on each and every one of us? How few the chances now to repent, to take the salvation He has offered for us?
“Oh, I see it in your eyes, your eyes afraid to look completely at me, afraid to turn completely away, hoping fervently that I will somehow go away. But I will not go away! No! I will not be silenced! Will not! Cannot!”
On and on it went, all fire and brimstone, for about two minutes.
Until the conductor got on the scene.
The ensuing argument was loud, but brief, and after the conductor threatened to stop the train and bodily remove him, the missionary had calmed down some and returned to his seat. By the time they were in Philadelphia (it looks like all the stations so far, Alicia thought: dingy, rusty, paint peeling, a testament to how far America has let its rail system slip) he was actually quite subdued.
“It’s the same, everywhere I go,” he said in a quieter voice after the commotion had blown over and the train was pulling out of Philadelphia, past the zoo, along the trestles. “Such is the lot of prophets in the modern era.”
Alicia said nothing. Now that the conductor was aware of the situation, there was no sense in playing along with him. One more bad move, and she had no doubt the conductor would make good on his promise to throw the guy off.
“Heathens,” he said softly, pointing to the carload of passengers. “For them, there is little hope.”
Alicia took out her Ludlum and opened it. She pretended to be reading. A moment later, she felt the touch of his hand—the braceleted hand—on her forearm. She recoiled. Where was that damn conductor? Just when you needed him, and nowhere to be found. Once again, she debated giving up her seat. New York isn’t even an hour now, she thought. I can stand an hour on my feet.
“There’s still a chance for you, but only if you take Him, please bless us, into your heart,” the man continued, undaunted.
Alicia looked out the window. Nervously. They were travelling through the industrial wasteland of North Philly now—a land of unrestrained trash, broken glass, broken machines, windowless factories, occasional run-down row houses where God only knows what domestic atrocities took place. The December day was almost at an end; it was nearly dark now.
“Have you ever seen Him, please bless us?’“ the man next to Alicia asked as Amtrak Train No. 178, The Senator, approached the bridge over the Delaware into Trenton, N.J.
Alicia maintained her silence.
“Please sister, allow me to show you a likeness. It is not perfect; still, it is all I have. Please, sister. For your own good. For your own salvation. For the glory of Him!”
He reached into the back of his book and withdrew a small white envelope. Slowly, he opened it, extending it for her to take. She did not take it. But her curiosity was too much for her—she had to look.
She did.
And looked again.
It was not a person.
It was ...
. . . what was it?
A cube. No, not exactly. A geometric shape, but not a cube.
It was unlike any photograph she had ever seen, almost three-dimensional, about to leap off the paper it was printed on. Was it a hologram? It was silver in color, and it seemed almost to be glowing.
But of course, it couldn’t be glowing. It was only a photograph.
“Here, take it,” ‘ he urged, offering it to her.
“No.”
“For your own good!”
“No!” She was almost yelling. And she was scared. Next time he was quiet, she was leaving her seat... this car... walking nine cars to the very end of the train. No question about it. I can stand for an hour, she thought. No problem.
“But how do you expect to be saved, if not through Him, please bless us?” the man said. There was a sudden panic in his voice, a tightening of the vocal cords, an undisguised anxiety.
“Please...” she said.
“Now, or it is too late. Say you believe.”
“No!” she screamed.
“Believe!”
“No!”
Alicia stood.
At the instant she did, the train rocked, first a mild rocking, then a more pronounced rocking, then a violent tremor that you could actually hear, could actually feel in your jaw, your spine, your legs. The sound was loud, jarring, metal on metal . . . a tearing . . . a steaming . . . a crackling . . . followed by the smell of bad electricity . . . danger. . . the beginning screams of passengers, confused at first, then not confused, merely convulsed by choking terror . . . the destruction of equilibrium and balance . . . the ringing in the ears . . . a pounding . . . suffocation . . . the panic building like an elevator hurtling out of control from the 50th floor ...
. . . the locomotive and first passenger train of Amtrak Train No. 178, The Senator, teetering off the side of the bridge over the Delaware heading into Trenton, N.J ...
. . . through the window, a mad glimpse of the city lights at dusk, a parallel bridge with a sign announcing’ “Trenton Makes, The World Takes.” For one endlessly endless moment, their car dangling over the side.
His face, smiling.
And then dropping into the water, 50 feet below, with a sound and an impact like a terrorist’s bomb planted inside a jetliner.
Alicia did not lose consciousness.
There was a period when she was dazed, when her breath came torturously or not at all, but she did not lose
consciousness. No. After the train had settled—and it did settle, gravity did settle it clumsily on the muddy bottom of this polluted old tired river—she found herself breathing stuffy smelly air from a pocket trapped in the top of the car. She found light, too, feeble battery-powered light from the car’s emergency system.
And she found herself alone.
Alone, soaked, the lower three-fourths of her body submerged, her head occupying part of the three or four feet of the car that was not flooded. The train had settled such that only the front end was still dry. Alicia tried to get her bearings. Tried to locate the door, an emergency window. There was no door, no window. She was wedged into the baggage rack, alone except for her gym bag, the smell of the water oily and disgusting, the sensation of it on her legs and abdomen as cold as the season, December.
She was shivering. Crying. Scared shitless.
Because the water was rising. It was only a matter of ...
. . . time, he’d said.
Only a matter of time before the water pushed out the air, her air.
Could she find a window?
I’m going to die. Oh, Jesus. Oh, sweet holy Jesus.
Beneath her, under the surface, through the rising river, she could feel something. Movement. Constant frenzied movement. Vibrations transmitted through the water. Vibrations set in motion by her fellow travelers, trapped, confused, maybe unconscious, their nerves nonetheless sputtering and arcing, the death dance of a trillion misfiring neurons.
Movement. It only made it worse.
She saw it then, the photo. The photo! It had floated to the top. It was the picture of Him.
Please bless us.
Into your heart.
Now, it definitely was glowing. Now it definitely was three-dimensional. Now it was not weird, but something familiar, a new-found friend, certain salvation. Had he not promised this? Offered it to her? Begged her?
Still a chance for you.
Do you mean it? Can you?
It was about four feet away. Desperately grasping the metal tubes of the luggage rack. Alicia tried to maneuver toward it. It was bobbing. Almost within reach now.
Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction Vol. 2 Page 3
