Westchester Station - the assault
All rights reserved © 2003 Patrick Welch
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing of Markham Ontario, Canada.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas
ISBN: 1-55404-058-2
First Edition eBook Publication May 15, 2003
WESTCHESTER STATION - THE ASSAULT
Patrick Welch.
WESTCHESTER STATION - THE ASSAULT
He knelt before the small bush and smiled. The drops of blood on the leaf told him everything; the long-eared leaf eater was wounded and had fled this way. He stood and shook himself, then scratched at some fleas that were troubling him. The leaf eater could not go far, not wounded as it was. And its trail of blood would make it easy to find. He picked up his spear, which still bore the blood of his prey, and continued his pursuit. They would eat tonight, he thought as he forced his way through the undergrowth, and he shivered with pleasure. That wasn’t always the case, no matter how diligent the hunters. As he walked deeper into the forest, following the drops of blood glistening in the sunlight, he wondered if the leaf eater was trying to return to its burrow. Better if it did; he could then mark it to harvest later.
Then he heard a roar of rage, followed by a squeal of pain. Another predator was in the area and he immediately crouched in the underbrush. The sound had come from his right, upwind. In all likelihood the other meat eater wasn’t aware of his presence, being more concerned with its own hunt. But the blood trail led in the same direction. Then the wind brought him the smell of the other hunter, a smell he recognized immediately. A long claw. If he were with his clan, he would continue his search. But alone, he was no match for the creature. Still he forced himself forward, hoping he would find his own prey before meeting his fellow hunter.
But he was not to be fortunate this day. He found them in a small clearing. Hiding behind a tree, he watched as the long claw happily ate the long-eared leaf eater. The same prey he had wounded. Moving slowly, he backed away, hoping its feeding would keep the predator occupied. Only when he had made his way back through the underbrush and into a clearing did he stand and begin running in the other direction through the more spacious forest. His stomach growled in protest as he now suspected this hunt was going to end in failure.
The sky was darkening when he finally reached his cave. He had come across no other prey and could only hope that others of his clan had been more successful. But even that hope died as he entered. There were no voices, no cooking fires lit. The furs, bones, weapons and gourds: everything was gone. He concentrated, but could see or hear or smell no signs of danger. Had they been attacked, perhaps by another clan? But in the fading light, he could see nothing that suggested any battle. It was more as if his clan had never been there.
He crouched down at the mouth of the cave and looked at the ground. And shivered. Again there were no signs of his people or others, just an occasional animal spore, and none were of dangerous predators. Had he become lost, gone to the wrong cave? He was certain he hadn’t, but his eyes said otherwise. He sighed. It was almost nightfall and there was no other place safe but this cave. Tomorrow he would search for them but tonight he would stay here and try to build a fire.
The clan kept firewood in the back chamber. He went there but found the chamber, like the cave itself, empty, and again there was no suggestion the caves had ever been occupied. But there was something different. Instead of ending in a solid rock wall, the chamber ended in a narrow tunnel that led farther into the mountain. He approached it cautiously. In the darkness, he could see a dim glow, as if there was another cave at the end of the tunnel.
He didn’t know where this tunnel had come from, if this was indeed his cave. If it was, perhaps his clan had followed it. Or perhaps an enemy had used it to attack. Either way, he was going to find out. Holding his spear before him, he started through the narrow tunnel.
***
"This is bullshit!"
Robert Winstead sat quietly at his desk and studied his guest. Reactions of those who were brought to Westchester Station varied from abject fear to righteous outrage. It was one of his responsibilities as station master to make them more comfortable during their stay. "I totally understand," he said, keeping his voice soft and calm. "I felt much the same way myself when I was first brought here."
"Brought here?" Jeanne Gannon shook her head furiously. Her hair, still wet from theSeattle rain she had so recently left, sent out a fine spray. "I was kidnapped! I want the police. Now!"
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "‘Kidnapped’ may be overstating your complaint. We have our own security force. You should be safe here."
"Here? Just where the hell is here? And who the hell are you?"
"This is Westchester Station. As I said, I am Robert Winstead, the station master."
Gannon glared at the man. She guessed him to be in his late 50’s, with graying short hair and mustache, wearing a nondescript white shirt and tie. Suited him, she decided, as he was nondescript as well. Then she looked around the room. "I’m supposed to be in theSeattle bus station. This is no bus station!"
"Quite true. Although a bus has occasionally visited, weare a train station."
"I’ve been kidnapped," she said with finality and crossed her arms, staring defiantly at him. "And you’ve kidnapped me."
No,WestchesterStation has. "Let me try to explain. Westchester Station is a train station. An intertimensional train station." He pointed at the skylights overhead. In one, the night sky held a full moon, while in another the moon was waning. The Southern Cross was visible in a third.
She gave the display a quick glance. "Pretty painting. What’s your point?"
Better she find out for herself, he decided. "People come toWestchester, or occasionally are brought here, for a reason. Much like I was first brought here over ten years ago. Mrs. Gannon, I assure you..."
She nearly jumped from her chair. "How do you know my name? I never told you. Or that geek in the funny hat that brought me here."
"Your name is on my manifest. And, please, don’t smoke in here."
She paused, the cigarette halfway to her lips. Then she shoved it in her mouth and lit it. "I’m brought here against my will and you expect me to follow your stupidrules ? I don’t think so."
He kept his voice calm. "Actually we have very few rules here. You are pretty much free to do what you want. Other than physically harming our other residents and passengers, of course." Then he coughed for emphasis.
She ignored him. Instead she took a heavy drag on her Misty, then tilted her head back and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Hell with him . She needed this cigarette right now. Otherwise she would be clawing at the walls. Best to take a different tack, she decided. "I have to get toSan Diego. When does my train arrive?"
He glanced down at the manifest on his desk. "Several hours. Rest assured, we shall honor your bus ticket. I suggest you relax and enjoy whatWestchester has to offer until it arrives."
She frowned. "I’m free to go?"
"Of course. I merely wanted to talk to you is all. Like I said, it is one of my responsibilities as station master." Winstead smiled. "You should have nothing to worry about."
I wish that were the truth. "What about my luggage?"
"It is being seen to. It will be on yo
ur train when it’s time."
"It better be," and she pointed her cigarette at him. "Or Iwill call the police."
"If you feel it necessary. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do."
She stood, then hesitated, but his focus remained on his paperwork. "I’ll find my own way out," she said and turned. On the way, Gannon paused briefly before a model resting on a table. It was a building, an overview of a sprawling structure with the roof removed to show the details. There appeared to be three main chambers, and if this was made to scale, the building was huge. Something they were planning to construct? she wondered and wanted to ask. But the station master was ignoring her so she snorted and walked out of his office. But not before exhaling one more cloud of cigarette smoke.
Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. This day had started out as the worst in her life and now it had gone farther downhill…if such would have been possible. As soon as her husband had gone off to work that morning, she had packed two bags and fled.
She knew what her mother would say. You’re a quitter, Jeanne. You made a vow, for better or worse. You have to work at a marriage, not run at the first sign of trouble. And more blather and more blather. Even her friends had been less than supportive over the years. "So what if he screws around on the side?" they said. "All husbands do. You’ve got a big house, money. Get some stranger of your own if you want. Just deal with it, bitch."
Deal with it, bitch. Yes, she had dealt with it. For eight years that felt like eighty. Country club dinners and shared cruises or ski trips. Smiling and laughing through it all. They didn’t know about the constant verbal abuse, his insistence that they not have children. That she not work, but stay at home like some piece of art one hung on the walls to admire and dust occasionally.
Last night had placed the final brick in her wall of determination. He had come home late, drunk, and actually bragged—bragged!—about the woman he had met and screwed earlier that evening. "You would like her, Jeanne," he said. "Great tits, great ass. Gave great head. Maybe we should get you some tits like hers." And he had squeezed her small breasts for emphasis.
She had said nothing, recriminations about his trespasses having long proven worthless. But that night, as she lay beside him listening to his satisfied snores, she had made her decision. And the following morning she acted on it.
But this, thisWestchester, whatever it was;this was not part of her plans.
She leaned against the pale gray wall and looked out at the station. There were people scattered about, not many, and she wondered how the station could survive with so few passengers. What surprised her the most, however, was the quiet. The hard floors, the hard walls: there was nothing here to soak up sound except the vastness of the room. Yet she had been in libraries that were noisier than this. Almost as if the people wereafraid to make noise.
And the smell. A building this old, yet it reminded her of a hospital. One would think... She stopped herself. What was oneto think? That she had died and was in some sort of purgatory? Perhaps lying comatose, the victim of an accident, and this was all a hallucination?
She roused herself from the unpleasant thought. If she was hallucinating, she was certain she could come up with something more comforting thanthis . Since that concept led nowhere, she decided to assume this was real. If shewas kidnapped, then her captors were making remarkably little effort to control her. And brought here, as the station master had said? That made no sense at all. Who would want me? she thought and laughed bitterly at her own joke.
First things first, she decided. If the station master was telling the truth—and right now she had no reason not to believe him—she would have several hours to either leave the station or flee it. Before she did anything, she needed to freshen up. She went off in search of a restroom.
***
Robert Winstead looked down at the manifest in front of him. The nameJeanne Gannon was clear enough. Even the arrival time had been accurate. But there was no train bound forSan Diego on his schedule. There was no departure for her listed at all.
He sat back and looked up at the ceiling. A comet streaked across one of the skylights while in another, three moons hung like decorations from a Christmas tree. He had told her the truth; Westchester Stationwas intertimensional. A fact he had learned—often painfully—during his first enforced visit. The station stretched across a multitude of times and dimensions. For some it was merely a point of departure. He now suspectedWestchester was to be her final destination.
Butwhy? It had taken him several years before he had discovered the reason for his own arrival. He would have to have another chat with her, that much was clear. But not until she was ready.
Winstead sighed as he put the manifest back in his desk. He had other concerns at the moment. He would wait until she came to him.
***
Jeanne Gannon stepped back from the mirror and studied herself critically. It had been raining when she left that morning, and in her haste she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. Her hair was still wet and looked like nothing more than the coat of a shaggy dog. She hadn’t applied makeup either, but that at least was easily correctable.
She reached into her purse and noticed her cell phone. As soon as she had entered this "Westchester Station," a guard—or that was what she assumed he was, since he was dressed in a dark blue uniform—had greeted her and taken her directly to the station master, not once checking her for weapons or anything. "Not very good at kidnapping, are you?" she whispered. The police, she decided, and called 911.
There was no ring, no dial tone, nothing. She held the phone away from her ear and studied it. The batteries weren’t dead; she was sure of that. Yet there was no reception, not even static. "This sucks," and she put the offending utility back in her purse. She was going to have a long talk with the phone company once she got out of here, she vowed.
And where exactly was here? She had lived in Seattle most of her life, except for the few years when she was away at school getting her nursing degree. Yet she had never heard of a "Westchester Station" in Seattle. She had chosen to flee by bus, not by plane, because of the increased airport security due to the terrorist attack on New York. Besides, her husband would know where she fled if she flew. But with a bus, she could exit at any city along the way, drain more money from an ATM, switch buses to another city and then have time to contact a lawyer and plan her divorce.
It hadseemed like a good plan. Just a few clothes in a suitcase, drop by the bank and withdraw $10,000 from their joint account, then on to the bus station. But when she had walked into the side entrance of the station, she had found herself here. And the guard waiting for her. A guard with a shadowed face and glowing eyes whose commands could not be argued or reasoned with.
Enough. She finished applying her makeup and appraised herself one more time. She still looked like a drowned rat, she decided, thanks to her hair. But at least the lipstick and mascara made her feel a bit more confident. Several hours, he said. That would give her time to get something to eat, catch her bearings. She went off in search of the station’s diner.
***
He could hear them. Even hidden as he was in the secret tunnel under the farmhouse, he could hear them. Angry voices, threatening voices, demanding voices. Voices belonging to the men searching for him.
Joe Green exhaled slowly in the event they would hear his breathing, his racing heart. It had already been several days but it felt like mere hours since he had escaped from the plantation. Waiting until late at night when the guards would be tired and bored and possibly drunk. Running through the familiar cotton fields where he toiled all day picking boll weevils off the plants and, later, the cotton itself. Wading down the nearby creek to throw the dogs off his trail. To the ramshackle shed buried deep in the woods. The trapdoor led to a tunnel hidden below. Crawling through that until he came to another small cabin on the banks of the river. Lighting a lantern and hanging it from a nearby tree, the
signal that an escaped slave was ready to be picked up.
He had not stayed in that cabin but hid in the woods until they arrived. He had done everything the others had told him to do, but until the two men rode up in a wagon, he had no idea if the story was true. Because those who had gone before him had never come back. But these strangers, thesewhite strangers, had greeted him with smiles and open arms and assurances and—best of all—food. Then he was hiding again, this time under the false floor of the hay wagon as he was taken to the farmhouse that was a depot for the Underground Railroad.
And still the hunters had found him. Or at least thought they had. He could hear his benefactors arguing that they knew nothing about him, or escaped slaves in general. Their denials were followed by threats and accusations from his pursuers. He could even hear the dogs, their claws scratching on the wooden floor. But the abolitionists knew how to confuse them, sprinkling pepper and the blood of slaughtered animals around the grounds. Having their dogs rendered essentially useless had only angered the hunters more, and he heard the heavy slaps and cries of pain more than once.
Then, finally, after what felt like hours, he heard the footsteps disappear. I’m safe, he thought. Now it was simply a matter of staying below in the secret tunnel until his saviors brought him back up and transported him to the next safe house on his way north to freedom.
Then he heard the shots. Five of them, one for each member of the family. He cried out for them as he curled up in the darkness, unable to help, unable to do anything except pray. If they found him now, he knew he would not be going back to the plantation. Not alive at least.
He crawled deeper into the tunnel when he heard the footsteps again. Were they going to find the trap door, now that there was no one to stop them? "Where do we look now?" he heard one of them say. "We’re not," said another. "It’s time those slave-lovers are stopped for good. Burn this place to the ground."
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