Westchester Station - the assault

by The Assault--Free(Lit

  He let his broom drop on the floor. "Wait here. I must get the station master."

  Like hell, she thought as he hurried off. Authorities and she had never gotten along, not in her profession. If she had to meet this "station master," she would do so if and when she felt it necessary. And what is this ‘WestchesterStation’? She went off in the other direction hoping to find someone less threatening who could tell her.

  ***

  Robert Plank sat on an empty bench and tried to understand what had happened. He hadentered Grand Central Station, of that he had no doubt. But he certainly wasn’t there now. Judging by the room he was in, this was some type of depot.

  Or perhaps there was an accident and hehad died in the premature explosion. If so, this was definitely not like any paradise the clerics had promised. No one was around, so he opened his jacket. No, the explosives were still there, the timer still waiting patiently for activation. Which meant he could still fulfill his mission.

  He stood, then looked back at the restroom door he had recently left. Should he go back, reenter one of the stalls and hope somehow he would find himself back in Grand Central? No, he decided. He would learn more before he tried that. He started walking, searching for someone who could help.

  This building must be huge, he thought as he walked. The walls and ceiling were pale and nearly featureless, helping destroy any sense of perspective. The overwhelming silence was what surprised him the most, however. Was this place abandoned? He was beginning to get hungry and thirsty, but instead of finding a water fountain he came across a small kiosk. The sign said "Newsstand" and a young man stood inside. About time .

  The man smiled as he approached. "Do you need the news, sir?"

  "Yes." He looked at the counter but saw no papers or magazines anywhere. "Where are your newspapers?"

  "Newspapers?" The man frowned. "For what?"

  For what? He steeled himself. Perhaps the man was feeble-minded. "You are a newsstand?"

  "Absolutely!" and the young man grinned. "What news would you like? Financial? World headlines? Sports?"

  I don’t have the time for this. "Actually I just need to know where I am."

  "Why,Westchester Station of course."

  "Westchester?" How did I get to that part of the city? "Thank you," he mumbled as he started to walk away.

  "Sir, excuse me," the man called to him.

  He stopped. "What is it?"

  "You owe me a quarter."

  Plank frowned. "For what?"

  "For answering your question, of course. For giving you the news."

  He muttered under his breath as he reached in his pocket. No reason, he decided, to get into an argument about this. "Here," and he tossed the coin on the counter.

  The young man grabbed the coin, put it in his pocket and smiled. "Thank you, sir. Travel well."

  Plank ignored him as he walked away, deep in thought. The Westchester Station he knew was quite a train ride from Grand Central. But, he realized, this certainly didn’t look like thatWestchester. Was the man lying? But why would he? He was certain the man was retarded, so there was no benefit in asking him for more information. He would have to find someone else.

  Instead someone found him. "Stop," a voice called from behind him. In Arabic.

  He froze. Someone knows? He turned slowly to find a man in uniform approaching him. A guard, he realized when he saw the uniform, and he breathed deeply to calm himself. This man couldn’t know, couldn’t possibly know, he tried to reassure himself.

  The guard stopped in front of him. "Who are you?" he asked, again in Arabic.

  Plank tried to read his face, but the hat was pulled down, hiding the guard’s features in shadow. "Were you talking to me?" he asked in English.

  "Who are you? What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be here." This time the guard responded in English.

  Plank forced himself to smile. "I’m sorry. I saw no signs that this area was off-limits to passengers. I’m waiting for my train."

  "You must come with me," the guard said. "I must take you to the station master immediately." And he started to walk away.

  No! Plank felt a nearly overwhelming urge to follow, but he fought it desperately. He couldn’t be taken to the authorities. And he had been trained by his superiors to cope with various drugs and brainwashing techniques, to fool polygraphs, to fabricate convincing stories on the spot. What the guard was trying to do was no different than what he had experienced in the camps, even if he didn’t understand the method being used. He steeled himself, called upon all his inner strength to maintain control and defy his enemy.

  Now Plank was relieved this area of the station was nearly empty. The guard continued on, ignoring him, assuming the stranger would follow like a duckling after its mother. He hurried to within a few paces of the guard, then leaped, wrapping his arms around the guard’s neck while bringing one knee up sharply into his back. The guard offered no resistance, made no sound. Plank twisted his neck savagely and was rewarded with a loud crack. Then the guard went limp in his hands. Plank let him drop to the floor while he looked around once more. But no one was there to see his attack. He rolled his victim over with his foot, curious if he could now see the guard’s face. Still the face remained in unnatural shadow. But the glowing red eyes were fading even as he watched.

  Should he leave him here? No, he decided. He would have to hide the body, give himself more time to plant his bomb and escape. He lifted the guard and was surprised at how light he was. Almost as if he were hollow. He easily slung the guard over his shoulder and went looking for a place to hide him. He considered the restroom but dismissed it; he would have to get too close to that newsstand and the odd man who worked there. Then he noticed a corridor branching off from the main room. It could lead anywhere, but he couldn’t remain standing in the middle of the depot carrying a dead body, so he hurried that way.

  The corridor veered sharply off to the left, then narrowed and darkened. Good, he thought. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere that would attract traffic. He followed the corridor until it turned to the right, ending in a larger chamber. And he gasped as he stared at the painting on the wall.

  It was of theWorldTradeCenter in New York. The spire on the left was already in flames while the other was exploding from the impact of the second airplane. He dropped the guard and immediately forgot about him as he approached the far wall. Who could have done this? He stared in awe at the tableau. His eyes misted as he thought about the martyrs who had perished for his cause and he found himself kneeling before it. If there was some way to get this masterpiece back to his homeland, thousands would come to honor it, he was certain of that.

  He prayed for a few minutes then reluctantly stood. He couldn’t delay any longer, no matter how much he might wish to. Plank picked up the dead guard and went looking for another hiding place. This chamber was too holy to be soiled by a corpse.

  ***

  He sat in the tall grass and luxuriated in the feel of the rough blades against his skin. After so long, he was amazed and delighted to find something familiar. He had followed the strange smooth cavern walls rather than daring to venture into the large featureless cavern until they had led him here.

  Not actually led—he had smelled this oasis before he had seen it. It just rose unnaturally out of the bare flat rock floor, a patch of verdant life in the otherwise sterile, featureless plain. Were there others here? He certainly sensed no one. He looked up, searching for the sun, trying to get his bearings. It should be night by now, yet this garden—the entire cavern—remained awash in light. Light that seemed to come from everywhere, that cast no shadows.

  But he had more immediate concerns than solving that mystery...if he ever could. He had to find food, water. Build a fire. He chewed on a stalk of grass and poked his spear into the ground, dislodging a clump of sod. It felt and looked rich, even smelled so. There would be prey here, he was certain of that.

  He rose and headed deeper into the unfamiliar trees
. There were birds in the branches, but they were too high and small for him to risk using his spear. He did come across a tree laden with unfamiliar fruit and he plucked one, sniffed it cautiously. Finally he sampled it. It was sweet and crisp and juicy and he finished it in three bites, then reached for another, then a third. The second was delicious as well, but the third had such a bitter taste that he spit it out immediately. No more of these, he decided. They were filling but not what he wanted. He needed meat.

  He went on and came across a small pond. He scooped up a handful of the cool water and sipped it. It must be fed by an underground stream, he thought. He wanted more, so he crouched on his hands and knees and dipped his face in the pond to drink. Satisfied, he started out again in search of something to hunt and someplace to sleep.

  He eventually settled on a small clearing among the trees as his campsite. He nestled in the tall, unfamiliar grass, even ripping out some to cover himself for warmth and protection. He didn’t need a fire; he had found little to burn and the air, while moist from the vegetation, wasn’t uncomfortable. The light remained and he normally did not sleep during the day. But this day had been long and tiring and, despite satisfying his thirst and hunger, he was exhausted. He would search for prey later. If he rolled on his side, the light would not keep him awake.

  He felt safe here. Thus far he had sensed no other predators and was confident he would not be attacked while defenseless. That was why in his world the solitary hunter did not survive long. His world . He knew now he was not in his world, but the thought did not alarm him. Instead he wondered about his tribe. They had to be here, he was certain of that. They would find this place even if he didn’t find them. Tomorrow, he promised himself and started to relax.

  Then another thought jabbed at him as sharply as a stick. Why did I think there was an underground stream? Until he had come here, he was sure he had never known such a thing even existed. Yet he was now certain it did.

  It took him a long time to fall asleep.

  ***

  "Damn, almost out of cigarettes," Gannon muttered as she pulled out a Misty. Would she find any here? She suspected not. What kind of a train station is this when you can’t buy a book or a magazine, let alone a cup of coffee or cigarettes? she wondered. What was it the station master had said? Westchester was anintertimensional train station? "Just what the hell does that mean?"

  Maybe she should have asked that odd hair stylist. Recalling her, Gannon ran her fingers through her hair. It was going to take some time to get used to this cut, she realized. But once her train took her toSan Diego, she would find a more accommodating stylist.

  Which will be...when? She started to look at her watch, then thought better of it. The station master had never told her when her departure was scheduled. Or where she would be going, for that matter. Just that shewould be going. She sighed, realizing she would have to be satisfied with that. Enough of this . "I have to find something to eat or drink," she said and started off.

  Instead she came across a sign proclaiming "AR ADE" stretching above an open doorway. She stopped and peered into the room. She saw several pinball machines and video games, but no vending machines. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any, she decided and entered.

  She was immediately disappointed. The two pinball machines sported "Out of Order" signs. The "Galaxian" apparently had a defective chip; the playing field flashed on and off with indecipherable patterns. The "Crane Challenge" held a handful of forlorn prizes not worth trying for.

  She wasn’t interested in such games anyway and was ready to leave when she noticed another machine blinking slowly and sadly in the rear. Curious, she approached and found it to be some sort of antique fortune-telling device. A gnomish figure in starry robes sat inside a glass cube and stared at a mirrored ball. "Consult the Oracle," commanded the dusty neon sign across the top. "Well, perhaps you can tell me where I’ll find Mr. Right," she said and laughed. Better yet, when I can get the hell out of here. She reached in her purse and dropped a quarter in the slot.

  The interior of the cube darkened immediately. One light focused on the moldy figure, a failed attempt to make it appear foreboding, mysterious. "The Oracle of Delphi sees all, hears all," a muffled voice intoned through the speakers on the side. "The Oracle knows your deepest needs, your darkest deeds. Ask the Oracle, and you can take control of your future! Just speak into the microphone," it added quickly.

  Like something out of a 50’s movie. She looked down and was surprised to see there was indeed a little microphone mounted on the side. "All right, I’ll bite. Tell me my future."

  "I foresee a long journey," the voice began.

  So much for the cryptic comments of the Oracle. The programmers had to know this was a train station. I think I just wasted that quarter. "Yes, go on."

  "I foresee you meeting a tall, dark stranger. I foresee you falling in love."

  "Great," Gannon said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. Pretty lame program if you ask me.

  The voice droned on. "I foresee you having many children, and many grandchildren. I foresee you living to a ripe old age."

  "The great American dream."

  "Your wife..."

  She stepped back. "My what?!" She looked at the front of the machine, searching for some button that must differentiate the sex of the user. If I‘m going to pay to hear someone’s fantasy about my life, I want it to be more realistic .

  "...very successful. She will live to be a ripe old age as well."

  She knocked loudly on the glass case. "Sorry, pal, but you’ve got the wrong number. I’m not even looking for a husband; I’m certainly not looking for a wife!"

  "If you wish to hear more, deposit another quarter," the machine concluded.

  "Not very likely. Not for predictions like those."

  "The Oracle is never wrong," the voice scolded.

  She laughed. "There’s a first time for everything."

  "You are going on a long journey." The voice was surprisingly vehement.

  What kind of computer program is this? "No shit. I’m in a train station."

  "You’re going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger," the voice hurried on. "You’re going to fall in love, get married, have many children. Your wife will be rich..."

  This has gone on long enough, she decided. "You idiot. I don’t need a wife. I’m a woman!" Why am I arguing with a machine?

  The voice paused. "A woman? Impossible! What is going...damn door."

  Suddenly she heard movement within the machine. Then a front panel flew open.

  And a midget tumbled out.

  "Oh, Christ, the Wizard of Oz."

  The midget stood up, all two-plus feet of him, and looked her over defiantly. And frowned. "The Oracle is never wrong! Are you sure you’re a woman? Are you sure you’re not a man in drag? Maybe a sex change operation?"

  Now that she was recovering from her surprise at the appearance of the man, Gannon felt insulted and amused at the same time. The effrontery of this toy man! "Yes, I’m sure. What I have I’ve had since I was born. Now you tell me, where’s Dorothy and Toto? Can I have a heart? Are you sure you’re not the Auricle of Delphi?"

  "I am, too," he stamped his foot. "I know everything! I know your deepest needs, your darkest deeds."

  "Spare me your sales pitch."

  He snorted, then sneezed, which caused him to shake all over like a dog after a bath. "Are you trying to make me look like a fool?" he accused after he regained control.

  "You certainly don’t need my help."

  "I won’t stand to be talked to that way!"

  "Then have a seat." She studied him for a second. "Or perhaps you’re already sitting."

  "That does it!" He reached in his pocket and withdrew a quarter. "Here. Now begone!"

  She shook her head, bemused. "No, you need it more than I. I’m sure with your uncommonly accurate predictions, you’re a very successful businessman."

  He muttered something, then stormed back into his machine, slam
ming the door behind him. Laughing, she left the arcade. The Oracle ofDelphi. Knows my deepest needs, my darkest deeds. What a crock!

  It only occurred to her much later that her visit to the arcade was the first time she laughed with true enjoyment while inWestchester.

  ***

  Magdya turned from the pay televisions in disgust. She had hoped watching them would be a good way to waste an hour or two before she could buy her ticket, but every one was out of order. I need a drink, she thought. I wonder if this place has a lounge.

  She passed by a coffee shop, but the sight of the counter filled only with men deterred her. I don’t want to get hit on in here, she thought and hurried on. This will have to do for now, she decided as she deposited money in a nearby vending machine. Her enthusiasm dimmed as she looked at the can of soda she received. She was certain the design on the can had to be at least ten years out of date. Still she opened it reluctantly and was pleasantly surprised to find the contents tasted fine.

  Now what do I do?she wondered as she sat on a bench. How much time before that ticket stand opens? She sighed in frustration, leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  "That sigh sounds like you have lost your best friend."

  She nearly jumped at the sound of the strange voice. She opened her eyes and saw a man standing before her. Tall, thin to the point of emaciation, skin as pale as a full moon. Yet, she had to admit, handsome as well, almost beautiful. She managed a smile. "You might say that."

  "That is most distressing." He sat next to her without asking permission. "So you are waiting for your train? Where are you going?"

  I have no idea. "Actually I’m more concerned aboutwhen I’m going. I can’t even buy a ticket!"

  He shrugged. "Don’t worry about that. When it’s time to go, you’ll know."

  That idiot janitor said the same thing. What the hell is it supposed to mean? She looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious. His expression made it clear he was. Since he had the effrontery to sit next to her, she decided to pry. "So when is your train leaving?"