Ghost Train

by Stephen Laws

  Joe’s mind had gone long before the live cable snaked down towards him and 2,550 volts coursed through his body.

  ‘Where are you, Joe?’ George shouted at the top of his voice, knowing that it could not carry all the way back into the bird cage. Again he slammed at the automatic brake valve, twisted at the power control handle. ‘I need you back here, Joe. We’re gonna have to try hand signals. That’s all we can do . . .’

  Something was making scratching noises from behind the nose cone door. George looked down at the small door below the driver’s panel. There was nothing in there. Nothing at all. But something was making a noise.

  ‘Joe!’ yelled George again. No reply.

  And again, the scratching noise. A bump. Something was in there, thought George. Perhaps something had broken loose and was rattling around. The door began to shake, almost impatiently. George leaned down and opened the door.

  It was his last action.

  Father Daniels paused only for an instant in his prayer as the sounds of carnage reached their ears. He continued, eyes screwed tightly shut to aid his concentration.

  Mark and Chadderton said nothing as the struggling, shrieking bodies fell and stumbled past the door. For an instant, a young man’s face was pressed close to the glass before being dragged away. There was nothing they could do to help him. Mark covered his eyes but could not block out the screaming. Father Daniels raised his voice above the noise while Chadderton continued to stare at the sliding door, expecting it to be flung open at any second to admit a horde of blood-­crazed maniacs; and not quite believing it when the priest’s seal appeared to be working effectively. Chadderton watched in disbelief as a grandmother attacked a young child. A soldier struggled with two football fans, keeping his girlfriend behind him, pressed hard against the glass of the carriage door. The girl screamed at Chadderton: ‘For God’s sake, open the door! Let us in! Everybody’s gone mad! They’re trying to kill us!’ Chadderton began to move forward.

  ‘No!’ shouted Mark. ‘You can’t open the door! How do you know which ones are infected? You can’t . . .’

  ‘We can’t just let them die!’ said Chadderton, and pulled the door wide open. Father Daniels staggered back, trying to carry on with his prayer as the young girl fell into the carriage. Instantly, a dozen clawing arms groped and clutched inwards as Chadderton tried to shut the door. The young soldier, his tunic ripped from collar to waistband, pushed himself in backwards. Hands tangled in his hair, tried to scratch at his eyes.

  ‘Chadderton, you fool!’ And now Mark was helping Chadderton, dragging at the soldier’s body and trying to pull the door shut after him. Chadderton heaved and the soldier stumbled into the carriage. Mark slammed the door viciously shut, trapping a hand, hearing bone snap. A young woman’s face pressed close against the glass inches from Mark’s own, hurling obscenities at him. Father Daniels moved quickly to the door again and sprinkled more of the Holy Water round its edge.

  The girl lay sobbing on the carriage floor. Chadderton helped her to her feet and lowered her into one of the seats; the soldier recovered and moved breathlessly over to join her. She flung her arms around him and began to cry bitter tears as he attempted to comfort her. Father Daniels completed the seal and recommenced the exorcism. Chadderton sat beside Mark and, above the sounds of death echoing down the train’s corridors, hissed into his ear: ‘Is this really going to do any good? You’ve seen what’s going on out there . . .’

  Mark looked out into the corridor again. It appeared empty, but he knew that the floor was littered with bodies. The screams of pain and terror seemed to be moving further away now. A bloody handprint streaked the glass of the compartment door.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark simply. ‘And, Chadderton . . . it’s all we can do.’

  Chadderton turned to the couple: ‘You all right?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ said the soldier, bewildered. ‘What’s happened to everybody? They’re tearing each other to bits out there.’ He was about twenty-­five years old, thought Mark. The flashes on his tunic showed that he was a corporal. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ A ragged scratch stretching from his temple down his cheek showed where a well-­manicured fingernail had tried to reach his eyes. His tangled blond hair had been stained by someone else’s blood. The girl continued to sob. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty with long dark hair. Her blouse had been ripped across the shoulder. Mark could see a bruise beginning to swell under her eye. ‘Everybody just turned on everybody else,’ went on the soldier. ‘One minute I was sitting quietly with Anne here, and the next thing this geezer sitting opposite gets me around the throat!’

  He looked up at Father Daniels in puzzlement, started to say something more and then stopped in mid-­sentence as the priest began to sway unsteadily. Chadderton saw it immediately, heard the priest’s voice begin to waver and then leaped to his feet as Father Daniels keeled over and fell heavily to the floor. Mark helped Chadderton to lift him and lay him across a seat.

  ‘He’s lost too much blood,’ said Mark, looking at the red rag around his hand which had once been a white handkerchief. The priest’s face was deathly white, his breathing harsh and ragged. ‘We’ve got to wake him up, Chadderton. We’ve got to make him carry on or we can’t stop Azimuth.’

  Chadderton began to shake the priest. Father Daniels groaned, but did not waken.

  ‘Father Daniels! Wake up!’

  Mark placed a restraining hand on Chadderton’s arm. ‘Listen,’ he said.

  Chadderton listened. And heard nothing. The cries of terror and pain, the desperate pleas for help, the insane raving and shrieking, the sounds of death and dying: all were gone. All they could hear was the clatter of the wheels on the rails, the staccato rhythm of the train as it hurtled onwards.

  ‘They’re all dead,’ said Mark flatly.

  ‘I want to go home!’ cried the young girl into her boyfriend’s shoulder. It was the cry of a lost, frightened and bewildered little girl. ‘Take me away from here, Tony! I just want to go home.’ The soldier pulled her face closer against his chest and looked from the crumpled priest to the two men who crouched over him. He was dreaming, he was sure of it. Any time now he was going to wake up in the barracks, with the prospect of a week’s leave ahead of him. This was all just a bad dream. He would wake up soon.

  ‘Everybody?’ asked Chadderton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Everyone on this train apart from us is either dead or almost dead.’

  ‘Then who’s driving the train?’

  The train horn howled exultantly as the King’s Cross express, its speed increasing with every mile, hurtled onwards to its destination.

  Liberated and strong, it flowed in bloodstained walls and corridors. It revelled in the pounding of the wheels on the tracks. It gloried in the freedom of speed and in the anticipation of its ultimate Arrival. It became the generator, became the carriages, became the locomotive. It took substance in steel and plastic and steam; flowed in circuitry that had now become the veins of a living entity. It flowed and grew stronger, felt the one small sealed part of itself that contained living food and passed on, knowing that the holy man was of no further use to them and that they would be tasted soon. It tasted fear like never before and used it to fuel itself, to drive itself onward ever faster. It sensed the Great Tasting that was to come and was well pleased.

  It became the train.

  Seven

  ‘What was that?’

  Jimmy Blackshaw sat bolt upright, staring at the control panel, and hastily put his mug of tea on the bench beside him. Standing on the other side of the signal box, Angus Walsh was sipping at his own tea and staring out of the window at nothing in particular. He turned to see Jimmy scanning the control panel intently.

  ‘Whassamarra?’

  ‘The lines just switched by themselves.’

  ‘You been putting whisky in your tea again?’ />
  ‘Straight up, Angus! The King’s Cross line just switched itself over.’ Jimmy began to make adjustments, fingers dancing rapidly over the control panel as Angus came to join him. ‘I knew it. They moved! And I can’t switch the bloody things back!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Jimmy?’

  ‘The panel’s just gone crazy. I can’t do anything with it. Nothing’s responding!’

  ‘That can’t happen.’

  ‘I know that, but . . . Jesus!’ Jimmy leaped back from the panel and out of his seat, colliding with Angus and spilling his tea. ‘Sweet Jesus! It’s red hot!’ Jimmy was staring at his hands and Angus could see that they had been burnt.

  ‘What the bloody hell . . . ?’ Angus leaned over and touched the control panel with one finger, quickly snatching it back at the fierce heat. ‘Get on the telephone, Jimmy! Quick!’

  As Jimmy blundered over to the telephone, Angus pulled his scarf from the coat rack and quickly wrapped it round his hands before returning to the panel. He began stabbing at the control buttons. The panel would not respond.

  ‘The phone’s not working!’ shouted Jimmy in a voice near to panic.

  ‘Oh, Christ. We’d better get out there with emergency lights . . .’

  ‘There’s a train coming, Angus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can see it. It’s a train.’

  ‘But we’re not scheduled . . .’

  ‘It’s a train, Angus. I’m telling you, it’s a train!’

  Angus felt the heat scorching through the scarf and pulled sharply away from the panel. ‘The line’s fixed. There’s no way we can change it. There’s some kind of overload, Jimmy. We’re going to have to get out of here before it blows.’

  ‘There’s something . . . wrong . . . with the train,’ said Jimmy, his voice getting smaller and smaller. ‘Oh God, Angus . . . look . . . it’s moving too fast . . . there’s something . . . it looks like . . . like it’s got a . . .’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jimmy! Get out there and try to stop it!’

  Angus had thrown himself desperately back at the panel, his body lathered in an instant sweat. ‘Jimmy! Go on!’ Angus twisted round to see that Jimmy was turning from the window. His face was as white as a sheet. He was trembling and looked as if he might throw up at any second. Angus could not see the train from his position, but now he could hear it.

  And then the signal box began to vibrate.

  A roaring sound filled their ears. Every piece of equipment, every fixture ­and every window pane began to rattle violently. The cabinet by the door crashed over to the floor, the light bulb began to swing crazily.

  ‘Jimmy! Help me!’

  But Jimmy was shaking his head, refusing to accept what he had seen and what was now happening. He backed away into the corner of the signal box, hands on ears, sliding down the wall into a foetal position.

  ‘Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . JIIIMMMYYY!’

  Angus’ cries had turned suddenly from desperation to mortal pain. Sparks flew from the control panel. A crackling, sizzling sound emanated from the equipment and Angus’ body, welded by his fingertips to the panel, writhed and jerked insanely as an unknown power surged through him. His eyes started from his head; his jaws champed together soundlessly. His hair was burning.

  Jimmy began to shriek Angus’ name over and over, but the roaring sound swallowed his voice. His last sight was the implosion of the signal box windows as the train, which was also somehow much more than a train, screamed past them. A deadly shrapnel of glass shards found Jimmy as he crouched whimpering in the corner.

  ‘This is the BBC News. Reports have been received today from a number of sources concerning a curious natural phenomenon at a number of prehistoric sites throughout the country. Experts have surmised that the unusual atmospheric and weather conditions, in conjunction with a mixture of mineral deposits, have resulted in the curious light display which can be seen on such sites as Stonehenge, the Rollright Stones and the Devil’s Arrows. Standing stones and burial chambers alike have been observed to be producing a glowing effect which has resulted in an excited response from both the scientific world and believers in the “ley line” theory postulated by Alfred Watkins in 1925.

  ‘Claims by anti-­nuclear groups that the effect has been created by the dumping of radioactive waste have been strongly denied by the Government. A spokesman this afternoon reported that the effect was “harmless but fascinating”. More on this later . . .

  ‘ . . . and we’re just receiving news that the Cannon Street area of London has been sealed off this evening following the discovery of what is presumed to be a terrorist device at the Overseas Bank of China. Apparently planted in the ornamental grille which houses the London Stone, the device was discovered by an office worker who had noticed glowing light and heard a vibrating noise. Bomb disposal experts have been called in . . .’

  Eight

  Mark sensed movement.

  Something was happening. There was a dark fluttering deep in his mind and a ringing sound in his ears. And his new-­found insight shrilled a warning. A revulsion swept over him which he struggled to subdue before it overwhelmed him. He could feel, smell, touch and taste the madness of Azimuth. He could feel its unclean presence. The sensations were too strong, too overpowering; he could not sort them out and make use of them yet. By effort of will, he separated and dissipated the signals he was receiving, feeling like some strange kind of mental radio operator twiddling dials until he could find the right channel.

  And then, he sensed that it was watching them.

  ‘It’s here . . .’

  The young girl, Anne, had ceased sobbing and was clinging tightly to Tony. Chadderton scanned the carriage for any sign of movement and crept to the sliding door, keeping low. ‘There’s nothing out there,’ he said.

  ‘No, but it knows exactly where we are. And it’s watching.’

  Mark had an image of some maleficent, well-­fed cat toying with a mouse that it did not want to eat yet – not just yet.

  Anne was sitting back from her boyfriend now. There was a note of barely restrained hysteria in her voice when she spoke.

  ‘What are you talking about? Who are you people? Who are they, Tony? Did they make all this happen . . . ?’ And then the girl shrieked loud enough to make Chadderton leap defensively to his feet. The noise of her scream momentarily drowned out Mark’s signals. He felt his heart lurch, broadcasting a spasm of fear that he knew was being received elsewhere. The girl was pointing at the outside window.

  ‘Oh God, Tony. There was a face at the window. It was looking at me.’

  The soldier comforted her again. ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no one out there. It’s impossible for anything to look in from an outside window.’

  ‘I saw it! It was horrible . . . horrible . . . Get me away from here, Tony. I want to get off this train. Please, make it stop.’

  Again, Mark felt a shrill of warning.

  ‘Chadderton . . . something’s going to happen. I can feel it. It’s moving.’

  ‘Listen, you two,’ said Chadderton urgently. ‘I don’t want you to question anything I tell you. I know it sounds absolutely crazy, but what you’ve just been through yourselves is crazy, too. There’s something on this train. Something that’s not human. It’s what made everyone kill each other. It got into their minds and made them do it . . .’

  ‘What the fuck are you on about, man . . . ?’

  ‘Shut up and listen! This thing can make you see things that aren’t there, things that aren’t real. Remember that! It can make you see things that aren’t there. If anything starts to happen, try to resist it . . .’ The soldier was looking at Chadderton as if he had become one of the dangerous lunatics who had just attacked them.

  ‘All right, man. Take it easy. It’s all right . . .’ And Chadderton knew that the soldier was try
ing to humour him.

  Savagely, he snapped: ‘Listen to what I say! Something’s going to happen.’

  ‘Look, there!’ said the girl, suddenly pointing into the corner of the carriage beside the window. Mark followed her pointing finger and saw a patch of daylight shining beside the seat, between the wall and the floor of the compartment. He could feel flesh crawling tightly at the nape of his neck as danger signals pulsed in his mind. Chadderton had seen it too and now, as they watched, the patch of daylight began to spread, growing wider and longer.

  The floor of the carriage was dissolving before their eyes. Now, they could see the ground flashing past beneath them. Mark stood up, moved away from the widening hole and helped Chadderton to pull Father Daniels towards the sliding door. The soldier pulled his girlfriend to her feet, pushing her behind him and backing away as the floor continued to melt away, moving ever nearer to them. They could see one of the rails now: a quicksilver, flashing movement.

  ‘It’s not real!’ said Mark as they backed off. ‘It’s using our fear. It wants us out of the compartment. It wants us to open the door and break the seal so that it can really get to us.’

  ‘If we stay in here we’re going to be killed!’ said the soldier, and tried to push past Mark. His hand closed round the handle of the sliding door. Chadderton, still supporting Father Daniels, punched downwards and broke his grip.

  ‘We’re sealed in here,’ said Mark. ‘So it can’t hurt us. It can only make us see things. Chadderton, take hold of my hand! You – Tony – take my other hand. And keep holding on tight to your girlfriend. Azimuth has been strong in the past in that it always operated in secrecy. Until now, no one knew that it existed.’ The gaping hole in the floor spread rapidly towards them. Half of the carriage floor had gone. ‘But we know. Therefore we can resist. If we try hard enough, we can will its influence away!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? We’ve got to get out!’ said the soldier again.

  ‘It’s not real! Just tell yourself that!’ Mark seized the soldier’s hand.