A Freak (Short Story 8) Part 6

Producer (of Culture) Inkjet Print 37" x 42"

The steady thudding of the thrown bodies continued, like a sandbag full of stones slapping into a metal clock face. It was slow, but constant work, the undead pressed on at the whim of the Speaker - their master - and Cale sat in contemplation.

The train car was astoundingly empty, aside from the debris he dragged in, and was devoid of the pressing aura of gloom that was swamping the air outside. It was a small oasis in a smaller desert that Cale could not escape. He crouched near one of the metal seats, trying to solve a problem with two paths: does he attempt to destroy the Speaker? A Freak whom he was not sent after and – as of yet – has not shown Cale his face, or should he find a way to escape the subway, fleeing into the tunnels. There were no promises that the Speaker’s hordes did not fill every crevice of the subway system, that outside the train car there were not hundreds and thousands of undead commuters who wanted to collect his ticket.  He couldn’t look out the windows, the flare dying long ago and dared not light his remaining torch until he was absolutely decided. His fate sitting before him , invisible like the train car in the dark, and beckoning him forward.

Thud. Thud.  The corpses had been at this for hours, not making much progress with each blow, but inevitably it would fall inwards, flooding the train car with bones and teeth that seek out Cale in the black.

Thud. Thud. The pile of bones at Cale’s feet – the fallen forms of the skeletons that clung to his coat – shifted uneasily, as if there was some animating force still within them, but not enough to bring them back a second time. Cale stood, finally moving away from the door. He began pacing up and down the aisle between the seats, heedless of the repeated crunch of his stepping on the struggling sinew.  Regardless of how long he spent down here his eyes never grew accustomed to the darkness. There were not vague shapes at the edge of his vision to give him a frame of reference. No reflections of moonlight, or the burning he knew was happening above.

Might not be safe from the burning here after all, he mused solemnly. The corpses and trash along the concrete steps could easily ignite and send a wave of fire down to fill the subway, possibly incinerating the speaker and promising to bake Cale alive within the train car. Even if he escaped, he may just find the surface a raging inferno, incapable of hosting him while he fought through until daylight. Of course, all of his prior speculation could be wrong, the fire could have been accident or would simply die out without fuel, but Cale was hedging his bets, counting on the fact that topside was ablaze. Should he get out of here and make it to the surface only to find it a screaming firestorm he would be as pegged as he was now – cauterized bites from the undead, trapped in a train car and his life sought after by a Freak. The tunnels still held hope, though.

If Cale could get out of the train, destroy or impede the Freak and his servants and put distance between himself and this station he may survive. It was a lot of ands. So much could go wrong, other train cars could have crashed, undead could be within the tunnels, the fire could find its way down anyways. What did it matter, though? Cale thought he was dead if he stayed here.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He laughed. Can’t sit here forever.

He swung his bag around on his shoulder, his hands guided by memory without the light, and began to grasp at straws. The bag held everything: the remaining flare, a box of matches, a flattened wide-brimmed hat, everything. If Cale needed water he kept it in the bag. Food, in the bag. Everything came from his searching, nothing here was purchased back East – most of their goods were not durable enough to weather the roads. 

The pieces and parts made by the Old Ones thought, there were gems amongst them. The flares sat at the bottom of a cavern, a man who was climbing down (spelunking, Cale’s thoughts spoke up) had fallen and died around his gear. Most of it was rubbish, rusted or broken, but the flares were a miracle. How many years ago that had been was lost, Cale knew better than to try and determine his age. It mattered little, he would die one day and it would be at the hands of a Freak most likely.

Maybe today is the day, he thought with a cold quality, although this isn’t how I wanted it.

His hands fell on something he had forgotten about. A small, round metal canister. It fit perfectly in his hand like the cold dead heart of a machine. What was it called? The words that came to him from the ether were dodging his grasp – this was always how it worked, when he wanted the names they were out of reach.  It would remain that way for now, time was reeling in and the endless procession of skeletons was still bearing down on the doorframe. Cale was struck with an idea, the matches and the metal canisters were key to something. Those two items would guide him out of this tomb, destroying the Speaker? He did not know. His feet carried him effortlessly back to the pile of bones and fabric, not needing his sight to know the perfect dimensions of the train car. Crouching, he ran his fingers through it… dry as dust. Perfect.

Almost running now, he found another door within the car, knowing it was there the same way he knew that it was called a Subway and discovered it opened with comparable ease. Beyond the door was further darkness, simply an extension of his current cell, but he was sure there was more at the end of this car. Not the outside, but something else. Empty as the prior cabin, Cale walked through the car with ease, coming to another door. Locked.