D

by George Right

  There was nobody here, either. Well, okay, no passengers is better than... And, after all, this small person, apparently, is really a child, not an old dwarf, Logan thought. There is such an illness... genetic, as far as he remembered...

  Then he still needed to inform the train operator. The seriously ill child was alone at night and, seemingly, in complete prostration...

  Tony approached an intercom and pressed the button. No voice answered him, but from the speaker a small noise was heard, showing that communication had been established.

  "Here... that is, not here, but in the next car, an old boy... that is, I wanted to say, a little boy is sick with old age... " Tony confusedly began. And what, by the way, if the train operator had not heard about such an illness and decides it's a prank? "It seems to me, there is a person here who needs help. Do you hear me? Hello?"

  Still nobody answered. But from the speaker came... sounds. At first, Tony thought the noise was just interference. But no, it did not resemble the usual static and cracklings. More likely such a sound can be produced only by something wet... sticky... mucous... if it slowly moves, coming unstuck and sticking together again.

  "Hello?" Logan once again shouted, but the only response was the same sounds.

  "Nevertheless, it's interference," Tony told to himself. "This piece of crap is faulty."

  And what works normally in this train?!

  Maps of the subway and of the current route, seemingly, were absent in this car, too. There was only the advertising pasted between windows. What was, by the way, advertised here? Logan had gotten used to ignoring posters in the subway, without giving them a look even in boredom, but now he suddenly felt curious. He looked at the nearest poster.

  "CORPSES. THE EXHIBITION"

  Tony shuddered when his eyes stopped at the large letters. Then he remembered hearing about this exhibition. Its founder was some German pathologist who built a large-scale exposition of embalmed human bodies, displaying them in various poses and dissections, whole and in parts, showing the structure of muscles, sinews and visceral organs... Probably, really informative, especially for medical students, but Logan absolutely was not a fan of such shows and would not go there even if the entrance fee were paid to visitors, not by them. Giving one more look at the poster–which displayed a color image of a skinless pregnant woman whose laid-open belly contained a lengthways-cut fetus within the stretched ring of her cleaved uterus (why didn't various activists either for or against abortions raise a cry?)–Tony fastidiously frowned and went farther along the car.

  His glance indifferently slipped across the next poster, an eyesore probably to each passenger of the New York subway. A schematic red figure struggled against closing car doors. "Hold your urge to hold the doors. Wait for the next train." And something about you making everyone wait and how many trains are regularly late because of such irresponsible passengers... Oh yes, of course. Who would object to waiting ten minutes or even more for the next train? No, better let everyone be several seconds late, than I for a quarter of an hour.

  Tony was already going to move on, but something forced him to turn back again. Something was wrong with this poster. And in the following moment he understood what exactly.

  The head of the red figure was almost completely cut off by the subway doors. Blood splashes were scattered around. Blood also splashed down the closing edges of doors forming a kind of guillotine.

  Haw. It seems that someone understood that plain warnings didn't work and decided to strengthen the emotional impact. Though, of course, real doors of subway cars are not capable of such things...

  By the way, the exhibition advertising differed from the usual, too, Logan realized. First, there was this ripped up woman instead of cheerful dead sportsmen. Secondly, the title was a bit different. It seems that that exhibition was called "Bodies," instead of "Corpses." But, what's a slight difference in wording?

  At this moment the train began sharply braking, and Logan, having missed a handrail by his hand, clumsily plopped down on a seat. Outside the windows, dimly lit numbers "14" on breast boards of eagles passed. "Fourteenth Street?" Q trains definitely stop at the 14th Street station, but Logan could not remember these eagles. Some nasty story was connected with this station... Oh yes, a major accident with casualties in the early nineties. Tony was in elementary school in Connecticut at that time, but remembered how his parents had discussed this accident. More precisely, not the smash-up itself, but the fact that the train operator–or were they still called motormen that time?–was sentenced to fifteen years of prison for it. So, by now he should be released...

  Doors opened, and Tony heard the incoming knock of heels. More precisely, one heel; then there was a short pause and a slow shuffling, and then new abrupt clatter followed. Logan turned his head and saw a girl entering the car. Yes indeed–the poor creature had broken a heel and now limped, shuffling her foot. For some reason she held the heelless right foot sideways, putting it on edge, as if the foot was sprained and could not return it to its normal position. That, certainly, was not possible–in this case any attempt to put her body weight on it, increasing the strain, would cause terrible pain.

  In other respects, however, the girl was quite usual–even more, attractive. Slender, in a light summer blouse with a miniskirt (probably, she also believed the morning sun when she left her house, Tony thought sympathetically), long nut-brown hair, a bit twisted on the ends, a nice profile. She passed by Logan in her limping gait and sat down opposite and obliquely to him. Now he noticed that, while on the right side her hair passed behind an ear, at the left, on the contrary, it hung over her face, almost completely hiding an eye and a cheek.

  "Excuse me, Miss," Tony called her, "is this the Q train?"

  The girl answered nothing and did not even look in his direction. The doors closed, and the train got under way.

  "Probably, she thought that I was trying to pick her up," Logan thought, "so she's ignoring me. Really, my question sounded silly: the person already on a train asks someone just getting on what train it is. If it were on the contrary..."

  Nevertheless Logan felt more and more uncomfortable on the train and the desire to talk to a normal person became stronger than thoughts about possible negative reactions. "Well, what will she do, eventually–call the police through the intercom? Hm, let her try," Tony mentally grinned. "Though she could have a taser... or even a gun..."

  As a result he chose a compromise: he did not sit near the girl but only moved to a seat opposite her.

  "I must apologize for troubling you," he said as politely as possible, "but I'm confused. There are no maps and stops are not announced here. When I entered, it seemed to me that this was the Q train, but now I'm not sure. I don't recognize the stations. Was there any change of service? And what happened, by the way, to the electricity, do you know? Why are stations lit so badly? Budget cuts? You know, I seldom ride so late, but it seemed to me..."

  The girl still was silent and did not react in any way. Exactly as that senile child. The long hair obscuring the left half of her face rocked slightly with the car movement. "Maybe she's deaf?" Tony thought. "However, deaf people are usually able to read lips..."

  All right. If she prefers to ignore him, he has no right to force the issue. And he will get off at the next stop. Will get off and wait for a normal train, however long it takes.

  Nevertheless, the girl looked at him with her only open eye. Probably, she was waiting for whatever he would say or do further. Tony, feeling that to stare back at her would be rude, muttered, "Never mind, excuse me" and looked away. But, after looking around for some time ("CORPSES. THE EXHIBITION!"), he felt that she was still looking at him. Not expectantly, not savagely, not even enticingly. Simply looking. And there was something unnatural about her gaze. Something that made Logan feel even more creepy. She doesn't blink, Tony realized. She has never blinked...

  Forcing himself (why is it so difficult to look in the eyes of a stranger?), he again focused
his eyes on her face. And then understood that his imagination played a trick on him. The right eye of the girl was closed. Possibly, she had decided to sleep until her stop, too...

  However, Logan never before saw anybody that slept sitting bolt upright, without throwing the head back or drooping it on the chest.

  And he felt an irrational confidence that her left eye was not closed–not at all, but watched him from under hanging-down hair.

  Following an unaccountable impulse, he moved to his former place to get away from this supposed gaze. He was almost sure that she would turn her head to follow him. But the silent girl remained sitting as before.

  The train began to brake sharply again before a station. Tony was going to rise, as soon as the train stopped. But the girl moved first. Paying no attention to inertia which should have tumbled her down, especially considering the current instability of her gait–she, shuffling the turned foot the same way, moved towards Tony. He froze in his seat, looking at her with absolutely irrational fear. The girl, however, passed by him and turned to the doors, obviously going to exit.

  Was it his illusion, or had her right eye really remain closed?

  Now Tony could not answer this question any more because the girl stood with her left profile to him, which was still concealed by hair.

  The train stopped and the doors opened. The girl stepped onto the platform outside, and at the very same time wind from a tunnel rushed into the car and for an instant blew her hair aside.

  A spasm seized Logan's throat.

  He saw damp meat... wet, shapeless, exuding ichor... a hole with torn edges in place of an eye, from which some tatters hung down... naked gums and teeth where there should be a cheek... a dangling torn-off lip similar to a fat dead worm...

  All this lasted less than a second. In the next instant, the girl was already on the platform. And no force in the world could make Tony follow her.

  "You did not see it," he told himself. "She just has, well, a birthmark covering the whole cheek. A very ugly birthmark. Therefore she wears her hair this way. And all the rest you simply imagined. My God, in a such a short time it was simply impossible to make out such details!"

  But, nevertheless, he remained on his seat, as if he were glued. He still heard receding clattering-shuffling sounds.

  Doors slammed. Dirty, dimly lit letters floated by the windows: "Myrtle Ave."

  What the hell? Myrtle Avenue is in northern Brooklyn. And there are neither Q train stops nor parallel routes on it. It seemed like farther to the east there was a subway station belonging to the brown line. But, the main thing, if the train is in Brooklyn, it had to pass over the bridge! Manhattan bridge or, at the worst, Williamsburg, if it is indeed a "brown" station. But Tony could swear that the train had remained underground all the time. After all, it is impossible to be mistaken about this even at night. It is possible of course to cross the East River by a tunnel, but those routes definitely do not go through any Myrtle...

  "It's a bad dream," Tony thought. "I've fallen asleep in a subway train and am having a nightmare..." It was impossible to wake up, however. And, as if wishing to prove the reality of the situation, the train once again began to brake sharply, almost tumbling Logan down on a seat. This time the appeared to be very short.

  "Is he crazy?" Tony angrily thought about the train operator. "Why is he braking this way all the time?"

  "And what if that's true," a wild thought flashed. "The crazy train operator drives the train goodness knows where, paying no attention to routes and the schedule... However, even a madman can't go where rails aren't laid."

  In the following moment, Tony read the name of the next station with relief: "DeKalb Ave."

  Well, at last. So, Brooklyn after all, and it's unimportant how he arrived here. Five routes meet at the DeKalb Avenue station and here Tony can change to the normal Q train. He could hardly wait when the doors opened and allowed him to jump out onto the platform.

  He had time to take some steps. Had time to notice that the platform was empty and garbage lay about everywhere. Had time to see the "Downtown" sign, though in Brooklyn stations they do not use such a sign...

  And then the lights went out.

  Tony stopped dead, then turned towards the train that still was at a stop, lit from within, with hospitably opened doors. Strange, but light from the windows for some reason did not disperse the surrounding darkness at all.

  "No, thanks!" Logan mentally said to the waiting train and walked through the darkness, extending his hand forward. He could see the train sideways from him and he was assured that he wouldn't fall down from the platform. Even if there is an power failure in the station, somewhere here should be a staircase... he saw it while the station lights were still on...

  His hand encountered something soft.

  More precisely, someone. Logan understood that he was touching a person dressed, apparently, in something woolen.

  "Sorry," Tony confusedly muttered, hastily withdrawing his hand. "Do you know what happened to the electricity? And where is a staircase?"

  The person answered nothing and seemed to not move at all.

  And then Tony remembered that a few seconds ago, there was nobody on the platform. And he had not heard any steps since then.

  Logan recoiled.

  And then from the darkness sounds came. No, not from where somebody silently stood. From the other side. A heavy breath and a sound as if a body was being dragged on a stone floor. And these sounds were approaching.

  Tony quickly turned and rushed to the open doors of the nearest car. It was very clear to him that these doors would close immediately. He would be only a fraction of second late. A fraction, still sufficient time to push his head between closing doors... and to experience the same fate as the red figure on the poster. This abrupt fear was so strong that, already having reached the doors, Tony almost recoiled back, but nevertheless forced himself to jump in, feeling during this moment, as if he was jumping from one skyscraper roof to another. With great relief he fell on the nearest seat.

  "Well, and why were you so frightened?" inquired common sense, which appeared, as usual, after instinct. "There is a power failure at the station. Workers probably are simply dragging a cable or something like that."

  Yes, certainly.

  But why don't these workers use flashlights in the dark?

  And then Tony realized that he was still hearing those dragging sounds and they were approaching again. Now he mentally begged the doors to close as soon as possible. But they still remained wide open.

  And then Logan saw a man creeping into the car.

  He snuffled and puffed, but crept rather fast, pushing off the floor with his hands...crept without rising his head, so Tony could not see his face. He saw only a shining bald pate and a dirty gray coat which was puffing up on his back.

  And just when the man was halfway in the car, the doors slammed and chopped his legs off at the groin.

  The train moved. Tony screamed.

  The maimed man turned in the aisle and crawled straight towards Logan.

  There wasn't any blood. There was none on the floor, nor on the remnants of the creeper's trousers. The doors apparently were free of blood, too–while Logan, who was sitting with his back to the dark platform, hardly could make them out from such foreshortening. He understood that he once again had become a victim of his own imagination. The man's legs had not been chopped off tonight, this man had not them for a long time...

  If it was a man at all.

  Tony looked in dismay at this stump quickly creeping along the aisle between seats. He could not imagine a disabled person who would behave this way. At home, having fallen from a wheelchair or a bed–certainly, a legless man has no other option than to creep on a floor on his hands. But in a public place, in a subway, and before, obviously, on the street–otherwise how did he get here? The most terrible impression was made by the fact that the creeper did not lift his head at all and almost dragged his face along the dirty floor
...

  As if having heard Tony's thoughts, the freak, now separated from Logan by no more than one and a half yards, began to raise his head.

  But before Tony, who was frozen in horror, had time to see his face, the light shut off in the train, dipping all cars into the absolute darkness of underground.

  Tony could not stand it. He jumped up and blindly rushed away down the aisle, hearing behind him the same sounds of a dragged body. His extended hand ran across a door at the end of the car. In his panic, he could not grasp the handle and began to rummage blindly on glass and plastic. Sounds behind were quickly approaching and Tony thought that he would be seized by his ankle any moment. But his fingers caught the handle, which moved with a click. Tony stepped again into the roaring intercar space blown by an icy wind–but this time in complete darkness. Now he was moving in the opposite direction–not to the head of the train, but to its tail. And at that moment, the next, especially sharp lurch of cars, ruined his balance, knocking the support out from under his feet! But fortunately, already falling into darkness, Tony managed to grab an invisible handrail. For some seconds he stood, grasping the handrail with both hands and waiting in horror for the sound of an opening door behind his back. Then Logan thought that the legless man simply could not reach the handle from the floor, and felt himself grow slightly more confident. He made himself unhook his right hand from the handrail and reach for the door to the next car. On the second or third attempt, he caught the door handle which was wiggling in the dark and entered the next car.