Westchester Station - the assault

by The Assault--Free(Lit

  "I’ll pay for the damn ticket. Here," and she opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. "How much? Fifty bucks? A hundred?"

  "I’m sorry, but you are not scheduled for this train. You cannot take it."

  "Cannot? What the hell kind of bullshit is this? This is real American money." She waved it in front of his face. "Legal tender anywhere. I’llbuy the ticket!"

  "You should have come to talk to me. I could have explained. We’ll correct that after the train leaves." He turned to the guard next to him. "Are they about ready?"

  The guard said nothing, merely pointed at the train. The only people standing on the platform now were the workers...and those who were not allowed to board. Winstead took a ring of keys from his pocket and started up the line of cars, checking the doors of each and locking them. He gave a short wave to the engineer, then rejoined Gannon. Magdya remained where she was, in the safekeeping of the guards.

  Meanwhile the train waited as the signalman stood in front, his lantern at his side, staring down the tracks. Gannon tugged on Winstead’s arm. "What are they waiting for?"

  "The all-clear signal."

  All-clear? Was there another train on the tracks? She stared but could see little in the darkness, a darkness that appeared to end in a heavy mist. The lights of the station ended abruptly and provided little illumination ahead of the train. Even the engine headlights did little to penetrate the night, almost as if they were afraid to do so. Yet the signalman remained at his post. "How can he see anything?"

  Winstead chuckled. "I don’t know. I’ve never asked. I’m just grateful he can. Now please be quiet; we don’t want to attract their attention."

  "Why, you rude son-of-a..." The rest died on her lips. She suddenly realized that except for the muted hum of the engine, there was no other sound. Even a whispered conversation could be heard by everyone on the platform. Then she realized with a chill that this departure was serious and dangerous.

  She didn’t notice she was holding her breath until the signalman suddenly began waving his lantern. There was a low groan; the train shuddered, then began moving forward. "They have to hurry," Winstead said.

  She looked at him and noticed his face was taut with tension. "Why?"

  "The window is open only for a few minutes."

  "What window?" But his concentration was now focused on the train and he refused to answer. This place is an insane asylum, she thought glumly.

  Meanwhile the train continued on, gradually gathering speed while the signalman continued waving his lantern. Already the engine was disappearing into the darkness, yet its headlights still refused to reveal what lay ahead. She glanced in one of the passenger car windows and noticed each rider was sitting rock still as if afraid to move. The train was moving rapidly now, more rapidly, she was sure, than any train leaving a station had a right to. "I think they’re going to be okay," she heard Winstead say.

  Then she heard something else; an ear-splitting scream that sounded like it came from a shattered soul. It came from behind them and she turned by reflex. She saw the station workers crowded around someone who had collapsed on the platform. She started to walk toward them when she heard Winstead gasp.

  Then she heard something else. It was muted, more like a fading echo or a voice trying to talk through a wall. It was laughter, she realized. Laughter followed by a metallic sound that reminded her uncomfortably of a beer can being squashed. When she looked at Winstead, she saw his face was the shade of a full moon, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. She touched his shoulder gently. "What is it?"

  It took a minute before he could look at her, although she knew immediately he really didn’tsee her. "They didn’t make it," he whispered. He staggered to a nearby pole and grabbed it for support. "They didn’t make it."

  Didn’t make it? What could have happened? Yet she knew without any more reason he was right. "If there was an accident, we have to help them!"

  Then she started for the end of the platform but he grabbed her arm. "No," he said, almost kindly. "There is nothing we can do. It is too dangerous to go out there right now." He pointed to the darkness beyond.

  She stared; was it her imagination or were there shadows moving in the blackness? Flashes of light of varying hues? Yet the unearthly silence remained. Until they heard someone scream again.

  Winstead shook himself. "Come, perhaps we can help her." He put his arm around her waist and led her slowly to the circle of guards surrounding the screaming woman.

  They found Magdya crouched on her knees, hugging herself, rocking back and forth and sobbing uncontrollably. The station master knelt beside her and gently stroked her hair. "It’s over, Magdya. You are safe now."

  She looked up, her eyes as wide and bright as silver dollars. "They’re out there! I can feel them! They’re coming for me!"

  "No, no." He grabbed her hands and tried to pull her to her feet. "You are safe here. They cannot enterWestchester." At least I hope not.

  "Their voices," she said even as she slowly rose. "I can hear their voices!"

  "Don’t listen to them. Whatever you do, don’t listen to them!" He turned and spotted Joe Green standing quietly in the back. "Mr. Green, will you please take her to my office?" He looked down at Magdya and patted her hand. "You’ll be safe there. Nothing can harm you here."

  Green walked to them and reluctantly took Magdya’s hand. On the plantation, he would be beaten or worse if he dared touch a white woman. But he was also the station master’s servant and dare not disobey. As yet at least. "This way," he said and led the stumbling and sobbing woman inside.

  Green was surprised at how quiet the station was now. It was as if everyone knew some sort of disaster had occurred even if he wasn’t sure himself. Grief and despair hung in the air like a fog and the station now appeared nearly as desolate as a graveyard. Green led them directly to the station master’s office. "Try to relax," he told Magdya as he set her in a chair.

  She didn’t let go of his hand. Instead she stared up at him, her eyes still filled with fear. "You’ve got to help me," she said in a cracked whisper. "You’ve got to get me out of here."

  Green frowned. He wasn’t used to being asked for help by whites, let alone white women. He wanted to escape himself, but he still didn’t know how or where. "Master Winstead said you would be safe here."

  "I can’tstay here!" and she dug her nails into his hand, causing him to wince in pain and jerk away. "You’vegot to get me out of here."

  He stepped back, trying to shake the pain from his hand. "If the master says," he offered.

  "Hell with him!" She jumped to her feet, her fear now replaced by anger. "I’m not supposed to be here. I wasbrought here against my will! Where’s a phone? I’m calling the police."

  "I don’t know what a phone is," he admitted.

  "Yeah, right," she said as she approached the desk. She lifted the receiver to the phone resting there. "Then what the hell do you call this?"

  "I don’t know. The master never told me."

  "‘Master’ my ass. What the hell are you anyway, some kind of slave? Grow some balls for god’s sake." She tried to dial, then slammed the receiver back in its cradle. "Damn it, the line’s dead. Ah, hell." She sat back down and began gnawing on a fingernail.

  Green frowned as he considered her remark. Of course he was a slave. Why should she think otherwise? Yet by her statement she didn’t consider him one either. Had he become a free man somehow? Had he reached the northern states after all? He knew he was going to have to talk with Winstead.

  ***

  "What are you going to do now?" Gannon asked Winstead. They were still outside. The guards and most of the other workers were still there as well, standing in small groups, each trying to come to grips with what had just occurred.

  "LeavingWestchester is always hazardous," he said between clenched teeth. "But this is the first time..." His voice faded out and he began staring up at the night sky.

  She touched his arm lightly. "There was noth
ing you could do. It wasn’t your fault."

  He glared at her. "Ofcourse it’s my fault! I am the station master. It is my responsibility and mine alone." Then he turned away from her. "I don’t know." He started walking away.

  She hurried after him. "It might not be too late," she said when she caught up with him. "There still might be survivors."

  He shook his head and grimaced. "Not from them. I’veseen them, heard them. Iknow ." When he spoke again the anger was gone from his voice. "Thank you for trying to help. But there’s really nothing you can do right now. Go back inside. Have the guards take you to my office. I’ll be in shortly."

  She nodded and started back. It was the only thing she could do. One of the guards intercepted her, but only to lead her inside. She followed without question, lost in her own thoughts. If I had been on that train... She still had no idea what had happened, but the results were unarguable even if there was no visible evidence to prove it. All those people. And we could do nothing. Then another thought struck her, one that only increased her feeling of dread. Was that the last train to ever leave here?

  Meanwhile Winstead sat on the edge of the platform, his feet dangling high above the rails. Behind him, the workers were slowly finishing their duties and returning to the station. Would they blame him? He certainly would understand if they did.

  Sighing, he looked up at the night sky. It looked no different than any night sky atWestchester. The stars were muted, the moon a half crescent. If he strained his eyes, he could just discern another moon, this one in its first quarter, near the first. Then he looked down the tracks where the darkness ended in a muted black wall. Even now he could see it twisting and writhing and if he closed his eyes he could almost hear the unholy voices of the creatures which dwelt on the other side. Almost.

  Yet that woman, Magdya. She had heard them. Who is she? Why wasn’t I told? He looked at the manifest in his hand, but there was no need to read it. Her name was not on the list. Nor the escaped slave, Joe Green. And a guard was dead, murdered according to the report.

  And now this. He staggered to his feet. Who else is inWestchesterI don’t know about?You’ve stayed in your offices too long, Robert. He couldn’t avoid the obvious any longer: he was going to have to search the station himself. But he wasn’t going to do it alone. And he knew a few people weren’t going to be happy about that. He headed back inside toward a confrontation he did not look forward to.

  ***

  The faint peal of the gong sent a shiver of fear through Plank. Was this some kind of warning? he wondered. Had someone found the dead guard he had hidden in another side tunnel? He immediately decided that remaining in the main chamber was too dangerous, so he ducked into another of the many smaller tunnels branching off to the side.

  And found himself entering a mosque. He gasped as he looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the liwan rising above him. Real sunlight, not electric light, poured through the glass panels. Despite its height, the room was surprisingly small, and he noticed a Sahn on the other side. He walked into the courtyard and was surprised and pleased to find several date trees ripe with fruit. As he sat beneath a tree chewing on the fruit, he studied the wonders around him. This Sahn was not much larger than the liwan and ended abruptly in the same featureless walls common to the station. Why was there a mosque here? A small chapel he could understand. But surely not enough Muslims visited this station to justify a mosque this size and this complete.

  Still... He finished the date, put a few in his pocket for later, and stood. It had been—how long, months?—since he had practiced Salat. A necessary part of his disguise, his leaders had assured him. In order to save Islam, it was imperative he eschew even the most sacred and necessary rites of his religion. Wear Western clothing, he was told. Drink alcohol if you wish. Do nothing to suggest who you truly are. The infidels will be searching for you, and mosques, and those who worship there, will be under intense scrutiny.

  He had reluctantly agreed. Not practicing Salat, his daily connections with his Creator, was the most difficult and troubling sacrifice for him, however. Now he had the opportunity. But is it safe? Yet there was no one else around and even though, according to his watch, he still had several hours before Maghrib, sunset, he wasn’t sure if it was wise to wait. Especially if that chime meant they might start searching for him. Yet his sense of religious conviction outweighed his other concerns. So he returned to the liwan and knelt in what he hoped was the correct direction, closed his eyes and began to pray.

  "Our communion with Allah is our most sacred and important duty," a voice said. In Pakistani.

  Plank glanced up, startled and alarmed, and saw a cleric approaching. It had been months since he had heard his native tongue. "You are of the ulema?"

  "Yes. I was sent here to help you, Mahoud Sa’an."

  Mahoud Sa’an. He shivered at the sound of his real name. Or at least the name he had adopted when joining the organization. He studied the cleric. The man was dressed in traditional attire. But, he knew, that meant little or nothing. "How did you know I was here? I don’t even know where I’m at or how I got here!"

  "You are here to perform a great deed in the name of Islam and the furtherance of our holy cause. That is all that matters."

  This could be a trap. "What am I to do?"

  "You will know when the time comes. I cannot be more specific. But it is vital that you succeed."

  How could this man possibly be telling the truth? How could anyone have found me? "Who sent you?"

  He gave Plank the name, thereal name, of his leader. And the code word that only those in his cell used. "Complete your prayers," he finished. "Then return to Westchester Station and wait. Your duty will become clear." He then left the mosque.

  Plank complied, although it was difficult to honor the ceremony of Salat when his mind was torn apart with questions. If the ulema representative could not or would not answer them, he would still have to obey. But the thought that he could soon perform a deed in honor of his cause and Allah brought tears of joy.

  ***

  The Westchester Station Winstead reentered was totally different than the one just minutes before the departure. No scattered groups of passengers waited for their train. The magazine stand was closed and abandoned. The vending machines all had signs saying they were out of order. He saw no red caps or guards. Only the coffee shop was still open, for which he felt some relief. Not that he dared drink any. Otherwise he would stay there forever, just like the customers who continued to man each stool.

  He knew he would have to talk to this Magdya and Gannon. But not yet. He needed to talk to someone else first. "I hope she hasn’t left," he whispered as he headed toward the beauty salon.

  Winstead breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the stylist was still there, the "Open" sign still on her door. He entered and tried to force a smile. "Evening, Venus."

  The black woman looked up from the magazine she was reading. "Mr. Winstead. How can I help you?"

  "Just a trim," he said, brushing his fingers through his hair.

  "Have a seat." She busied herself assembling the tools of her trade while he sat in the barber’s chair. "Off the collar?" she asked.

  "Yes." He sat back and closed his eyes as she started on his hair. "You know what happened, of course."

  "Of course," she said over her busy scissors.

  "I don’t know how. Or why."

  "There have been accidents atWestchester before." She kept her voice neutral.

  "Not while I was station master."

  She grabbed a fingerful of hair and trimmed it. "No one is blaming you."

  "I’m not so sure. Betty closed her store. There is no one out there. Except Circe of course, and I’m not sure she counts."

  "Circe, yes. I wish she wasn’t here."

  "I can’t do anything about that. Westchester will make that decision, as you know."

  "I know." She turned her attention to his sideburns. "So what are you going to do now?"

&nb
sp; "I’m going to have to talk with our newest arrivals."

  "Arrivals?" She stepped back in surprise.

  "You didn’t know either? We have at least two whom I wasn’t informed about. There may be more."

  "I think," she said after a long pause, "that perhaps you’ve been spending too much time in your office."

  He sighed. "After tonight, I’m afraid you’re right. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to take them with me."

  "Everyone who comes here comes here for a reason. Just as you first did." Another snip and she stepped back. "There. What do you think?" She handed him a mirror.

  "Perfect as always," he said after studying his reflection for a moment. "I just hope they’ll understand."

  She smiled as she removed the towel around his neck. "You can be pretty persuasive when you have to be. You were a salesman, right?"

  "Advertising account executive," he said as he rose from the chair. "Same thing, actually. Thanks for the advice." He stopped at the door. "You’ll still be here when I get back, right?"

  She made a moue. "I’ve got to make money, honey. If there are no passengers and no workers…" She ended her statement with a shrug.

  "Understood." He set a twenty on the table next to the door, then left. Outside, he studied the cavernous room that was only the first chamber of the station proper. I’m going to have to go in there, he thought. The first time he had explored the station had been at best unusual. Now what awaits me? No, us. Venus was right, he realized as he headed toward his office. He was a salesman. But this was going to be the toughest sell of his life.

  Venus waited until Winstead was out of sight before putting the "Closed" sign in her window. She didn’t like lying to him, but the truth was the truth: as station master, everything in Westchester Station was his responsibility. And she wasn’t convinced he was up to the challenge.

  Sighing, she began the unavoidable task of packing her equipment. She enjoyedWestchester and her customers, but she had at least told him the truth about one thing. Without passengers, without employees, she couldn’t survive financially. There was no ignoring the obvious; it was time to leave.