Night Train

by David Quantick

  “There’s someone else here?” Poppy said. “Someone in charge?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Denning said. “Not in charge, no.”

  He came over to the wall again and smiled. Poppy could see that most of his teeth were missing.

  “I don’t suppose you could get me out of here, could you?” he said.

  “Fuck you,” said Poppy. “I’d rather die.”

  “I know that,” said Denning. “But then, I know a lot of things. In fact, I could be very useful to you.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “How useful?” said Poppy.

  * * *

  Banks was now moving his hands with painstaking lack of speed across the back wall. Garland sat on the floor, trying to clear her mind.

  “You’re not being terrifically helpful,” said Banks, feeling his way along the wall.

  “I’m trying to make room in my head,” Garland replied.

  “To do what?”

  “To remember,” said Garland.

  She closed her eyes.

  * * *

  She was in a room. The room was a large cube, and it was full of light. Also in the room were some men in uniforms. The uniforms were covered in medals and badges and ribbons, and they had been made by skilled tailors, so that the size of the wearers’ guts and backsides was concealed as much as possible.

  They were, she now remembered, the generals, and they were to a man a vile crew of stupid old fuckers. She remembered the phrase – a vile crew of stupid old fuckers – because it was one she’d heard her father use at dinner. His dining companion had instantly hissed at him to shut up, but he’d laughed and said something like, they can’t do anything to me, they need me too much. He’d been wrong about that, she reflected now, but that hadn’t made the expression any less true, had in fact confirmed it.

  So now she was in a room with no windows and a great deal of light with the vile crew of stupid old fuckers. Some of them, oddly enough, were rubbing their arms, and complaining about some sort of shot they’d been given earlier.

  “Status symbol, old man,” said one of the fuckers, and laughed. Then he looked around contemptuously.

  “This is it?” he said.

  “Nothing wrong with a decent windowless room,” another general said cheerfully, a man whose breath was so foul Garland was surprised it hadn’t rotted his tongue. “Put ’em in ranting and raving, bring ’em out all quiet and helpful.”

  “This is much more than a room,” said a voice, a voice she knew well. She didn’t need to turn her head to see him or even listen to his voice: the smell of pipe tobacco from his clothes and skin was quite enough. “This is the Disposal.”

  “Like waste disposal?” snorted a general.

  “Very much,” agreed Denning. “Bring him in,” he said.

  The generals parted like a sea of shiny shit (her father’s voice again) as two guards brought in the prisoner. The last time she had seen the prisoner, he had been wearing a general’s uniform, which may have been why his former comrades looked away from him when he came in.

  “Yan!” cried the prisoner. “Collini! It’s me! Prout!”

  If any of those men were in the room, they said nothing.

  “I see you recognise a few old faces,” said Denning to Prout. Denning liked to savour a moment, she realised, and this was a perfect scenario for Denning: he got to test his new toy and at the same time put the fear of God into the people who, in theory, employed him.

  “This way, gentlemen,” he said. “There’s a green room.”

  * * *

  In the green room there was again a lack of windows and a good deal of light, but there was also a trestle table covered in wine bottles and little bowls of nuts. The generals consumed both with extraordinary speed as Denning’s team set up a monitor. After some fiddling with the remote control, one of the scientists nodded to Denning and he clapped his hands for attention.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I trust you have enough to eat and drink.”

  “I could do with a whisky,” said one general, and the others laughed.

  Denning smiled tightly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. He left the room and the team followed. A second later, realising she was still in the room, he returned.

  “This way,” he said. “I’m not leaving you in there with those fucking perverts.”

  “Thank you,” she said, surprised.

  “Not at all,” said Denning. “Whisky,” he said contemptuously. “Like I’m the wine waiter.”

  He closed the door of the green room and, turning to one of his team, said, “Take Prout back to his cell.”

  “But I thought –” she began.

  “Yes,” said Denning. “So did they.”

  He pressed a switch on the wall that she hadn’t seen. The door clicked.

  * * *

  Inside the room, one of the generals, who had been about to go and find a toilet, saw the door apparently lock itself.

  “Did you see that?” he said. “The buggers have locked us in.”

  “Probably for our own protection,” said his companion. “Health and safety and all that rubbish.”

  “Where’s my whisky?” another general said, and everyone laughed, and laughed, and coughed, and choked, until their guts ran out of their softening throats and they suffocated on their own lungs and hearts.

  * * *

  The door opened. Denning looked around. There were tiny broken bottles all over the floor, among other things.

  “Effective,” Denning noted.

  He moved his foot.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “I’ve stood in General Yan.”

  * * *

  “The bottles,” said Garland. “I remember them.”

  “Is that all?” said Banks, massaging his fingertips.

  “Be quiet,” she told him. She stood up and looked around. “Get me on your shoulders,” she said.

  * * *

  “How useful?” Poppy repeated.

  “Very,” Denning said. “You know who I am, Poppy.”

  “Not really,” she said.

  “You know I was important.”

  “And now you’re in a cage.”

  A look of impatience appeared on Denning’s face. He made a visible effort to quash it.

  “I know everything,” he said.

  “Like I said, and now you’re in a cage.”

  “Maybe I’m in this cage because I know everything.”

  “Or because you know everything apart from how to stay out of a cage.”

  Denning made no effort to conceal his impatience now.

  “I can save your life, you silly cow,” he all but hissed.

  “Going now,” said Poppy. “Bye.”

  She began to move down the corridor. Then she stopped, and waited.

  “Poppy!” Denning called.

  She walked back to the cage.

  “What is it?”

  “I can get you off this train,” Denning said. “I can get you off this train and to safety.”

  She thought for a second.

  “No you can’t,” she said finally.

  “Yes I can!” Denning shouted, desperately. “There’s a door – there’s a station – a stopping point.”

  “Go on.”

  “If we can stop the train there, I can – there are people we can reach. They’ll look after us.”

  Poppy looked down at Teddy. His button eyes looked back at her.

  “All right,” she said. “Stand back.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “What are you doing?” Denning said.

  “I’m going to get this door open,” Poppy replied.

  “You can’t,” said Denning. “This one doesn’t have a key. It’s an upgrade and –”

  She ignored him and began kicking the door, as hard as she could.

  It opened, and she stepped in.

  “You did it,” Denning said.

  “I’m impressed.”
r />   He moved towards her suddenly. Startled, she stepped back.

  Something crunched beneath her feet.

  A vial.

  Denning looked at her, aghast.

  “You stupid fucking bitch,” he said. “What have you done to me?”

  Before she could reply, Denning clamped his hand to his mouth. He stared in horror as yellow fluid gushed over it, then grabbed his stomach and vomited gouts of half-digested food.

  “What’s happening?” said Poppy, but Denning was too busy staggering about and crying to reply. He stood up suddenly and frowned.

  “My skin!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ!”

  He struggled with his jacket and, finally getting it off, started frantically scratching his arms. Poppy stared as Denning’s nails scraped deep furrows in his arms.

  “Don’t scratch!” she shouted. “It’ll make it worse!”

  “Fuck that!” Denning shouted back, gouging skin and blood from his forearm. Then he doubled up again.

  “Oh no,” he said. “Oh no.”

  He grasped his stomach, which seemed to be writhing. Then he vomited again, and this time something fibrous and spongy flew out. It spattered on the window in front of Poppy and she jumped back.

  “What was that?!” she shouted.

  “I think…” said Denning, struggling for breath. “I think it was a kidney. Oh God, oh God, this is shit. Fucking balls!” he added, spitting out more.

  He screamed now.

  “This is it!” he shouted. “This is me fucked!”

  And to Poppy’s horror, he began to melt.

  * * *

  “What are we looking for exactly?” asked Banks.

  “Stop wobbling,” replied Garland. “There it is,” she said.

  She dug her nails into the ceiling and found a grille. Garland twisted it until it dropped onto the floor, and shoved a finger into the hole where it had been.

  “What’s that?” Banks asked.

  “Comms,” said Garland. “Communication system.”

  She poked around with her finger and found a small, nipple-sized bump. She pressed it.

  The air was filled with screams.

  * * *

  Poppy screamed as Denning screamed. Her scream was a lot clearer than Denning’s as his face and mouth had begun to collapse.

  He was turning into a kind of soup.

  * * *

  “What the hell?” shouted Banks over the screaming.

  “Poppy!” Garland yelled.

  The screaming stopped.

  * * *

  Denning’s hair ran down his face. His shoulders sagged as his arms lengthened and his fingers began to drip. He began to stagger around the cage, moaning now, as his clothes started to slip from him.

  “Unf,” he said, insistently.

  Poppy closed her eyes and listened to Denning bump into the walls as his remaining bones and muscles fought for control of his liquefying body. She opened her eyes again and watched, transfixed now, as what was left of Denning seeped out of his clothes and began to pool on the floor.

  Soon it was over. Denning’s nails and even his teeth were liquid now, and there was nothing left but a sticky mess.

  Poppy sighed. “Goodbye, Mister Soup,” she said.

  * * *

  And then she heard the voice coming from the grille. It was calling her name.

  “Garland?” she shouted.

  * * *

  “Poppy!” Garland shouted back. “Are you all right?”

  * * *

  “I think so,” said Poppy. “How about you?”

  * * *

  “We’re trapped,” Garland said.

  * * *

  “Let me guess,” said Poppy. “Are you trapped in a large, windowless plastic cage?”

  * * *

  “How did you know?” Garland asked. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Just concentrate on getting us out.”

  There was a pause, then Poppy said, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  * * *

  Poppy stepped over the human broth on the floor and picked up the cool bag in the corner. She opened it.

  “What do you mean?” Garland repeated.

  * * *

  Poppy rifled through the bag. There were three small bottles. Two were sealed and full of a clear liquid, but one had no lid, and most of its contents were missing.

  She looked up towards the grille.

  “Is there a bag in there?” she said. “A bag with little bottles in?”

  * * *

  “Yes!” Garland shouted. “Why?”

  * * *

  “Do not on any account open them,” Poppy said.

  * * *

  “Told you,” said Banks. “Can you get down off my shoulders now?” he added.

  “In a second,” said Garland irritably. “We haven’t opened them,” she shouted at the grille.

  * * *

  “Thank fuck,” Poppy said. “I think they create a chemical reaction when they’re opened. Denning opened one and –”

  * * *

  “Denning?” said Banks. “Is Denning there?”

  * * *

  Poppy looked down at her feet. Soup was seeping towards her boots.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she said.

  * * *

  Banks helped Garland down from his shoulders.

  “Did you hear what she said?” Garland asked.

  “Yes,” Banks said.

  “Of course it’s all hypothetical since, firstly, the bottles are still sealed and, secondly,” he pointed out, “we can’t get the door open.”

  * * *

  “I’m going into my corridor,” said Poppy. “Stand back.”

  * * *

  “What did she say?” Garland asked Banks.

  Seconds later they heard a tremendous battering.

  * * *

  After a few seconds, a crack appeared in the wall. Encouraged, Poppy continued her barrage, until a hole appeared at the bottom the size of a giant mousehole. She bent down, thrust her hand in and started to pull at the wall, first tentatively and then, as it began to crack further, ripping out great chunks.

  Soon she had a hole big enough to crawl through.

  * * *

  “I’m outside,” she called. She could see Banks and Garland in their cage. “Are you still standing back?”

  “We don’t have anything else to do,” said Banks.

  * * *

  “Hi!” Poppy said as she stepped into the cage.

  Suddenly the entire train lurched to one side. Poppy was thrown back against the door, which slammed closed, and then opened again.

  “Everything OK?” asked Garland.

  “Fine, thanks. I met a man called Denning and he melted when I broke one of these bottles,” said Poppy.

  “Denning?” said Garland.

  “One of these bottles?” Banks said nervously.

  “Yes, he turned to gloop in front of my eyes,” Poppy went on, “but it didn’t affect me.”

  “So maybe it only kills men?” suggested Garland.

  “Oh good,” said Banks.

  “We should probably go now,” Poppy said. “Just be careful where you put your feet.”

  * * *

  They tiptoed out of the cage and down the corridor.

  * * *

  “Do you want to have a look?” Poppy asked. “At Denning, I mean.”

  Banks shook his head. Garland thought about it.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, he’s soup. He’s definitely dead.”

  “He’s not coming back from that,” Poppy agreed.

  “Let’s focus on getting out of here,” Banks said.

  * * *

  The next carriage was extremely normal, except that it smelled quite strongly of boiled eggs.

  Banks, Garland and Poppy sat down at a table, and Banks rifled through the kitbag for food and drinks.

  Banks looked at Poppy’s skis, which she had ma
naged to fit into the luggage rack.

  “When did you fetch those here?” he asked.

  Poppy shrugged.

  “Just slid ’em along the corridor as I went,” she said. “You never know when they might come in handy.”

  “No, I do know when they might come in handy,” Banks said. “Which is never.”

  “We’re getting low on cans,” said Garland.

  “Not a problem,” Banks said. “By my reckoning, we should be due a buffet car soon, and if nobody else has beaten us to it there will be more cans.”

  “So long as it’s not soup,” said Poppy.

  * * *

  “The only thing I don’t understand – well, not the only thing,” Poppy began, “is the bit with the air meeting the stuff in the bottle.”

  “Because the air inside was the same as the air outside?” Banks interrupted. “Easy – Denning was a senior official, so he had been injected with an anti-radiation agent for his own protection.”

  “I didn’t –” Garland began.

  “– but the agent was also designed to react with the poison, fatally,” said Banks.

  He sat back and looked smug.

  “That wasn’t my question,” said Garland, a little tersely. She turned to Poppy.

  “I mean, I get that it did for Denning, that was fairly clear. But I don’t see why I didn’t soup up as well.”

  “Soup up?” said Banks, disapprovingly. “That’s not an expression.”

  “It is now,” Poppy replied. “So how come I didn’t soup up?” she repeated.

  Garland shrugged. “Could be a number of reasons,” she said. “Limited field of effectiveness, like you’d have to be standing next to him to be affected as well. Or the air inside was mixed differently, so someone standing outside or in the doorway wouldn’t be souped up as well.”

  “Not a real expression,” Banks muttered. Poppy gave him the finger. Garland gave him two. “Or,” she continued, “your own immune system – who knows what’s inside you? You could be crawling with nanites or something.”

  “Lovely,” said Poppy. “Now I feel itchy.”

  “Now what?” asked Banks.

  “Finish our lunch, then on we go,” Garland shrugged.

  “But first,” said Poppy, and took out the bottles of clear liquid from the chamber.

  “Shit!” shouted Banks. “What the fuck?!”

  “Anyone got any paper?” Poppy asked. Garland gave her some tissues and bits of newspaper. Poppy carefully wrapped the bottles and put them in her pocket.