Dead Things by Matt Darst Page B

voice.” But his way is to avoid public attention. So he keeps to himself, knowing that the tunnel, the subway, will soon silence her phone. But not soon enough.
    “Hello?” she bellows. “Oh my God, I thought I had lost you!”
    “Fullerton,” the mechanized voice announces. “Change for the purple and brown line trains at Fullerton. Doors closing.”
    Peter turns to page five, an article about a prison riot in Mississippi orchestrated by some nut job named Ira Ridge. The prisoners have control of a cell block. It’s day three, and negotiations have broken down. The warden and several guards are feared dead…
    Then he hears it: something like a muffled scream over the clickity-clack din of the wheels grinding against ancient rails. He surveys the cabin.
    No one returns his gaze. They are all like him, eyes down, their heads plugged with ear buds, totally ignorant of each other’s existence. No one stirs.
    Perhaps , Peter thinks, a squeaky brake-pad . He starts to read his newspaper again.
    A muted male voice cries again. “Help.” It’s unmistakable.
    Peter snaps to attention, dropping the Trib to his side. Still the other passengers do not move.
    Then the pounding starts…
    …from behind him.
    Peter whips about and stares out the rectangular window of the emergency exit. About two feet separate his car from the lead. A narrow catwalk guarded by ropes of thick chain forms a causeway. During a crisis, passengers should use the emergency doors to move forward from car to car until able to safely disembark.
    The sun’s shimmer on the window bounces his image back. He looks intently for several seconds, trying to identify the source of the noise. A flicker of a shadow skips across the window as the train passes a tree, briefly allowing Peter to peer into the illuminated cabin.
    There is movement.
    Lots of movement.
    Peter’s face moves in, closer to the window. He cups a hand over his brow, almost presses his nose against the glass.
    Again, just his mirror image, perhaps a shadow on the other side of the reflective pane.
    Then, another flicker, silhouettes of a number of people, bodies all seemingly crowding into the rear of the passenger car. They are trying to push past each other toward the exit, toward Peter.
    The scene is wiped away by the sun again. The effect is like a strobe light, the view outside Peter’s window rapidly alternating between a stark reflection and a panorama of commuters. They seem to move in slow motion as they struggle.
    Peter feels G-forces press him against the door. The train starts a gradual dive, a twenty-degree descent that takes it into the subway’s mouth.
    The stifled screaming of one voice becomes several, the pounding of fists more intense.
    As the train dips into the darkness, the light of day disappears.
    “What the…” Peter mouths as he peers into the forward car.
    The forward cabin is fully illuminated, but his view is obscured by hands and faces pushed against the window.
    They’re trying to get out , Peter realizes.
    He sees their desperation. They can’t escape because they are pressed against the door and the door opens in. Is there a fire? They are either going to die under their own weight or burn to death!
    And then the blood.
    Not a trickle.
    Not a smatter.
    A shower…a fountain.
    The window goes red, opaque, except for the streaks of fists pounding on the glass.
    He thinks he sees someone—one of the homeless?—biting…
    Peter gulps hard.
    ...biting into the face of a middle-aged man. The man flails his arms and screams, his hands striking the window casing. The homeless man pulls him down to the floor.
    Peter’s mouth goes agape, his eyes wide. There’s no fire. This is something worse.
    He spins, finds his fellow passengers sedate. They don’t know, so he tells them, “There’s a problem in the next car!”
    Seated and standing alike, the passengers stare at him with contempt. How dare this lunatic interrupt the isolation of their morning