New Flash Fiction: Last Train

Today's story reflects one of those experiences – or nightmares – we've all experienced. Waiting on the platform of a deserted railway station late at night for the last train home. Will it ever come – or will something worse arrive in its place? Our author is Jacey Bedford, is a British writer of science fiction and fantasy with short stories published on both sides of the Atlantic and a novel – Empire of Dust – just published by as part of a three book deal. Jacey is a member of the SFWA.


Last Train
by Jacey Bedford


It's a freezing cold station on Christmas Eve. The platform is deserted, the ticket hall closed. My breath puffs clouds into the air in the flickering light from the overhead. 

I glance at the clock. Ten-fifteen. The last train is due at any moment.

Tick. Ten sixteen.

I stamp my feet, but they're numb. All of me is numb.

Tick. Ten seventeen.

I shove my hands into my pockets. All I want is to get home to you.

Pop. The furthest overhead light dies at the north end of the platform.

Tick. Ten eighteen.

Can I smell cinnamon? My insides ache for a hot drink. I investigate the coffee machine on the platform. Out of order. Damn.

The cinnamon lingers. I imagine my fingers wrapped around a glass of mulled wine, spicy and warm. In my mind I see you sip yours and smile. Your hair is haloed briefly in candle light.

I miss you so much.

Tick. Ten nineteen.

Pop. Another overhead flickers and dies. 

Pop. Another. Cascade failure. The darkness creeps towards me light by light.

Pop. Pop. Pop. The overheads on the opposite platform succumb. How long before they all go?

Tick. Ten twenty.

I wish I was home already, my arms round your waist, breathing in the scent of your hair.

Tick. Ten twenty-one.

A boot sole scuffs on concrete. I turn. A stooped figure shuffles on to the platform from the car park gate and stands, leaning on a cane, wheezing.

"Train's late." My attempt at conversation falls flat.

Pop. The overhead at the south end of the platform fails.

Pop. The next one.

Pop.

Now I'm standing in the last pool of light.

Tick. Ten twenty-two.

"Do you think we've missed it?" I ask.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like a death rattle.

Far along the track I see a pinpoint of light.

Flushed with relief I grin. I'll be home soon.

Soon.

I can't wait.

The light grows bigger.

And bigger.

In a billow of steam the train pulls into the station. (Steam? What's that all about?) It makes no sound. A single door in front of me opens and a sickly yellow light spills out. I step forward at the same time as the old man.

He turns. I see his face. His skin is parchment over bone, his eyes empty sockets. A single maggot wriggles from the cavity that was his nose.

I gulp and step back. "After you, sir."

He hobbles aboard and beckons. 

I don't think so.

Another desiccated face stares out from the carriage window. It's you. A tear rolls down your cheek.

A whistle blows. I hear a faint, "All aboard."

Heart pounding, I hesitate for too long. The door slams in my face and the silent train pulls away. The overhead lights bloom again, yellow as chrysanthemums.

It's a freezing cold station on Christmas Eve. The platform is deserted, the ticket hall closed. My breath puffs clouds into the air in the flickering light from the overhead. 

Stations are all the same. I feel as though I've been here a thousand times before.

I glance at the clock. Ten-fifteen. The last train is due at any moment.