The Tube
by
Leslie R. Lee
First published in After Hours
The pain finally dragged him out of the darkness and back into the world of the living. With what he hoped was only a very soft groan, he unstuck his eyes and looked around.
The subway car was empty. That was good. Maybe New Yorkers would do their best to ignore some poor bastard bleeding to death. Here in London, though, people might express an unhealthy interest in him. They might not recognize a gunshot wound, but they'd certainly recognize the weapon he carried. And guns were illegal in Britain.
The wound wasn't bleeding as copiously, though he had sacrificed a lot to the bench seat. It wasn't too serious. At least, he hoped it wasn't too serious. He gasped with pain as he struggled to stand. The cars on either side were empty as well. At least the pursuit was over. Now he could think a while. Maybe even get a plan. Or maybe not. Maybe just vegetating was the best thing.
Had someone double crossed him? It was supposed to have been a simple hit. An officially unofficial assassination of a British government type who was on the verge of becoming an unfortunate embarrassment. Caught in the act, they had said. Selling nerve gas to the wrong people. He had wondered at the time when it came to nerve gas, who were the right people. He hadn't asked. He didn't care. He was there because his masters owed the British a favor. The British didn't want one of their own agents doing the nasty work. A little too personal. A little too close to home. No need for any excess emotion that just might complicate things.
Quick and simple.
He sighed. The hit was supposed to have been his last. The one before had supposed to have been the last as well. And the one before that. This one for sure was going to be his last. He would have turned the job down. But the money was too good. Also, there was the unsubtle threat of "unfortunate consequences" should he decide not to cooperate. And they said that they needed a professional. Someone who they could rely upon. Someone who would follow through. Finish it up neat and tidy. With all the death in the world, it was amazing how few people could be counted on to perform simple murder. Of course, doing it right and getting away with it was the trick.
So, a quick and simple trip to London, to quickly and simply terminate a bad person. They would pull the normal protection on the bad guy and he could just waltz right in. He had waltzed in alright. But getting out had been no dance. It was a setup. Had to be. A bad one otherwise he'd never have escaped. Or maybe just a screw up. The old guy had a lover. The lover had a gun. Not like his silenced job, it was a big ugly loud one. Now there were two dead bodies and he was on the run. There'd been too many people at the scene. Too many pursuers. Yet, he'd eluded them. If it was a setup, they had screwed up. If it wasn't a setup, he had screwed up. It didn't matter. He was in serious trouble and that was what mattered.
He didn't like being on the Tube. It always felt like he was on some sort of mobile coffin that alternately interred then exhumed people to the living world. Maybe it was because he was losing blood. And he was beat. But the air felt used up. Like the tons of dirt and rock above him had squeezed all the oxygen molecules right out of the air.
His reflection showed him to be a lot shorter than five seven when he was hunched over in pain. Paler too. Losing blood'll do that. He wiped the sweat off from his face and tried to straighten his clothing. The next stop might bring people on who would be too curious in a dying man. His rain coat hid most of the damage. People would look at him and think he was drunk or sick or something. As long as they thought the dark stain on his clothes was simply paint, he'd be just fine.
He checked the envelope. Half of what he was supposed to earn for the hit. He hoped that he'd get to collect the other half. Normally, he wouldn't carry around this much cash. But on his way out that morning, he'd grabbed it and stuffed it into pants. Foolish. But he did it anyway.
The Tube suddenly shot into a brightly lit station.
The wound stabbed him with pain as his surprise made him straighten abruptly.
"It can't stop," he said to himself.
Sure enough, it didn't. It flashed past the station and plunged back into the darkness of the tunnels.
Usually, the train slowed, then crept gently into the station as if stalking some prey.
He sank down into a seat. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about who was getting on. But he'd also missed the name of the station. He closed his eyes and tried to remember.
They had chased him. He had lost them. He'd stumbled down some stairs. A ticket. Onto the Blue line. Brixton. He'd gotten on the Blue line in Brixton.
Though the map above him was a maze of colored lines, he easily found the Blue line. Brixton was at one end. How long had he been unconscious? His watch said it was late. Past Midnight. These things didn't run all night. So, since he didn't know how fast these things traveled, how long he'd been unconscious, or much about the Blue Line, he knew exactly where he was...
"Up some damn creek," he said himself.
The gentle rocking of the car threatened to send him to sleep again. He got up and waited. He'd just get off at the next station and go from there. Too many variables to plan ahead.
Assuming the train stopped.
It was a big assumption.
The train roared through the next station without even slowing down. But at least he was prepared this time.
Leftminister.
He shook his head groggily. He wasn't familiar with the name.
Why wasn't it stopping? Was it going to wherever these things sleep at night? Did they think that there was no one on board and they could just skip the stations that were empty or closed?
He traced the Blue line trying to find Leftminister. After two passes, it was pretty clear. Leftminister was not on the Blue line. Did these things shift around to different tracks? In that case, he could be anywhere.
Outside the window, the dark walls, inches from the glass, swept by. Thick cables undulated up and down the walls like giant, infinitely long serpents. No clues there.
His first trip on the Tube had been a real experience.
There he was, sitting comfortably in his seat surrounded by commuters. They pulled into a station like so many others. But instead of the usual riot at the doors, every single, living person on the train jumped up and ran down one of those long, white tiled corridors.
The sudden rampage stunned him into temporary paralysis. But like an animal in a stampede, he jumped up and ran after the herd going God knows where. He found his fellow lemmings on another train ready to go further down the line. He was embarrassed to think that he could be so mindless. Yet, there he was, following others perhaps onto the sure death of the tracks.
He had to do something before he lapsed into unconsciousness again.
He'd go down the train to the front and find the driver. He paused a moment. Did these things have drivers? And were they in the front of the back? Maybe he'd run across someone. Ask them what the hell was going on.
He struggled with the door. His weakness let him get stuck between the two cars. The wind tugged noxiously around him as he stumbled into the next car. He limped down the length past empty rows of seats.
The Tube flashed into another station.
Glimdolla.
On one side was the platform. Empty.
Giant advertisements on the other side. Whenever he had to wait at a station, he secretly ogled the giant models selling the latest bras and panties. Other ads promising far off lands of empty beaches and hot sun were too disconcerting. Pure torture to be stuck in the rush hour, far from the surface, on the way to some monotonous job, and gaze upon paradise. How did the Londoners do it? Maybe they felt a certain fondness for these barrows that had protected them from the Nazi blitz. Not him. He didn't even like the name.
The Tube.
It always conjured up images of some unseen giant squeezing people paste all over the city.
He traveled through more cars, all empty, and three more stations. St. Prodia, Bel & Collie, and William's Corner.
Finally, he let his body sink down next to a map. He traced green lines, black lines, and checkered lines. There were names likes Upminister, Elephant and Castle, Bank. There were ways to get to the airport and train stations, museums and theaters, rivers and gardens.
It was pretty clear though.
There was no Leftminister, no Glimdolla., and no St. Prodia. Neither Bel nor Collie were to be found. William did not possess a Corner where you could catch the Tube. He hated to admit it, but he wasn't on the map.
He didn't like what else he knew.
This train was longer than a normal Tube train.
He was sure he had boarded in the middle car.
He had lost track of how many cars he'd travelled through.
And he still couldn't see the front car.
His training told him to sit down and relax.
The train told him to start running.
His wound told him to keel over in a dead faint.
He rested on the bench seat. The emergency pull chain looked invitingly close. A sign said to beware of unattended packages. Do not pull the switch between stations if you see suspiciously innocent boxes. Wait till you're in a station before being blown up by the latest lunatics.
He was afraid to pull the little chain. He knew what would happen. Or what wouldn't happen. His hand kept straying to the butt of the gun nestled under his arm. It was a bad habit. Nervous. But there was only one word to describe his situation. And he hated the sound of it.
Trapped.
He smashed the glass over the emergency chain and waited. The next station would brighten the cars in front giving him a split second warning. He clenched his teeth against the pain caused by stretching up.
The car in front suddenly brightened and he yanked down hard on the chain. How did these things really work? Did they signal somebody? Engage some emergency brake? Turn off the engine? Make the wheels fall off?
He would never know from this experience. McGregor's Point swept by as quickly as all the rest.
It shouldn't have worked and it hadn't. So why the disappointment?
He collapsed into a seat again.
Okay, things weren't normal. The train's too long. It's not stopping. And if he didn't find help soon, he'd bleed to death.
Was it some plot? Some wild and crazy spy thing trying to unbalance his mind? He laughed at the idea. There was no reason. Simply take him. No need even to involve the police. If he had been double-crossed, they'd simply dump his body in the ocean. He had no secrets. At least none that normal interrogation wouldn't force him to cough up. Pretty embarrassing if it got out that an American agent had offed a British government official. That would be worthwhile to somebody, someplace. But this elaborate scheme just for him? No. Something was going on and it wasn't part of the familiar strangeness of agents and espionage.
Come on, what causes a train to stop?
He reached down and pulled his knife out from his ankle sheath.
Better to try anything than succumb to exhaustion.
He shoved the knife between the rubber seals of the door. With only a little grunting, he managed to force the doors open.
Great. The car was now a lot more noisy, windy, and smelly.
"Well, it'd work on an elevator," he said to himself, replacing the knife.
He judged the speed of the train to be about sixty miles an hour.
His scars and mended bones were grim reminders that thirty miles an hour was about tops for exiting from moving vehicles and keeping all his important parts intact. If he leaped out at sixty, they'd be scraping him up with a spatula.
Suppose he was stationary and the outside was what was moving?
It brought grim laughter to his lips, while he looked out the door.
No, the train was moving.
And he'd better be moving too.
He continued forward, feeling weaker all the time. He was catching his breath, when Quillsop sped past. He almost missed it. Or rather missed them.
There were people standing at the station.
He yelled, and almost laughed in relief.
Then he examined the image caught so briefly in his mind. There was something wrong. They all stood close to the edge of the platform. Not many. About six. But they didn't turn their heads nor move. They just stood there. That was wrong. They should've been doing something. Didn't they care that their ride home was leaving?
He tried to ignore the sudden feeling that somebody was running steel fingernails up and down his spine. Being alone suddenly didn't seem so bad anymore.
He struggled through more cars. Maybe it was all a dream brought on by his wound.
He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them up again. He was still on the train. Fear and thirst clogged his throat. He wished he had a drink. Fear was okay. He knew it well. Thirst however was a real pain.
He shrugged his rain coat off. No need to hide the blood now.
Morbenton flashed by. There were more people. They just stood there. There were some women, but mostly men. He was sitting close to the window, trying to look out.
Something hit the window.
He fell back choking back a cry, then gasping out in agony as the pain tried to sheer his head off at the neck. He fought the blackness away and struggled to remain conscious.
Somebody had leaped at the train, hitting the glass. He could see the smudge. He realized that he was holding his gun in a shaking hand. Carefully, he reholstered it. No need. Not yet anyway.
He pulled himself back up and got back into his seat.
He decided to wait.
At Komancopse, more leaped at the train. Their bodies bounced off, sometimes leaving blood on the windows. He didn't know what they thought they were doing, but he was glad the glass was good and thick. The darkness of the tunnels was a welcome now. He rested his head on his arms.
He snapped awake.
The door.
He left the door open in the other car. He staggered to his feet and started on his way back. One part of him told there was no way that anyone could jump onto a train moving at sixty miles an hour through an open door. Another part told him that if they did, there was no way that they could survive. The last part told him that if they did jump on and they did survive, he didn't want to meet them. And better be safe than sorry. A motto he had survived by.
He hurried as best he could. They'd had two chances already. No need to provide them with a third.
He looked through the door into the car with the open door. From what he could see, it was empty. Just trash blowing around on the floor. If anyone was on board, they were either hiding, or had gone backwards.
Now was a good time for guns. He opened the doors and went in carefully. There was no way that he could sneak in. If somebody had a gun, he was dead the second he entered the car. But no bullets came streaking out at him. He ignored the door and continued down the car checking each seat. No one. If somebody had already gotten on, they had gone backwards. He put the gun away and used his tie to secure the door going towards the rear. When in doubt, act paranoid. That was another good motto. He sighed and leaned tiredly against the door.
The car suddenly brightened as the train entered another station.
The boy timed it perfectly. Or perhaps it was pure luck.
The door clipped him as he came through. The agent dove to avoid him.
The boy spun around in the air before he smashed through a pole. His body somersaulted, hit three benches, and finally crashed onto the floor. Blood was everywhere. He was contorted so awkwardly that every single bone in his body had to be broken.
Even so, the agent's gun never left the body. He braced himself against the back of the seat. His body had settled on three courses of action: Shoot, run, or shoot then run. His mind finally clicked back in. He wasn't going to shoot, he decided. And there wasn't any place worth running to.
First things first. He got up, his eyes never leaving the body, and walked to the door. Reluctantly, he holstered his weapon. He grabbed one of the doors and pulled it shut. The other door automatically came to meet it. At least no one else would be jumping onto the train.
Gingerly, he approached the body. It was a boy alright. He couldn't have been more than fourteen, maybe fifteen. And he was a mess. His face was badly damaged. Blood seeped from random spots all over his body. He looked like a rag doll that someone had tossed into a disposal.
He had seen worse. But those people had been dead. This one labored to breathe like someone about to join the them.
"Hey," he said, crouching over the boy. "You okay?"
He felt stupid the moment he said it.
The boy worked his eyes open. "Been better, mate," he croaked out. He even tried smiling. "Can you help me?"
"Uh, sure. We need to get you to a doctor." More like a coroner.
"I was trying to get on."
"There are easier ways."
"Not for us."
"Oh yeah? Who are you?"
"I'm lost."
"Your name. What's your name?"
"No names down here." Why?
"Okay. Where is here?"
"Don't you know?"
"Nope."
The boy managed to laugh a little. It sounded like bones crunching together.