Down World by Rebecca Phelps (beach read TXT) 📗

I continued to make my way through the train, car to car. It looked like every car had once served a purpose—the dining car, the ladies’ lounge car, even a library car. It was as if at one point, in some world long ago, this had been the luxury liner of train travel, the Titanic of railroads. But now, like the Titanic itself, it was nothing but a carved-out shadow, a bleak reminder of the destructiveness of time. The books in the library car were scattered and ripped, their pages torn out and blowing like oversized snowflakes in and out of the windows.

The train moved on, passing through tunnels and dark, towering woods. And it didn’t stop. Time moved on, too, and I began to realize the sad truth that it probably never would. Maybe I was right the first time. Maybe I had died.

I thought of Catholic school. My teachers had never been the superstrict cliché of Catholic nuns, but they were true believers. My seventh grade math teacher, Sister Linda, had stopped class once when a group of boys was being too rowdy and reminded us that hell held a special place for bad children. I thought she was crazy. And I remember thinking that it was a perverted and warped thing to say to a group of twelve-year-olds.

Now I wondered if she was right. I thought back on the things I had done. I’d lied to my father. I’d tried to lure Brady away from his girlfriend. And I’d spent the night with Kieren. We hadn’t done much. Just kissed. But was that enough? Was I condemned to ride this train for all eternity as a result? Could God really be that cruel?

Suddenly, I heard giggling. I didn’t recognize it at first. It seemed like such an impossible thing on this train. But when it came again, riding a wave of sound from somewhere several cars away, I was sure that I hadn’t been mistaken.

I made my way to the next car, and as I took the first step, I gasped. In this car, whole boards were missing from the floor, and the track passing beneath was only inches from my feet. One more step and that would have been the end of me. I caught my breath and walked more carefully, tiptoeing my way on the firmer boards to the other end.

The car after that was something I never would have expected. It had been carefully boarded up, from floor to ceiling, by someone who had taken great care to cover every opening. And in the absence of natural light, it had overhead bulbs hanging from electrical cords and buzzing with a soft glow. It hadn’t occurred to me that this train would have electricity. The car was dedicated to one purpose: it seemed to be a large walk-in pantry. Piles of food were stacked, very carefully, in neat rows up and down the length of the car. Cans of soup on one side. Boxes of ramen on another. And even baskets of fresh fruit, arranged by size. Apples and nectarines in one basket. Grapes, berries, and walnuts in another. Bananas on their own, so as not to rot the neighboring fruit. Someone had given this car a lot of thought. Or else they just had a lot of time on their hands.

And then I heard another giggle.

The next car was an actual living area, complete with floral wallpaper and curtains made from a patchwork of dark fabrics hanging by the windows, tied back with ribbons. A plush-looking couch was half covered in what appeared to be books from the library car, some clearly taped together with whatever tape was available, and in some cases tied together with string like Christmas presents waiting to be unwrapped.

The giggling came from the next car up. I tried to think of how many doors I had already passed through. Maybe a dozen? So was I nearing the front of the train, then? Or did this train have no front?

I tentatively pushed open the door at the end of the car and stepped onto the platform, seeing that I no longer recognized any of the scenery around me. I wasn’t sure if I should push open the next door, as it seemed that someone was probably living in there. In the end, I decided to knock, not wanting to be rude.

The giggling stopped. I stood in the chill of the wind blowing between the cars, starting to feel a sense of vertigo at the passing of the track beneath me and grasping the flimsy chain that kept me from falling out. I started to feel that if the door didn’t open soon, I would have to push it open and let myself in, because I couldn’t stand to remain there on that exposed platform for too much longer.

Then the door opened. The girl who stood before me, a look of complete shock and even fear in her eyes, was at once a total stranger to me and at the same time had a face that had been haunting me for months.

It was Piper McMahon. Beautiful, lost, and tortured Piper McMahon was living on this train. And an awkward glance at her feet and back up revealed that she wasn’t wearing very much, but was instead covering herself with some sort of tapestry. She looked like a movie star, as though her hair had been styled to fall over her shoulders just so.

“Baby, who is it?” came a man’s voice behind her.

“I don’t know,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s a girl.”

I started to wobble, and for one horrific moment, I thought I might actually fall. I grabbed for the chain to my right, but its swinging motion hardly helped to steady me.

“Whoa, whoa,” Piper said, tucking the tapestry into itself like a towel after a shower and putting her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t fall off now. You just got here.”