Dark Portal 2/Dark Portal 2.adf/TEXT/Screaming Express

Text File | 1992-09-02 | 6KB | 120 lines

@ SCREAMING EXPRESS

# By Andrew Campbell 1993


 The underground train came to a gradual halt at Chalk Farm and the
dirty, metal doors squealed open.
 Mark Ramsey came clattering onto the platform carrying a small, black
briefcase. A rushing, red-faced teenager bumped his shoulder and
carried on without apologising.
 "Ignorant sod!" Mark shouted. He swung back around and skidded to a
halt. At the opposite end of the platform he could see a plump,
middle-aged railway attendant crouched beside a fallen old man.
 "Hey," he shouted, voice bouncing from the walls. "Hey is he alright?"
 "Nothin' I can do," the attendant yelled back. "He's dead."
 Mark's eyes widened. "Dead?"
 "Hey mister, doors are closin'." the attendant boomed. "Get outa here.
I can handle this."
 Mark took a sharp breath and leaped through the narrowing gap in the
railway carriage doors. He stood on his tiptoes and thrust his brief
-case forwards.
 "Alright." He whispered. A rare thing had just happened: he had
successfully boarded the train.
 As the underground platform began to drift past the windows, Mark made
his way down the deserted compartment, hanging on to the silver rails
above the seats. There was an unpleasant smell of tobacco and chewing
gum lingering in the air.
 He sat down, just as the windows turned black and the noise of the
speeding wheels increased. He looked around at the empty seats and
shivered ; the carriage seemed oddly lacking in atmosphere and, staring
out at the dark, endless void beyond the windows, he felt completely
isolated from the world.
 The fluorescent lights on the roof flickered.
 Gently rocking with the motion of the speeding train, Mark looked
upwards. As though his eyes could drain their power, the lights blinked
out and the carriage turned black.
 "Oh for God's sake," Mark cursed and stood up. There was nothing for
him to see, but plenty to hear ; the train was travelling so fast now,
it sounded to be screaming like a tortured soul.
 Seconds passed...
 Minutes.
 Light suddenly exploded in from the windows forcing Mark to fall back
into his seat with surprised relief. The over-head lights came back on,
once again revealing the dull, vandalised interior of the carriage.
 The train halted jerkily at a platform that was generously sign-
posted "OLDTOWN SWITCH". Mark took out a small map of the railway from
his coat pocket and examined it.
 "What...?" he whispered to himself, following the blue and red lines
across the diagram with his finger. "There isn't a bloody Oldtown.
Where the hell am I?"
 The doors of the carriage opened up and an old man dressed in near
rags came staggering inside. He was completely bald, his head was pale
and grotesquely shrivelled, and his eyes were as black as charcoal.
 Mark said nothing when the man sat down opposite him. He pretended to
concentrate on his map. But he was fully aware of those frightening,
lifeless eyes observing him.
 The doors closed and the vehicle began to move again.
 Out of the corner of his eye, Mark watched the seemingly non-existant
underground station slide past the window. Then slowly, almost mechani-
cally, he allowed his gaze to shift to the ghostly old man.
 Mark had never before seen such a repulsive, monstrous human being.
 The man's skin was so thin and white it seemed almost transparent.
There were thick, purplish-blue veins in his neck that seemed to
pulsate, and beads of runny mucus wobbling under his gigantic,
misshapen nose.
 The train began to howl and scream as it rocketed through the black
tunnels beneath the city. The lights danced on and off, cold air
seeping in from the tiny gaps around the doors blew sweet wrappers and
cigarette ends around until they formed minature tornadoes. The pale,
wrinkled monster leaned left and right, bobbed up and down, and stared
perpetually at Mark through eyes darker than the underground tunnels
themselves.
 The lights died again and Mark tensed in his seat. He fumbled with
the map until it was back inside his pocket, then started to fidget
furiously.
 The train shrieked and bright yellow sparks began to bounce against
the glass outside.
 "Something's wrong." Mark said to the blackness, his voice merely a
croak. "Hey mister, can you hear me?"
 Nothing.
 Mark's limbs began to stiffen. Pulsations of fright swirled before
his eyes, churning the darkness into a confusing web of animated
colour.
 Sparks pattered against the window and the old man's grinning face
shimmered for a split second like fireworks revealing a golden
gargoyle.
 Mark tried to rise up from his seat but he couldn't. There was no
physical obstruction stopping him, but his body seemed to have been
drained of all it's energy.
 He groped blindly with his hands for a suitable grip, found a hand-
rail and lifted himself up by a few inches, but his legs gave way and
he collapsed back onto the seat again, coughing with exhaustion.
 The train emmited a final, ear-splitting, scream before shooting out
into the brightness of another underground station. The lights on the
roof came back on and the circling sweet-wrappers on the floor
scuttled underneath the seats like insects.
 Once again, the doors hissed open.
 Squinting, Mark wearily sat up and looked out of the window at the
empty platform. His gaze then drifted back inside the carriage.
 Sat where the monster had been was a young, rather handsome man... a
man who Mark found horribly recognisable.
 Mark watched this man pick up a black briefcase and smile vaguely.
Mark tried to shout with anger and protest, but the voice he heard was
merely a feeble, crackly whimper.
 When the man scampered to the doors, Mark staggered after him. His
stomach was bloated and he could feel liquid splashing around inside
it. He looked at his hands and saw big, heavy bones wrapped in crinkly
skin.
 "Nooo..." he wailed. "Nooooooo...."

 A railway guard, stood with his hands behind his back, watched a young
business man with a black briefcase walk briskly to the exit tunnel. He
then observed a repulsive creature slither out of the train and
collapse onto the platform.
 Instead of helping the fallen man, the guard wrinkled up his nose and
looked in the opposite direction.
 Poor bastard will be better off dead anyway, he thought.