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To my boys
Dream, darlings, dream...
Prologue —
"...you guys are gonna look like Poppies in a
field of daisies.”
-Adam to Alan
She is dreaming.
Mama and Pappy are smiling as the train rolls down the track Mama is so beautiful and happy. Strands of her golden hair have fallen from her usually well-kept bun. She looks over at Pappy. He smiles lovingly at his wife and brushes a wisp of loose hair out of her clear, hazel eyes.
“Jobeth will be so surprised,” Pappy says in a faraway voice. His dark eyes twinkle, full of life.
The conductor is walking up the aisle.
“MAMA! PAPPY! RUN! GET OUT OF THE TRAIN!”
The conductor is an elderly gentleman of about seventy years. He is dressed in black trousers and a matching black blazer. A black cap rests comfortably on his balding, pale head. His shiny black shoes stop at Mama and Pappy’s seat.
“YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! RUN! RUN!”
The conductor tips his hat and smiles at Mama, his lips becoming smooth and unwrinkled.
“Is there a problem?” Pappy asks curiously.
The noise in the train is getting louder. A baby held to a plump breast in the next coach cannot be quieted and continues to cry in protest. The baby’s fists are balled up and it’s face is scrunched up in anger, fighting off some menacing creature no one else can see.
The conductor places a blue-veined hand on the red velvet seat. Blood seems to billow around his knobby digits. Mouth gaping open, he looks out the window beside Mama.
“HURRY--IT IS ALMOST TOO LATE! HURRY--GET OUT! MAMA!
PAPPY!”
The noise is increasing. The baby continues to cry louder and louder. The mother, frustrated, makes noises into the wiggling baby’s red face. She cannot understand her child’s behavior.
Two gentlemen dressed in dark suits look up from the card game they are enjoying. They turn toward their window, mouths opened in surprise.
Or is it fear?
The noise in the coach is getting louder. There is an odd smell clinging to the air. A sweet, sickly smell. The smell of doom. The smell of certain death.
“What is the problem?” Mama asks. Concern creases her smooth brow. She stands up in her seat and glances around frantically.
Pappy reaches for her arm to soothe her. The conductor raises his old hand. It is shaking and blood is streaming down his arm, sliding into the waiting hole of his sleeve. His rumpled lips flap up and down like sheets on a clothesline. He defiantly shakes his raised hand at the window. Droplets of blood sprinkle Pappy’s clean white shirt and Mama’s hair. They do not notice the blood. They are looking at the old man’s fixed gaze.
“MAMA! PAPPY! NO! NO!”
Terror fills their eyes. The train reeks of fear. It is a fear that emanates from the very soul of each person on the train. They are going to die--they are going to die horribly and they know it.
Mama looks at Pappy sadly and clutches his hand tightly.
“I love you, Constance.” Pappy says above the whirling noise.
“I love you, too, Michael” Mama mouths, her voice lost amongst the jumble of other fearful voices. “Jobeth . . . “ Mama chokes out. A tear rolls from Pappy’s dark eyes as he embraces his wife.
“God help her.” Pappy breathes into Mama’s hair. He buries his face into her shoulder and squeezes Mama tight, knowing it would be the last time he would ever feel his wife again.
Suddenly the train is lifted off the tracks. Screams echo through the compartments as the occupants are tossed around like misfit rag dolls that a spoiled child no longer wants.
The hurricane sweeps the train into its vortex like a toy, crushing the conductor, crushing the card-playing gentlemen, crushing the now-silent baby.
As quickly as it began, it ends. Everything is silent. There is no noise to be heard, except the crackle of flames starting to grow from the engine. The bodies of the passengers are twisted and mangled together, indistinguishable from one another. Blood flows freely from wounds and misshapen bodies.
There is Mama. Pappy is nowhere to be seen. Her leg is twisted at an impossible angle. Debris covers her midsection. She is blanketed in blood. Her eyes are closed. A choking sound gurgles out of her bloody throat. Her fingers reach out into a mushy mass of severed arms and legs, searching for someone who is not there. She reaches in vain. Her broken fingernails dig into wet gore, aching for a comforting touch.
Suddenly she feels the deep rumble that fills the air.
Mama opens her one good eye in panic. It rolls madly around in its socket searching futilely. Mama sees it coming directly toward her. A fiery ball of angry orange rolls quickly over the train. A wet bubble of a scream squeaks out of her blood-soaked throat just before she is consumed by the inferno’s sphere of death.