Not insects, but spiders
.
Screwball gives a panicked cry and holds the door as tightly shut as he can. The only thing he finds more terrifying than Clarabell the
fucking clown is spiders. He looks down at the floor. It's too dark to see anything, but he imagines the arachnids have gotten past the gap between cars and are somehow flooding under the door. He rapidly stomps his feet.
“
Stanley
.”
Screwball stops stomping. Someone just said his name from the other side of the door.
“Stanley, you there?”
The voice is unmistakeably his father's. But Screwball's father didn't raise no fool, so the obvious question is: how in the hell could Joseph Eugene Jacobs be on the other side of this door when just moments before it was a spider-spewing monster?
“I ain't lettin' go of this door,” Screwball says. “Whatever you are, it ain't workin'.” He looks through one of the windows. There's no sign of anyone or anything.
“Stanley, open the door. You gotta let me through.”
“The hell I do,” Screwball replies. “You ain't my dad, and even if you were, I hate you.”
“Stanley, you gotta understand, we moved to New York for you. There was nothing for you back home. We gave you a golden opportunity."
"You didn't gimme shit. You made me and Mom move here because
you
wanted to be closer to that airline whore you was screwin' - and stop calling me Stanley. You know how I hate it.”
No reply.
Screwball looks through the window again. “Hey, you still there?”
The lights in the car briefly flicker
.
“Screwy, it's Wiley. Open the door.”
Screwball doesn't so much as twitch.
“Screwy, open the goddamn door. It's insane out here.”
“I can't see you - how do I know you're you?”
“For fucksake, Stan, Amanda is after me. She's not human. She's killing everyone. Now open the fuckin' door or I'm gonna die!”
“I still can't see you.” Screwball says. “You gotta try and lemme see your face.”
A few seconds pass, after which, Wiley's unmistakable silhouette appears in the doorway opposite.
Screwball sighs with relief and pulls open the door. “Man, thank Christ it's-”
The LCD information and notice displays spring to life and the lights in the car begin to flicker rapidly.
Screwball's blood turns to ice and his skin goes all prickly. It isn't Wiley standing in the opposite doorway, it's the Jeff-Thing, and it looks like a living abomination. It steps into the car and holds onto either side of the door frame. Its fingernails are now so very long.
“Do you want to know why your father ran off with a whore?” it says in a baleful tone. “He did it because you were the result of his seed, and he couldn't bear to look at you.”
Screwball shakes his head and backs away.
“He did it because he always wanted a little girl, something he could love in his own special way.”
“You shut the hell up!” Screwball shouts. “My dad is a lot of things, but he ain't no child abuser!”
“It's why your mother slit her wrists, tried to kill herself.
She knew
, Stanley.”
Screwball slams his hands over his ears. “I don't wanna hear this!”
The Jeff-Thing's mouth drops open and the tip of a black tongue slithers into view.
By this point, Screwball should be running. He knows it, he's even telling himself it, yet there he stands, strangely hypnotized by the flickering of the lights and outlandish events playing out before him.
The Jeff-Thing's tongue is now protruding beyond its drooping mouth - only, it isn't a tongue. It's the head of a snake.
“What in the hell,” Screwball mutters. He has no idea what kind of snake he's looking at. All he knows is that he's terrified of it almost as much as he is, spiders.
The snake drops to the floor with a thud. Screwball stares at it with a mixture of disbelief and horror. He looks up and sees another snake head appear from the widening abyss that is the Jeff-Thing's mouth. This one is thicker than the last, and immediately issues an incensed hiss.
Somewhere inside Screwball's mind, a decision has been made: enough is enough; it's time to skedaddle. Snapping into action, he turns and sprints along the empty aisle to the sound of his heart drumming inside his head. No more trying to keep this
thing
at bay. He's going to run and run and run, and, in the meantime, pray to God that something gets in the way of himself and
It
before he runs out of train.
*
01:48 am ...
A solitary soul standing on the Canal Street platform throws his arms up into the air when it becomes apparent the train isn't stopping.
Barbara looks worried. “This isn't right. Why isn't the train stopping?”
“Maybe the driver's dead,” Amber replies. “Took a heart attack at the controls.”
“Even so,” Barbara says. “The people who oversee all the trains on the different lines can cut the power, stop the train, even re-route it. Why aren't they doing anything? We could crash into the back of another train if this keeps up for very much longer. I know about this kind of thing.”
Michael can see Barbara is quickly working herself into a frenzy. “Maybe they're trying. Maybe there's something happening that's temporarily beyond their control.”
“Why don't we just pull the emergency cord?” Wendy asks.
“Because you're not supposed to,” Michael replies.
Wendy looks confused. “But isn't this an emergency?”
“You're not allowed to use it for this sort of an emergency.”
“He's right,” Barbara says. “You're only supposed to use it if someone gets caught between the doors - or between cars, God help them
Wendy touches the small metal door in front of the box encasing the brake. “It doesn't make any sense that we can't use it for other stuff.”
“Please, Wendy, don't,” Michael says. “If you pull it, we'll be locked in with no way out until the cops arrive.”
“But wouldn't that be a good thing?” Wendy asks.
“It wouldn't be good for me,” Amber says. “I killed a man tonight.”
Amber's statement is met with blank stares from both women. Michael, however, has
what the fuck
written all over his face.
Wendy starts to giggle. “You're really funny.”
Amber smiles. She can afford to. Despite Michael's words, she knows the engaging of the emergency brake can't keep either of them on board.
Barbara clutches her bag to her chest. “Well I don't think it's funny, joking about killing people.”
“As long as it's just a joke,” Michael says. He throws Amber
one of those looks
.
Amber responds with a wink and a smile. “We should keep moving.”
One by one, they step into the adjacent car. Michael is in the process of helping Barbara safely inside when someone else enters at the opposite end.
“He doesn't look too happy,” Amber comments.
The young man in the #44 Yankees jersey comes striding boldly towards the group. “Am I glad to see you people.” He glances over his shoulder. “You won't believe what's been goin' on.”
Barbara grips Michael's arm. “I think we should go back.”
Michael gives Barbara's hand a squeeze. “It's okay. Let's hear what he has to say.”
“What's been happening?” Amber asks.
“There's ... these things ... look like people but they're not. Girl is called Amanda and the guy is called Jeff. Spiders and snakes come outta Jeff's mouth and he has these real funky eyes – like lizard eyes - and he can pretend to be your friends and family, talk just like 'em.”
Amber folds her arms. “I'm sorry, that's just way too random for me.”
“I think this guy's on drugs,” Wendy says.
“I resent that remark,” the young man says to Wendy. “Booze, I'll yield to, but drugs ... they don't inflate my boat. My name's Stan, but my friends call me Screwball.”
“Okay,
Stan
,” Amber says.
Stan gets somewhat uneasy at the sound of his name. “I insist you call me Screwball - or Screwy, even.”
Amber leans over to Michael and whispers in his ear. “The parking garage.”
Michael gives a near imperceptible nod.
“I think we should all get as far away from here as possible,” Screwball says. “Cuz all your worst nightmares are comin'.”
The door at the end of the aisle opens and a man enters the car.
Screwball instinctively steps back. “Aw shit.”
“That's our worst nightmare?” Amber says. “A guy in a sweater?”
Wendy giggles.
“It ain't funny,” Screwball says. “He killed my friends.”
The man remains motionless at the other end of the aisle.
Still clutching her bag to her chest like it's the most precious thing in the World, Barbara says: “I don't like this. I don't care about their stupid regulations and rules. We should pull the emergency cord.”
“That's a good idea, lady,” Screwball says. “But first we gotta make some space between
us
and
It
.”
Michael looks to Amber for guidance on the matter, but she can offer no good reason as to why these people shouldn't isolate themselves from a potential threat.
“But it's just a normal guy,” Wendy says.
Screwball make
s his way past Wendy. “That is
anythin
’ but a normal guy. And why the hell's he just standin' there? I'm tellin' you he ain't normal.”
The man suddenly makes strides towards the group.
“Okay, he's movin', but he still ain't normal,” Screwball says.
A wave of gooseflesh erupts the length of Michael's body. There's something about the person approaching them ... an unmistakeable feeling the passing of decades can't wash away. “We need to get out of here.
Now
.”
Amber looks quizzically at Michael.
“There's no time,” he tells her. “We need to move.”
Screwball exits quickly through the end door. Barbara and Wendy closely follow.
“Go,” Michael says to Amber. “I'm right behind you.”
Amber touches Michael's arm in a show of affection, then leaves.
The door closes over behind her.
...
Daniel
...
Did Michael just hear that? A name he'd used some time ago, spoken like a whisper in his head?
Of course he did
.
He steals one last look at the approaching figure. Part of him wants to remain, to confront the enigma head on. There's questions he desperately wants answered; one in particular that has burned at the forefront of his mind for decades, and he dare not let the opportunity pass. However, he never ignores his instincts, and, currently, they're telling him to retreat and reorganize. If not for himself, for the sake of the others.
He turns to follow Amber … and then it happens: somebody, somewhere on the train, employs the emergency brake.
Unprepared for the sudden jolting of the train, Michael lurches to one side. The cacophonous sound of the air-brakes floods his ears.
The lights in the car flicker then remain on. The LCD information and notice displays also illuminate.
Michael lunges for the door.
There's a click.
The electronic locking system has engaged.
All doors are now sealed shut.
December 29
th
, 1940; London, England
The landscape was awash with flame.
Daniel had never seen anything like it. The bombing raids had been running for the last few months now, but the damage done this evening was altogether on another level. If the Germans kept on going like this, he feared there would be little of London left to salvage.
He cast his gaze skyward.
Another wave of planes, only barely caught in the sweep of inadequate searchlights, flew overhead. Their collective engines made a sound like the relentless drone of angry bees, and almost entirely drowned out the intermittent rattle of anti-aircraft fire.
There came a loud explosion in the distance.
This was the music of madness
.
Daniel made his way through the swirling smoke phantoms which haunted London's largely empty streets. He'd passed St. Paul's Cathedral not ten minutes ago (it had still been intact, although he very much doubted it would survive the night), but was finding it increasingly difficult to pin-point his location. In part, this was down to him being a relative stranger to London, but mainly it was because of the sheer magnitude of Germany's incendiary assault. It was disorienting, to say the least.