The Platform

The lean man stood nervously on the train platform, idly referencing a pocket watch affixed to a paisley vest. He already seemed to be well aware of the time. Looking out into the distance the lean man saw an empty set of train tracks that spun off to the east, disappearing into a mountainscape miles away. The tracks were absent of any sign of a train. The sun was setting on the dry plains, but the sad sticks of scrawny cacti could still be made out despite the increasing absence of light.

The lean man returned the watch to his pocket and looked up and down the platform. Seeing other people walking to and fro seemed to do little to ease the man’s tension. At the same time, the man gently nudged a beaten leather bag at his feet, reassuring himself that it was still there.

“Howdy stranger,” a short man in a bowler approached and held out his hand.

Not startled, but wary, the lean man shook the outstretched hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance I’m Francis Stillwater.” Stillwater was pale, even against the weakening pink-orange of a lowering sun.  

The lean man just nodded, noticing Francis spoke too fast. Francis also had a tow sack slung over one shoulder.

“You a salesman?” the lean man asked.

“Not exactly. Why, you looking to buy somethin?”

“Not from you. I’d be obliged if you just occupy a different part of the platform sir.”

“I didn’t catch your name friend…”

“You’re awful persistent.” The lean man paused, “Not a salesman exactly...carpetbagger then? I don’t know this town well, but folks ‘round here don’t seem thrilled at the idea of a centralized government, or elected officials.”

“Sir, I’m simply askin’ your name. I’m tryin’ to be polite.”

The lean man growled a bit, stroking his beard, “You aren’t very good at it. Can’t seem to take a hint,” he concluded the sentence by tapping his right hand on the handle of a revolver that hung high on the holster at his waist. The lean man narrowed his eyes at Stillwater, “You don’t seem armed friend?”

As the lean man finished his statement, he noticed the few would-be passengers that were also waiting on the platform drifted from view. Some walked out of sight, disappearing beyond the threshold that led back to the ticket counter. Others still were wandering off towards the stagecoach that was parked beyond the tracks, waiting on the fares of new arrivals. The lean man absently noted the ticket counter held no attendant and there was no train yet, so no new arrivals would be present.

“Hints,” Stillwater laughed, throwing back his head in a way that should’ve made the bowler topple from his head. “Do you see what’s happening around you?”

It drew darker. Not in the way it would from a gently setting sun, but rather in the way that it might before a major storm.

The lean man failed to answer. Without giving tell he glanced beyond the platform, seeing how much fog had rolled in. He could barely see past the platform on which he stood. The mountains were obscured, the sticks of cacti were no longer visible in the distance. The lean man thought it was most unsettling that the sun had not set, but rather faded away. However the moon had not taken its place. Instead the platform’s immediate area was illuminated by an ethereal light. Shaky, and flickering inconsistently this new luminosity reminded him of a picture show he had taken in during his time in Dodge City. At one point during the film he had looked back at the projector and saw the dancing beam that made the show possible, it dazzled his eyes. Although this light was more yellow than white, it made his stomach sour and he suddenly felt the need to sit down.

“Manchester McCloud,” Stillwater laughed again. “That your given name?”

The lean man looked up, he had nearly forgotten about Stillwater, until he again saw the man’s sallow countenance.  McCloud nodded slowly.

“Would’ve sounded great in the papers.” Stillwater dropped his burlap sack on the platform, the fog lapped at its edges, but ultimately let it alone. He held up his hands as though they were framing a headline; “Manchester McCloud, robs the First National Bank of Broken Arrow.”

McCloud, confused, waited for more, like the man waiting for a punchline to a bad joke.

“Too bad you didn’t get away.” Stillwater gave the sack at his feet a sharp kick, its top slightly peeking open.

McCloud’s face turned down, he attempted to exhale. It might’ve been a gasp but apparently it caught in his throat and died.

“Sheriff Loveland put together a posse...any of this comin’ back to you?” Stillwater paused, “No? Ok, you let me know…Anyway, you lost most of ‘em after your ride to get away. But one of those upstanding citizens who was particularly dedicated to the law, pursued you here.” Stillwater stopped himself, looking around, “Well, not here exactly, but in Temple. You decided to lay low at the inn, Vernon Wellston, that upstanding citizen I mentioned, decided to sneak in and shoot you while you slept.”

McCloud’s eyes glossed over.

“I mean, the wanted bill did say dead or alive. And he gave the innkeeper a dollar.”

“That’s, that’s madness.” McCloud struggled for words, “I’m here, I paid for a train ticket out of town, out west. I’ve got enough money to get to California, and then some!” McCloud indicated the leather bag in front of his boots.

“Do ya?” Stillwater asked.

The dreadful churning of a train could be heard in the distance. The air became thick with the sound of twisted metal screaming against itself, but somehow the sound, and whatever was making it, lurched forward.   

McCloud bent over in a fit, looking as though he was about to dive headfirst into the bag. He clicked apart the thin metal clasp. As McCloud pulled open the satchel and saw its emptiness, only a wail escaped. McCloud thought it sounded alarmingly like him. The sound seemed to travel up and into Stillwater’s now open burlap sack.  

A train blacker than coal then ripped a hole through the fog. McCloud peered at the conductor’s booth, but saw only a dim green light coming from where the train’s operator should have been.  

“Say son, how many people you kill during that hold up anyway?” Stillwater asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

“I had to dynamite the safe because the damn attendant said he didn't have the key.” McCloud’s eyes, which had been sharp and hard, softened as he began to cry. Through sobs, “Cut the fuse too short. Had to get to cover.”

“But that attendant didn’t get to cover, aye McCloud?”

McCloud couldn’t speak, he looked catatonic, but managed to slowly shake his head.

The train hissed to a halt in front of them. It’s edges rippled as though you were gazing at it through the heat from the top of a fire. McCloud saw it, traced out of shadow flecked with sickly green and blood red. He gulped, it was all he could do.

“All aboard son.” Stillwater asked. It was the friendliest he had sounded since appearing on the platform.

Dual doors on the train car slid aside, allowing a murky light to spill from its insides. McCloud knelt to retrieve his leather bag.

“Eh, leave it, you don’t need it anymore.”

McCloud, compelled to listen, did as he was told. When he was completely free of the platform the malevolent light seemed to envelope him and the doors closed silently.