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.

Upgrade: Part II of II

Days passed and Kenny counted them down with glee. Each hour that fell brought him closer to his full potential, to his destiny.  

            He was in the break room at work eating a bologna sandwich and playing a game on his phone that required the matching of like-colored jewels to score points. Kenny liked seeing the shapes and colors line up. He liked seeing order triumph over chaos.  

            “Kenny, Kenny look!”

            Kenny looked up to see a few of his coworkers gawking at the television screen mounted in the corner. One of his colleagues, Vern; a fat man with only a thin wisp of hair smattered over his noggin was hollering his name.

            “Are you seeing this? This nutjob who just got upgraded last week is going on a rampage downtown!”

            On the screen he saw a woman with robotic legs repeatedly kicking an ATM. One kick, two and then three, before she had punched through the ATMs exterior and knocked it from its base. The machine toppled over and crashed to the ground with a thud as its display went dim. The fair-haired woman had a dark green blouse and was red with anger. She had on a tight black skirt that seemed to accentuate the robotic contours of her legs. Peeking out from the skirt were two shiny steel “feet” covered in flimsy matching green pumps. If you listened closely, and could separate the sounds around her you could hear the electronic whir of gears and mechanisms operating within her legs.

            “Insufficient funds! I’ll show you insufficient funds! You piece of shit!”

            In front of the bank, police parted the crowd the woman had attracted and leveled their service weapons. “Stand down ma’am.”

            The woman paid no attention and front kicked the bank’s brick wall with her robotic left foot. As she pulled it away the gears in her leg whined, but the brick bore a noticeable mark as chunks of rubble fell to the sidewalk.

             “Ma’am we need you to calm down!” an officer yelled.

            The woman turned now, finally facing the officers. “Calm down! Don’t you tell me to calm down! You’re just afraid of me!” She walked towards the police, in spite of the fact that their guns were trained on her. As she did this her left foot rolled under her. Machinery somewhere inside snapped, but the woman kept coming, only this time with a severe limp. “No, not afraid of what I am, but afraid of what you aren’t.

            Another warning from the police, “Ma’am if you do not yield we will open fire.”

            The woman didn’t slow in the least.

            “Ma’am this is your final warning!” On the screen the camera’s view pivoted from the police to the woman and quickly back again. Shots rang out as the muzzles of the officer’s weapons lit up.

            The camera feed was terminated and the view was back to the station’s newsroom where a blushing reporter nervously searched for words. “Ladies and gentlemen as you can see this upgraded individual has seemingly…umm…she has been…umm…halted by law enforcement. We will continue to collaborate with authorities to determine if her…umm…mental faculties were at all affected by her upgrade.”

            “Did you see her eyes?” one of the women in front of Kenny asked the room.

            Vern called out, “Definitely bat-shit. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts like a lot.”

            “That’s some scary stuff right there man,” offered an older gentleman sitting at the table opposite Kenny.

            “Kenny did I see one of those Astir pamphlets on your desk the other day?” Vern asked, and suddenly the entire room’s eyes were on Kenny.

            Kenny, finally managing to take his eyes from the screen, didn’t seem to notice a large blob of partially chewed bologna leaving his mouth to fall on the table before him.

* * *

            A few hours later, Kenny found himself in a bar near work, in a half-assed attempt to relax. The establishment was decorated in the late 70’s and hadn’t seen much in the way of upgrades since then. High back leather-bound bar stools matched the padded leather elbow guard that ran along the bar. Plastic plants and dull orange paint were smattered in every conceivable part of the room. Kenny thought the barroom’s look matched its smell; that of self-loathing.

            As Kenny drank he continued to mull over one idea. He had found it strange that between he and his co-workers had viewed the news broadcast as if they were watching two completely different programs.

            Even as Kenny took a long pull on the beer before him, the news replayed the incident with the woman and the ATM. Following the tape a newscaster addressed the viewers. With a critical look straight into camera the newscaster spoke solemnly. “It seems regarding recipients of Astir upgrades it is not a matter of if they will descend into rage and violence, but when.”

            “Insane, right? If you woulda asked me 20 years ago whether or not I would ever live to see the day when people were walking around with Terminator legs, I woulda said ‘hell no’.” A few stools down from Kenny, the man who had spoke the unsolicited statement did so over an empty rocks glass, and was now looking expectantly to Kenny for commentary.

            Kenny took a breath, his eyes flicked from the television set mounted above the bar to the man a few feet from him. “Have you ever seen Godzilla?”

            The man nodded and simultaneously shook his empty glass at the bartender.

            “You know how the people in those movies are always running around, frantically screaming as they stare up at the monster?” Kenny asked.

            Again, the man nodded.

            “So you can understand what it’s like to be vulnerable, to feel afraid. Something you’ve never seen before just set your whole world view on fire. Something powerful, something you have no control over. But tell me friend, how would you feel if you were Godzilla?”

            Kenny took more than a tiny bit of pleasure from the dumbfounded look on the man’s face, and then rose to leave. He set a few dollars down on the bar, leaving his half finished beer to sweat along with the man.

THE END?

Self-sufficient

 The darkness was pierced by two headlights. Briefly, as they cut across the shoulder of the highway the light gives way to the shape of a person bowing and twisting against the lug nuts on the rear passenger side of a not-so-new anymore Honda.  

Motorists continued to pass by, and either in spite of the cold or because of it, no one stopped to help her for a long while. Her name is Adira, a name that her parents told her was rooted in strength. 

As she continued to struggle to remove the last lug nut, a red pick-up truck coasted to a halt alongside the shoulder. Without taking her eyes off the task in front of her, Adira noted it was one of those trucks that was bigger than needed for everyday driving. She also noticed that even in the dim light of this winter evening, the truck was pristine. No gray sheen of caked-on road snow, nothing. Through her peripheral vision Adira watched the truck come to a halt a few feet behind her own car.  

It wasn’t long before a man stepped out on the passenger side of the vehicle. Adira, still staring at that last lug nut, but now crossing the tire iron to her right hand, noticed the man was clean cut, and wore expensive looking leather coat. She imagined he knew little to nothing about cars, even in the simple realm of tire changing. 

"Need some help?" He cried out over the din of the passing traffic.  

"No thanks," on her knees, Adira finally turned to face the approaching man. 

He still moved towards her, brown dress shoes crunching on the snow that had accumulated on the side of the road. "You seem to be having trouble." 

"I'm fine, really." 

Still the man moved forward, "I can help..." 

Not even a second passed before Adira had drawn a revolver from her waist, leveling it at the unknown man. "Tell your story walkin' buddy. I'm fine. Save your heroics for the next damsel." 

The stranger's eyes widened, hands popping up in front of him, waving. "Whoa, ok, ok! Sorry, I'm going." He began backing away.  

Adira heard the man's car door slam shut, soon after the engine revved hard and the truck sped off the shoulder and back into the night. 

Truth be told, Adira didn’t know if the man had meant ill or not, but she was not going to chance it on this night. After all, she was already late for Christmas dinner with her parents. In addition to her parents passing on the history of her name, they had also told her that fortune favored the prepared.  

She returned to that final pesky lug nut, applied the tire iron, and cranked as hard as she could. It moved.