I woke up at the sound of a woman's voice asking me a question.
The voice was familiar, but only a little had I just met her?
Where were we at? I was on a bed, wasn't I? Had
we screwed everything up when the railroad closed down the line through Tulsen. I
don't know if that was true or not. Other than big shipments. They
were too heavy for planes or trucks. Did anyone use trains anymore? Either
way? It was five years to the day that they ran the last train
down the track that the killing started, and no one could leave town anymore.
They called it the death train, which made no sense for a number
of reasons. First of all, it wasn't a train. It was Harvey
Stark in his old conductor's outfit riding around and Jeff Humble like it was a
prize bull. Stark was a little guy, sure, and Jeff was built
like a brickhouse, so he could towed Stark around on his shoulders with no
problem. If that was all it was, people would have giggled and went
about their day. But Jeff had on one of those strap on headlamps,
and Stark had that whistle he would start blowing when he felt the need to
warn someone that the train was coming. Except instead of a train, it
was a four hundred pounds naked man, shaved clean and slick with sweat,
a machette in each hand and a hard on him between making goddamn train noises
or the little asshole on his back, two to that horn and spurred him
on like a prize stallion. You'd think people would see it coming and run
away, but no. The first three or four just stood there, staring
in confusion as the pair master blast their way toward them and started hacking them
to bits. By that point, the police had tried to stop them,
but nothing put them down or even seemed to hurt them for long. The
cops had fired until the train turned its glowing iron them, and then even
the ones that tried to run got run down. The next day we found
forty or so bloody and deformed bullets in the street, like the old death
train had just crabbed them back out. Maybe it had, But none of
this made sense, did it. I didn't live in this place, and
yeah I knew and remembered all this stuff, But what kind of nonsense was
it? And had it really happened to me or was it all just a
dream? I needed to wake up. Man, I'm trying to give you
a chance. Here, I gasped as a small hand slapped me across my
face. Whh geez, what's going on? The small lamp turned on next
to me, and I saw the girl sitting on the edge of the bed.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me. I remembered her. She
was cute. I had met her at the bar and snap out of it.
Okay, you awake, you with me? I felt myself, wanting
to go back to sleep, but fought the urge she might slap me again.
I'm awake. You hit me. Rolling her eyes, she let out
a sigh. Do you feel something crawling on you? My eyes widened as
I realized I did. Panicking, I began frantically brushing off my chest.
What is it? Get it off me? I don't see anything. She
nodded, Oh, it's there. We just can't see it or touch it
this early. But you've got bigger issues what you were just in. It's
called a hatter's dream. It's not a normal dream, and if you let
yourself you can get trapped there, lose your mind. There my ster editor.
What how why? She started to speak, and then lowered her gaze
before she went on. The short version is that I roofed you. We
didn't do anything. I just drew on you. She gestured to a spot
on my arm. There was a small black circle connected to a black rectangle
that flared out at the bottom. What you drew? What is that?
The woman gave a little laugh as she held up her hand to show a
similar, more refined tattoo on the back. It's it's a keyhole. I'm
not much of an artist, just made it with a marker and well,
a bit of my blood and spit mixed in. I pushed away from her
as I sat up more in the bed. What the hell, what are
you sick with? Her expression was unreadable as she met my eyes. Me
nothing now, I mean thanks to you. It's not like a normal disease.
It moves around but doesn't leave anything behind. You give it with a
keyhole and the spit and blood thing. I started shaking my head. You're
crazy, she laughed again. No, I don't think so, not anymore.
It stopped crawling on me as soon as I put myself into the drawing.
But my father was crazy. He was crazy for nearly two years before
i'd listened to him. I saw she was crying now. He told me
these stories about a madness he'd found, not a problem with the brain or
the mind, but a living thing that hunted and crawled from person to person
until they were drain dry. When I finally got desperate enough to have him
back, I started to pay attention, and it didn't take long before I
believed he wanted me to help him escape the hospital so we could find someone
to give it to. But I knew that would never work, and I
could see his grip was slipping. She wiped out her eyes, so I
finally convinced him to teach me what needed to be done and give it to
me, just for a little while. He made me promise to find someone
cruel and evil that deserved it. But how do I know? And I
couldn't stand feeling it on me, knowing that it was boring into my brain.
I shuddered. She was right. I could feel it still, like
a faint breeze that wasn't there, not just on my chest, but in
the dark, behind my eyes, rustling around, feeling for cracks and wounds
to exploit. Geez, stop, she grabbed my hand. No, I
need you to understand, so you have a chance. I didn't do this
to mess up or ruin your life. It's not personal. I did it
to save me and my dad, and you can do the same thing that
I did, and maybe you can find someone that actually deserves it. Just
stay awake, get tons of caffeine or pills or whatever. I grabbed around
back, clenched my teeth. Why don't I just put it back in you.
She shook her head and she waved her other hand again. It won't
work. Dad says, it won't take the same key hole twice. Standing
up, she pulled away and stepped to the other side of the room.
Still. I figured you'd be mad. That's why I'm going to leave before
the drugs were off enough for you to chase me. I tried to move
my legs, and she was right. They were there and I could feel
them, but everything still felt loose and liquid below my waist, You asshole.
The woman nodded, yeah, I guess I am, and I am
sorry, good luck, and then she was gone. It was another thirty
minutes before I could get up and walk to the door. We'd been in
a cheap motel room not far from the bar I remembered going to. But
this late, all the bosses were gone and taxis were few and far between.
I wound up sitting on a bench for nearly an hour waiting for a
ride share to come, dipping in and out of strange dreams the entire time.
I debated calling the police, but I wasn't sure what to tell them,
and it was embarrassing drugged by some cute but insane woman that drew on
me and made up some bizarre story. I decided to just get home,
get some sleep, and decide what to do the next morning. Except I
didn't wake up the next morning. Instead, it was three days later.
I was lying in a bed covered with dried pea and feces, and I
was so dehydrated that I had to crawl to the bathroom to drink out of
the toilet because I couldn't reach the sink. I remembered where I'd been.
It wasn't just one place some other time. I was back in the town
that was being terrorized by the death train. Times I was underground somewhere,
crawling through a tunnel littered with wrappers and bits of candy. I spent several
hours in a building with fleshy walls that bled when you touch them and groaned
with every step you took. Something lived in those walls and was after me.
So I had to keep moving despite the stink and the noise and the
blood, on and on through one terrible thing and then another, and the
entire time my unseen invader was crawling all over me, probing me and lightly
biting, as though testing the flavor of its new found meat. I say
all of this because I want you to understand that I believe you now,
and I want you to know that, like you said, it's not personal.
It's not going to work. I already told you, turning on the
headlamp so I could see better in the darkened room, I finally found her
hold up in after weeks of tracking her down. I disagree. I've given
it a lot of thought. I can still give it to you. I
just need to get rid of your little keyhole. She was crying hard now
as she tried to pull free from her restraints. It's a tattoo. He
made me get a tattoo, so I couldn't get it back. After I
got rid of it, I grinded, her stinging sweat streaming into my eyes,
but that was okay. The pain made everything sharper, just like the
machette. I made it extra sharp for a clean cut. I pulled the
blade out from my rucksack and she began to struggle harder. Then he should
have told you to put it somewhere expendable. No, no, no,
I could hardly hear her screaming as a piercing whistle filled my ears. Raising
the blade in both hands, I took a small practice chop before lining up
the final cut. It would all be over soon, and would I miss
it? I'd be lying if I said there wasn't two minds about it.
Tightening my grip on the sweat slicked handle, I let out a bellow as
I brought it down. It wasn't as terrible and musical as the high pitched
thrilling in my ears, but it still felt right. Chew, chew, chew,