"A Two-Hour Train Ride"
by
William H. Chang

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Foreward:
I began writing this story during one of my many trips to Scotts Valley, a small town about two hours south of my hometown of San Francisco. That particular day I had been craving some kind of caffeinated beverage, and shortly before catching the train I had one, and the story came to me at that moment. As soon as I boarded the train I pulled out a pen and some paper and I spent the next two hours writing the first eight parts of the story, the rest of which I eventually finished on the computer after typing what I had written. I just love the main character of this story.

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I

He checked his watch for the hundreth time that evening, and, once again, it gave him neither comfort nor relief. Either his watch had stopped (doubtful, as he could see the second hand slowly twitching under the glass case) or less than a few seconds had elapsed since his last look. Eight-oh-three still.

There was a twitch in his right leg that he couldn't help or stop. The craving had hit hours ago. It was easy to hide any hint of uneasiness during the first two or three hours, but soon it was all but unbearable to contain. He felt itchy all over, as if a swarm of invisible ants was crawling up and down his body. No, it felt worse; it felt as if the ants were crawling around under his skin.

He resisted the urge to scratch his arms. Instead, he pulled out his train ticket, which he had been fiddling with inside the pocket of his coat.

One-way. Expires in four hours, it said, under the date and time that it was purchased. A one-way ticket. He had no plans to make this a round-trip. No, he only needed to get to his destination. After that ... well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there.

II

Ten minutes later - it felt a helluva lot longer; every minute felt like a goddamned hour - he was on the train, sitting on the second level next to a window.

His leg twitched rapidly with impatience. The train wasn't actually scheduled to depart for another ten minutes, but he wasn't so sure he'd be able to endure another ten-hour wait. Not to mention it was at least a two-hour ride to get to where he was going.

It was going to be an excruciatingly long wait.

Once again, he resisted the urge to scratch his arms.

III

Come on, come on, he thought as he looked at his watch again. I need that fix. I swear to God if this fucker doesn't start moving I'm going to start busting heads. So help me God, I'll do it. Move, you bastard, move.

As if on command the train lurched forward with a metallic squeal. A voice rose up on the intercom system, welcoming all passengers aboard Caltrain number blah-blah-blah, the train would make all blah-blah-blahs, and that there was no blah-blah-blahing aboard the train, et cetera.

He wasn't paying attention to a thing the voice was saying. His eyes - as well as his attention - were fixated on the passing view outside the window, which was beginning to scroll by faster and faster as the train began to pick up speed. His lips moved silently, telling the world outside to hurry up.

The world wasn't listening to his inaudible pleas, but someone was certainly paying attention.

IV

He's got to be one of those terrorists, one of those crazy suicide bombers. That was the message being repeated in the mind of Gladys Brechenridge. Her eyes hadn't left the lanky frame of that sulky young man since she had seen him at the train station. She had noticed the nervous twitching, the inaudible muttering (of prayers to his foreign god, no doubt), and the extreme impatience. All the vital signs of a suicide bomber.

Although she was getting on in years, Gladys was no simpleton, no sir. She watched Fox News every night at ten sharp, paid attention to every little thing that was going on in the world. She knew that the terrorists were out there like the President said, and that they wanted nothing more than to take away the very freedom that God had given the people of the United States of America.

There had been a special report on the other night, about how to identify a suicide bomber. The man on the television said that they exhibited certain traits that, no matter how subtle, anyone could see if they kept a sharp eye out.

The first thing to look at was the person's demeanor. Suicide bombers were usually quite sullen, sometimes agitated. They travelled alone and avoided any kind of contact or communication with others. The young man sitting next to the window on the second level of the train was certainly travelling alone, and Gladys had noticed how he had avoided getting into a crowded train car.

The second sign was something concrete, a suspicious package usually in the form of luggage. The young man had a backpack seated on his lap, which his hands wrapped around like a child clutching a prized stuffed animal. The backpack was bulgy, filled with something that Gladys suspected were explosives.

The third sign typical of many suicide bombers was the muttering of prayers. Knowing that they were going to die, they usually prayed to their god - what was he called? Allah, or something of that sort - shortly before setting off their hidden explosive. The young man was indeed muttering something that Gladys couldn't hear - and yes, she had considered the possibility that it might be one of those fancy new cellular phones that came with a headset, but the young man didn't look as if he could afford one of those.

Naturally, there were other signs to look for, but none of them were as typical of suicide bombers than these three, and to Gladys they were more than enough. The young man had exhibited all three of these signs, and Gladys was both surprised and disgusted that none of the other passengers seemed to suspect anything about him.

A bead of sweat began to trickle down Gladys's forehead as she continued to watch him from the end of the aisle on the bottom level of the train. The young man had not noticed her staring at him, for he had been staring out the window intently, muttering his prayers.

She wondered when he would do it, when he would push that button (or flip that switch, or however he would activate the bomb) and send all of the passengers on the train to their deaths. Was he waiting for a particular location? A particular time? Or maybe there was a timer that was slowly ticking away. That would explain why he kept checking his watch.

Well, it wasn't going to happen, no sir. Not if Gladys Brechenridge had something to say about it. And she did.

V

A conductor entered the train car a few minutes later, to check tickets and make sure there weren't any cheapskates hoping to hitch a free ride (for it was possible to do so on certain days since not all conductors cared to check tickets). He made his way up the aisle slowly, pausing to check the dates and times on each of the tickets of the passengers.

Gladys narrowed her eyes a bit as the conductor in the aisle below where the young man was sitting. The young man was still staring out the window.

"Ticket," said the conductor blankly. The young man seemed to ignore him.

"Ticket, sir," repeated the conductor in a tone that was slightly more brusk. The young man still did not turn his gaze away from the window. Gladys licked her lips.

"Hey, you up there." The conductor banged the railing next to the young man's seat, which finally caught his attention. The young man looked extremely pale as he looked down at the conductor. His eyes were open wide and his face was shiny with a thin layer of perspiration.

"Have you got a ticket?" The conductor was obviously annoyed at the time it was taking. He still had four more train cars to check.

"Oh, yeah." The young man rummaged through the pocket of his long coat until he produced a crumpled ticket which he handed to the conductor. "Sorry about that."

The conductor said nothing as he examined the date and time printed on the ticket and moved on. He apparently hadn't noticed anything suspicious about the young man.

By the time the conductor had made his way down the aisle and was standing next to Gladys's seat, the young man had resumed looking out the window and muttering to himself.

"Ticket," said the conductor blankly.

"Can I possibly have a word with you, sir?" Gladys asked quietly so that she couldn't be overheard by the other passengers, though the closest person was at least two rows away.

The conductor sighed. "Ma'am, I've got a lot of other people to check on this train, and I'm sure there are some who also don't have tickets. Do you realize that it's against the law to board this train without purchasing a ticket? And that no tickets will be sold onboard?" He sounded quite mechanical (probably used this same line before, on many others), and made no attempt to keep his voice down. A few passengers turned their heads around in interest, though fortunately the young man kept his interest fixed on the window.

"No, no, it's not that, sir." Gladys flushed a bit and hurredly produced a ticket from her purse before continuing. "It's an important matter."

The conductor didn't seem to register this last statement. He started to walk towards the door leading to the next train car, but Gladys grabbed his wrist.

"Wait a minute," she whispered harshly, her cheeks puffing angrily. "I said that this was an important matter. It's a matter of security, in fact! You must listen to me."

"Just what the hell are you talking about, lady?" The conductor couldn't hide his frustration, yet he kept his voice down just the same. None of the other passengers were paying attention now.

"Do you see that young man sitting up there? The one wearing the long wool coat, with the backpack on his lap?" She pointed to the young man.

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Well," she said, lowering her voice a little further, "I think that man may be one of those suicide bombers. You know, the ones that have been on the news recently. You've heard about the attacks in London, haven't you?"

"Ma'am, I assure you that that man is not a terrorist," the conductor said with a brief sigh of relief. He had expected some sort of wild claim from the old lady (she was probably getting senile), and that's exactly what he had gotten.

"No, I think he is," protested Gladys, grabbing the conductor's wrsit again as he tried to leave. "There was a report yesterday on how to identify a suicide bomber, and he fits the description perfectly." And she proceeded to tell him the signs that typical suicide bombers exhibit, sounding almost exactly like the man on the television who had informed her.

By the time she had finished, the conductor was starting to believe what she was saying. Of course, when it came to his own life being on the line he was more inclined to believe even a wild claim from some old coot.

"So what should we do?" He sounded a bit unnerved by the situation.

"Don't you have some sort of plan for this? Some kind of procedure?"

"I think," he said uncertainly. "I have to go inform the other conductors, and the engineer."

"You do that. I'll keep an eye on him."

And with that, the conductor was off, to tell the other conductors as well as the engineer.

Gladys smiled to herself, knowing that she had just saved a few hundred lives. The young terrorist seated next to the window on the second level would be caught, disarmed, and brought to justice. She was sure God was smiling with her.

VI

That damned conductor had scared the shit out of him. He hadn't expected to be ticketed (though he had bought a ticket just the same), since his last few trips by train - rare occurences as they were - had turned out to be instances where tickets were not needed.

He rummaged through the pockets of his coat and removed the ticket that he had been fiddling with. It looked as if it had spent weeks in the bottom of his pocket instead of minutes, but it was fine so long as the date and time were visible.

The conductor walked away with an annoyed look on his face after handing back the ticket.

Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to the window. The craving just wouldn't go away.

VII

He tried chewing gum to keep the craving under control, at least a bit. It was a little trick that his buddy Kelvin had suggested for the long ride home. That bastard was probably sitting in the house shooting up at that very moment.

Though it made his breath taste a little better (he prefered mint over the taste of stale bread and eggs that had made its way up from his stomach and was settled in the back of his throat), it wasn't holding back the craving. Not at all.

VIII

The conductor had been gone for nearly twenty minutes, and Gladys was beginning to worry that he had actually not taken her seriously. She sat in her seat pretending to read a copy of the Chronicle, though her eyes were trained on the young man. They hadn't left him for even a second.

He had pulled something out of his pocket a minute ago which made her heart do a bellyflop in her chest. She thought it was going to be a remote control or trigger that would set off the bomb hidden in his backpack, or something of the sort. Instead it turned out to be a pack of chewing gum. The young man put three sticks of gum in his mouth and was chewing them vigorously. He was still looking out the window, though now he was sitting back in his seat more comfortably. He almost looked relaxed. His leg was still twitching though.

Gladys checked her watch, wondering where the conductor was. If he didn't return in another minute she would run to the doors where the emergency brakes were and pull them. The controls to the intercom were there too, so maybe there would be a way to warn the other passengers as well.

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squealing as the brakes of the train were set, and it send Gladys - as well as the other passengers aboard the train - flying forward. There were cries and shouts from scared passengers who wondered just what the hell was happening. One little boy was crying and clutching his mother's arm. He had hit his head on one of the guard rails and his nose was pouring dark crimson blood all over his blue denim jacket.

The train was starting to slow down. It wasn't scheduled to arrive at the next station for another four minutes, and trains were rarely on-time, let alone ahead of schedule.

Gladys, who had fallen onto the floor of the train car, slowly got to her feet and looked up towards where the young man was seated. He too was looking around the train car and wondering what was going on. For a split second their eyes met, and Gladys's heart did another bellyflop in her chest.

She quickly looked away, pretending to drop and pick up her purse, though it seemed to take an awful long time to pick it back up.

Had he spotted her? Of course he had. But did he suspect that she knew his secret? Would he set off the bomb now that the train was suddenly and unexpectedly stopping? And why exactly was the train stopping? There were so many questions filling her head, but she couldn't think of the answers to any of them. Her eyes were too busy staring out the window.

IX

There were cops outside, a shit-storm of them. He had seen them through the windows of the lower level as the train was coming to a halt. Christ, there had to be at least twenty or thirty of them, and half of them were in riot gear, which he thought was odd. Was something happening on the train that he - and the other passengers apparently - had not heard about?

The train finally stopped, dead in its tracks. The engine ahead gave a loud sigh as it rested.

He heard the doors opening, and saw the cops in riot gear begin to file into the car, this car. They were yelling to each other under black gas masks with large, bug-like eyes. And they were carrying guns, large guns. Those things had to be M-14s or something. And they were pointing the guns straight at him.

"That's him, that's the man right there!" The conductor that had collected his ticket was standing from the car door, jumping in the air and pointing at him over the heads of the masked cops. "Look out, he's got the bomb in his backpack!"

"Freeze, pal!" The cops were shouting at him from all directions, lining up in the aisle below with their M-14s aimed straight at his head.

"If you have to shoot, aim for the head," he heard one of the cops say.

"Put your hands behind your head!" He heard the cop, but his brain couldn't register what was being said to him. He was frozen in his seat at the sight of the guns trained on him. Sweat was running down the sides of his face, and he was now so pale that his skin nearly matched the color of his white unbuttoned work shirt.

"I said put your hands behind your fucking head, asshole!" The cops stiffened their grips on their guns.

"Get ready to take him down, men."

He sat there staring at them. In his mind he was praying to God, asking for forgiveness for everything he ever did wrong, for walking down the dark path that drugs paved, for fucking his sister when they were in high school, for stealing money from his dying mother, for running away from home, for absolutely every fucking thing that he ever did.

"Alright, get him!" And all he could remember was a searing pain ripping through his head.

X

Gladys watched the whole scene play out much like one of those violent action movies that they showed on television from time to time. The masked policemen had rushed straight into the train right after it stopped and quickly made their way into the aisle where they were lined up and pointing their guns at the young man.

"That's him, that's the man right there!" The conductor was yelling over the heads of the policemen from the door on the other side of the car. Gladys smiled as soon as she saw him. He had believed her and taken action after all.

"Put your hands behind your head!" The policemen were yelling at the young man, but he was sitting in his chair, staring at them. He looked extremely scared, and sick to boot. He also looked like he might do something drastic, especially now that he was backed into a corner. Gladys remembered watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel about how some animals did drastic things when cornered. That was probably how the young man felt.

"Alright, get him!"

Gladys covered her ears with both hands, expecting the guns to go off loudly, but none of them did. Instead, one of the policemen that had made his way up the stairs to the second level rushed forward and hit the young man in the face with a large wooden stick, those police sticks that looked like a lower case T.

The young man fell to the floor of the second level with a loud thud, and more policemen quickly made their way up to retrieve both him as well as his backpack.

"We've got him, chief."

"Good work," replied a voice that emitted from a radio. "Retrieve the package and make sure it's not hot. And get those people off the train. Now."

"Roger, chief." The policemen who had hit the young man stepped over him and pointed at two other policemen standing near the stairs a few feet away. They carefully made their way over to the seat where, only moments ago, the young had been sitting. The two policemen carefully picked up the backpack and slowly made their way back towards the stairs.

A hand firmly grabbed onto Gladys's shoulder and pulled her into the aisle.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step off this train. We need to get all passengers evacuated as soon as possible."

"Now wait just a minute," Gladys began to protest, but the masked policeman dragged her down the aisle along with the other passengers in the train car. She took one last look back at the policemen as the backpack and the young man were brought down to the lower level.

And then she was off the train.

XI

Gladys Brechenridge never saw what had happened on the train. It had been on the news that night, but they didn't reveal any of the details about the young man. They had said that a "disturbance" had caused the train to be evacuated, subsequently delaying all other trains for that afternoon.

That was it. Nothing about the young man with the suspicious backpack. Nothing about the squad of policemen who had rushed onto the train. Nothing at all except an empty shell that had once contained substance.

XII

There was no bomb, nor was there any hint that the unidentified young man might even be remotely related to any terrorist faction. The police as well as the railway company were kicking themselves in the ass, hard, over the situation. They arranged a deal that would allow them to keep the little mishap from being put on the news, as neither wanted to stain their own reputation.

XIII

"Who is this guy anyway?" One of the blurry figures looked to one of the other blurry figures. He felt someone touching him, a hand groped his ass. They took his wallet.

"Gaspar Nolan," replied the second blurry figure, the one who had groped his ass. "The hell kind of name is 'Gaspar'?"

"Fuck you," Gaspar said, though all that came out was a faint whisper. Everything went black again after that.

XIV

"We're terribly sorry about the incident, and we hope that you accept our deepest apologies. We certainly don't want any of this to get leaked to the press, so we would appreciate it if you could, well, keep this on the 'down-low'. Confidential, you know?"

They had some fucking nerve. After he had been assaulted by the cops, accused of being a terrorist, had all of his belongings confiscated, and even his ass groped, all the train service could do was give him a pass that granted him an unlimited number of free rides for the next five years. That was it. No payment for damages and personal injuries (like the six stitches on the right side of his forehead) or anything.

"Yeah, whatever," Gaspar Nolan replied bitterly. "Just see that this shit doesn't happen again." He reached down and picked up his backpack, which had gaping holes that were covered with layers of duct tape. The zipper had also been broken, so a rope had to be tied around it to keep its contents - three sets of clothes and a Stephen King novel - from spilling out.

He left the train station, craving a fix more than ever.

XV

Two hours later, Gaspar Nolan was finally back home. Kelvin was there to greet him, though he was already shit-faced, as expected, but Gaspar didn't particularly care at that point. He marched straight to the kitchen and shot up.

Finally the craving was satisfied.