Untitled Short Story Page Two

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For a second he stood motionless. “She’s dead too – she’s dead, too. Must get out of here – must get out of here,” the words hammered through his brain. Then suddenly he looked up. The communication cord, he must find the communication cord. He ran, stumbling against the seats, up and down the carriage but there was no communication-cord. The train rattled on. Now he beat his fists madly on the doors. He must get out – he would go mad. He was going mad. The sweat ran down his cheeks and his eyes filled with tears. Why didn’t the train stop? There must be a station soon.

“Oh God!” he screamed suddenly in terror. “Let me out! Oh, let me out!” But the train sped on through the darkness, the din of its wheels drowning his cry. Suddenly the whole carriage seemed to be full of people pointing at him accusingly. He stared at them, fascinated with horror, and watched as one by one they fell, each with a scarlet stain on his chest. Fell – and vanished. He buried his head in his arms and crouched, sobbing weakly, against the seat. He could bear no more.

Without warning the train pulled to a standstill, the mechanical doors began to slide apart. He rushed to them and clawing them open with his hands flung himself out on the platform. He started to shout. “There’re two dead people in here! Do you hear me? Two dead people!” He stopped abruptly as a large hand lay heavily on his shoulder.

“Now then, sir, you’re all right; just you come along with me.”

He looked up and saw the kindly face of a policeman smiling down at him. “Yes, yes I will,” Perton murmured, and allowed himself to be led away.

“What was the matter with him?” the guard said to a young porter standing near-by.

“Oh him – he’s a loony – just escaped from Broadmoor, so the bobby was telling me. Homicidal maniac. Killed his wife and her lover about six months ago. Funny – you wouldn’t think he could hurt a fly, to look at him, would you?”

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