Today was one of those mornings when I woke up feeling apprehensive about something, but couldn’t determine what it was. My first thought was the current situation; as a deputy administrator in the Interior Ministry with a background in water engineering, I can state categorically that this area is dangerously overpopulated. In particular, the water system is a shambles and a major epidemic is a disaster waiting to happen. My efforts to impress our leadership on this have been utterly ineffective, and seeing the front page of this morning’s newspaper lauding the government’s efforts to reform the driver training program with a view to reduction of traffic accidents did little to assuage my worries. Some people really should get their rear ends burned off.

Must be my meeting David on the train this morning. I commute into the city every workday, but today there’s a meeting for senior personnel and David, my boss’ boss’ boss, will join me on the train. Fourteen years my senior, tall and thin, opinionated and not known for excess tolerance or patience with subordinates, David is intimidating. But he’s no dummy and he’s not unfair, and I’m one of the fortunate few who has a good rapport with him.

My train is unexpectedly 15 minutes late, and as it pulls in I detect a whiff of hydrocarbon, cleaning fluid. My goodness – after only 15 years of service they have cleaned up this train! Such fears, however, are dissipated immediately upon boarding. Seems that whatever cleaning had been done was limited to the exterior, no doubt for publicity purposes. Can’t have everything.

As the train approaches David’s station I start some paperwork, hoarded for this purpose so David will find me so engaged. It doesn’t help; David is not in a good mood and I can guess why. The Interior Ministry is nothing if not a rumor mill, and there have been persistent rumors that his departure is imminent. Whether “departure” means transfer or retirement I can’t guess.

Finishing my work, I take another look at the newspaper. Buried on page nine, I discover what has been worrying me. Good God, it’s happened again.

There’s been another wave of disappearances. Beginning last Monday, something over four thousand missing person reports have been filed with the police, with no response. This has happened several times previously, always people from this general area, never to be heard from again. And absolutely no related gossip at the office. It’s as though the Martians have landed in one of our suburbs, or else the Rapture is occurring in slow motion. Maybe “Good God” is the right word?

Something is funny. We have been sitting in Garborough station for several minutes now with nobody getting on or off the train. Then as we pull out I notice four or five of our conductors standing on the station platform talking to someone. Our conductors are easily recognized; they distinguish themselves by being such idiots. Must be the ones who flunk the intelligence test for prison guards.

But they are never supposed to leave the train. Each time the train breaks down in particular, the passengers are duly transferred but the conductors faithfully remain with the train. So what were they doing there on the platform as the train pulled out?

Then it strikes me that no one came to take my ticket today. However intellectually-challenged our conductors are, they come through after every station to check tickets. Today we are already beyond Garborough and no one has appeared.

Something else is funny. We have switched off the main track onto a spur which runs through uninhabited territory save a military installation of some sort. And we are moving at a lower rate of speed than normal.

David sees the concern on my face and asks why. An elementary explanation is forthcoming. The conductors and the lack of ticket-taking is a matter of automation. Ticket machines such as the one he used are now installed, so the conductors can go to another train. As for the detour, it’s a question of track maintenance on our regular track. And the abnormally low speed is because this track is normally only used for freight and is not approved for trains at our normal speed. Not to worry; we have plenty of time to arrive for his meeting.

David’s explanation notwithstanding, I elect to worry. Excusing myself, I go to the front of the car, but instead of entering the washroom I enter the car forward. We’re only a couple of cars from the front of the train, and I’m determined to find someone to corroborate David or to give a proper explanation of all the irregularities.

But no train personnel is to be found. The first car, in fact, is completely empty. And there’s no response either from ringing the bell or knocking on the door of the motorman’s cab. Indeed, that door is securely locked.

Returning to our seats, something strikes me, really chills my spine. Back at Garborough station, the man I saw on the platform talking to our conductor was wearing grease-stained overalls. That was our motorman. Emphasis on “was”.

The significance of a moving passenger train without a motorman is not lost on David. Slowly a very peculiar expression appears on his face. He almost whispers: “What do you want to do?”

I hear myself using language that I would never have dreamt of using with David. “We have got to get off this train, and fast. Come on, I think we can force one of the exit doors.”

With considerable difficulty, we did manage to get one of the doors open a few centimeters; then it suddenly sprang open. Looking at the moving ground below was scary, but I am even more scared of this train, so I jump out, landing rather roughly. I see David follow me, then hear the door slam shut; intuitively, it is clear that any further such exit from that train is now impossible. As the train passes by, it seems that none of the other passengers is concerned that two people have just jumped from a moving train, or with the danger which they face. Then the train rounds a curve and disappears into the woods.

Running to help David who has landed even less graciously than I, we discover that aside from a couple of bruises and torn, dirty clothing, neither of us is the worse for wear. David’s face, however, says it all; he doesn’t have to utter a word.

“O.K., smart guy, here we are in the middle of nowhere and all messed up. No way am I going to get to the meeting. Just what do you have in mind now?”

Fear is my defense. I’m convinced that we will be hunted fugitives within a matter of seconds, if not already, and expect to see another train or hear the sound of a helicopter at any moment.

 “Let’s go over next to the woods. We don’t want to be spotted.”

Trudging through the long, wet grass to the edge of the woods gives me time to think. We have obviously got to get out of here, but which direction? Clearly not that of the train. We could go back to Garborough station, but it’s several kilometers back and it would take us over an hour to get there. By then the police will undoubtedly be out in force.

So I suggest to David that we go through the woods, away from the city and the military, and hope to reach a road or whatever. He agrees, but before we can plunge into the woods something catches my eye.

It’s our train, coming back into view a couple of kilometers further on. Same eerie, slow speed; nothing seems changed, and suddenly I feel very, very foolish. Then the rear of the train appears. The roof of the last car is fiercely ablaze; the flames are rapidly moving down and forward.

The writer wakes up feeling apprehensive that a disaster is pending. As the signs add up along the train route, he and his boss jump out of the running train minutes before it bursts into flames.