Categories > Original > Sci-Fi > Ward Below
He didn't see the train again, not for several days at least. Time was becoming a little mushy down in the tunnels where hours didn't matter and it was difficult to distinguish night from day. The only light came from the square suns of the fluorescent lights in the ceilings of the tube stops, the only darkness in the black tunnels where little stars of green and blue and red glittered in perfectly straight, horizontal constellations. It was a world within a world, really, and Ward was beginning to think he was the last man in it.
He tried making himself a calendar out of the little square tiles covering the walls, marking off the days with a marker he'd found in one of the broom closets. He soon gave up, however. Somehow, it made things more bearable if he didn't know how long he'd been down here. Ward learned not to care about days and weeks and months and when the battery in his watch died, he learned to stop caring about hours as well. He ate when he was hungry and slept when he was tired. There was no time. There was only him and the tunnels and somewhere the train.
He saw it go by once or twice again, but never did it stop. He walked along the tracks without fear. For some reason, he was quite sure the train would not run him over. For one thing, it seemed to be only a single train that was running. At least, the one he saw bore the same number (11) and the same orange stripe. As far as he could tell, that was the only engine in service.
Much to his amazement, it did stop one day. Ward had been standing on the platform, debating with himself if he should go to the right or the left when it pulled in, drowning the platform in noise and wind. The doors slid open and Ward, after taking a brief moment to gape in bewilderment, hurriedly stepped through before they could close and the train thunder away again. No sooner had he boarded than it took off again, nearly throwing him off his feet. Glancing around, the car was entirely empty. Not even a newspaper lay discarded on the seat. Walking to the end of the car he peered through the window. The adjoining carriage appeared completely vacant, as did the one after it. Upon examining the window at the other end it seemed to Ward that the entire train was deserted with the exception of himself as the only passenger. With nothing else to do, he chose a seat and sat down.
The train sped along, the tunnel walls passing too quickly for him to mark them visually. Still, he knew more or less where the train was headed. He was becoming quite well acquainted with the tube system after hiking through most of it for the past...he wasn't even sure how long, weeks, at least, possibly months. Not that it mattered. He sat and watched the lights and stations fly by.
"Next stop approaching, next stop!"
Ward jumped and nearly fell out of his seat. Turning, he beheld a man in a conductor's uniform with a thick brown moustache and gold-rimmed reading glasses.
"Next stop!" the Conductor hollered as if the train were crowded with passengers. He turned and faced Ward as if noticing him for the first time.
"Is this next stop yours, young man? If it isn't you've got a long ride ahead of you. We won't be stopping for hours."
Ward could only gape stupidly, unable to utter a word. The Conductor did not wait for him to answer but continued down to the next car calling out "next stop" all the while as if Ward were not the only other person on the entire train. Not knowing what else to do, when the train stopped, Ward got off. It rushed away again, stray papers and lightweight junk twirling in the wake of its wind.
He was alone again.
That was all right. At least now he knew there was someone else down here, someone who knew the rails and ran the trains. Next time he'd have to ask the Conductor what was going on. If anyone were likely to know, it would be the Conductor. It wasn't as if there was anyone else around to ask anyway. Ward resolved that the next time the train stopped, he would be there to get on.
Ward saw the train go by a couple of times. Its appearances were few and far between. He could not guess just how long the gaps of time were- time had become a rather fluid phenomenon to Ward- but even to him the stretches seemed lengthy. He managed to board whenever it stopped but either the Conductor was not present or he would not let Ward get a word in. Strangely the bespectacled man seemed to anticipate what Ward had intended to say, though not always with the utmost accuracy. It was a somewhat one-sided relationship, but Ward considered the Conductor an ally if not a comrade. At least, he knew he had nothing to fear from him. He seemed dotty, but not dangerous.
One of the hardest things to do in the tubes was laundry. Ward had been doing all right spot bathing at the sinks in the men's room and so was not having a problem keeping himself clean though his hair was getting long and his chin growing scruffy. His clothes, however, could have stood up by themselves and even the laziest university boy would have thought twice about wearing them. He'd learned to wash things in turn- socks and underwear one day, shirt and jeans another. It was tiresome but he made do. Eventually he got tired of cycling things and the uncomfortable sensation of wearing a rather stiff pair of blue jeans and nothing else. He was neither brave nor immodest enough to roam naked even though he was fairly sure there was no one around to see him. Besides, being completely undressed would necessitate standing until his clothes were dry and that might take hours. It was the only thing that made him impatient, waiting for the danged things to dry, particularly the thick fabric of his denim trousers. During that time he usually busied himself either sleeping or tidying up the tube stop.
The only form of cloth available were the rolling towels found in a few of the older restrooms. Ward disconnected the loop of old and stained cotton, ripped the seam apart, scrubbed the daylights out of it, waited for it to dry, and then wrapped it around his middle as a sort of loincloth. His reflection in the mirror made him smirk and think of Greek adventure movies with stop-motion hydras and Minotaurs. He had to admit he did look something like an uncombed Persius despite his best attempts at keeping his hair under control. He supposed it didn't matter. It wasn't as if he had anyone down here to impress.
Since he was- as far as he could tell- the only one down in the tubes besides the Conductor, Ward had taken it upon himself to act as custodian to whatever station he found himself in. There was a janitor's closet in every one, none of them locked, and he would make use of whatever he found there. The tunnels were beginning to become dull and dingy with dust and neglect and the decay made them seem creepy and threatening. Ward didn't want that and so began doing what he could for the tunnels. He would sweep, mop, scrub, dust and polish. He would have painted too if he'd had any paint. Some of the un-tiled walls were in desperate need of a touch-up. A lot of the tiles had come loose on some of the older stops and with a bottle of glue whose stench made him light-headed he stuck them back on. Ward reflected that the stations had probably not been this well cared for in years. It made him smile with a sense of satisfaction and pride. It wasn't a monumental task, but it gave him the feeling that he'd accomplished something. He hadn't noticed that up until then he'd been slowly becoming rather bored.
One day- Ward called it "day", any time he was awake he considered it to be daytime- Ward was thus dressed and thus engaged cleaning up the tube stop while waiting for his jeans to dry when the train pulled up. He was reluctant to leave his clothes and go running about the tubes in an improvised loincloth but thought he might at least stick his head in and call out to the Conductor. It wasn't often he had a chance for company. Laying his broom aside he went over to the train as it briefly paused to rest. The door slid open and Ward was forced to take a step back. Four, five, no six men, all walking in a close cluster trooped past him. Ward stood back amazed not only by the sudden presence of so many other human beings but at the their strangeness. They were all young men like him, the oldest certainly not more than thirty. All of them had long, untamed hair much like his own and were shirtless, clad only in jeans and sneakers of varying color and raggedness. They didn't appear to see or hear him, but that could have been because of the noise were making. Ward didn't recognize it for what it was immediately, it had been so long since he had heard anything but his own sparse words and those of the Conductor. The men were not humming precisely, nor were they singing. Instead they shuffled and stomped their own rhythm, improvising wordless, vocal accompaniment as they saw fit.
Before he had a chance to speak a word to them they were gone, heading up the stairs towards the railway station. Ward attempted to follow them but they turned off one of the side ramps that led down towards the other side of the tracks. Ward hurried after them but they disappeared down the stairs ahead of him. When he descended to the opposite platform they were gone. Where they had vanished to he had no idea, all he saw was the station he'd just been at, empty as the one he stood upon. The strange troupe of singing men had gone.
He tried making himself a calendar out of the little square tiles covering the walls, marking off the days with a marker he'd found in one of the broom closets. He soon gave up, however. Somehow, it made things more bearable if he didn't know how long he'd been down here. Ward learned not to care about days and weeks and months and when the battery in his watch died, he learned to stop caring about hours as well. He ate when he was hungry and slept when he was tired. There was no time. There was only him and the tunnels and somewhere the train.
He saw it go by once or twice again, but never did it stop. He walked along the tracks without fear. For some reason, he was quite sure the train would not run him over. For one thing, it seemed to be only a single train that was running. At least, the one he saw bore the same number (11) and the same orange stripe. As far as he could tell, that was the only engine in service.
Much to his amazement, it did stop one day. Ward had been standing on the platform, debating with himself if he should go to the right or the left when it pulled in, drowning the platform in noise and wind. The doors slid open and Ward, after taking a brief moment to gape in bewilderment, hurriedly stepped through before they could close and the train thunder away again. No sooner had he boarded than it took off again, nearly throwing him off his feet. Glancing around, the car was entirely empty. Not even a newspaper lay discarded on the seat. Walking to the end of the car he peered through the window. The adjoining carriage appeared completely vacant, as did the one after it. Upon examining the window at the other end it seemed to Ward that the entire train was deserted with the exception of himself as the only passenger. With nothing else to do, he chose a seat and sat down.
The train sped along, the tunnel walls passing too quickly for him to mark them visually. Still, he knew more or less where the train was headed. He was becoming quite well acquainted with the tube system after hiking through most of it for the past...he wasn't even sure how long, weeks, at least, possibly months. Not that it mattered. He sat and watched the lights and stations fly by.
"Next stop approaching, next stop!"
Ward jumped and nearly fell out of his seat. Turning, he beheld a man in a conductor's uniform with a thick brown moustache and gold-rimmed reading glasses.
"Next stop!" the Conductor hollered as if the train were crowded with passengers. He turned and faced Ward as if noticing him for the first time.
"Is this next stop yours, young man? If it isn't you've got a long ride ahead of you. We won't be stopping for hours."
Ward could only gape stupidly, unable to utter a word. The Conductor did not wait for him to answer but continued down to the next car calling out "next stop" all the while as if Ward were not the only other person on the entire train. Not knowing what else to do, when the train stopped, Ward got off. It rushed away again, stray papers and lightweight junk twirling in the wake of its wind.
He was alone again.
That was all right. At least now he knew there was someone else down here, someone who knew the rails and ran the trains. Next time he'd have to ask the Conductor what was going on. If anyone were likely to know, it would be the Conductor. It wasn't as if there was anyone else around to ask anyway. Ward resolved that the next time the train stopped, he would be there to get on.
Ward saw the train go by a couple of times. Its appearances were few and far between. He could not guess just how long the gaps of time were- time had become a rather fluid phenomenon to Ward- but even to him the stretches seemed lengthy. He managed to board whenever it stopped but either the Conductor was not present or he would not let Ward get a word in. Strangely the bespectacled man seemed to anticipate what Ward had intended to say, though not always with the utmost accuracy. It was a somewhat one-sided relationship, but Ward considered the Conductor an ally if not a comrade. At least, he knew he had nothing to fear from him. He seemed dotty, but not dangerous.
One of the hardest things to do in the tubes was laundry. Ward had been doing all right spot bathing at the sinks in the men's room and so was not having a problem keeping himself clean though his hair was getting long and his chin growing scruffy. His clothes, however, could have stood up by themselves and even the laziest university boy would have thought twice about wearing them. He'd learned to wash things in turn- socks and underwear one day, shirt and jeans another. It was tiresome but he made do. Eventually he got tired of cycling things and the uncomfortable sensation of wearing a rather stiff pair of blue jeans and nothing else. He was neither brave nor immodest enough to roam naked even though he was fairly sure there was no one around to see him. Besides, being completely undressed would necessitate standing until his clothes were dry and that might take hours. It was the only thing that made him impatient, waiting for the danged things to dry, particularly the thick fabric of his denim trousers. During that time he usually busied himself either sleeping or tidying up the tube stop.
The only form of cloth available were the rolling towels found in a few of the older restrooms. Ward disconnected the loop of old and stained cotton, ripped the seam apart, scrubbed the daylights out of it, waited for it to dry, and then wrapped it around his middle as a sort of loincloth. His reflection in the mirror made him smirk and think of Greek adventure movies with stop-motion hydras and Minotaurs. He had to admit he did look something like an uncombed Persius despite his best attempts at keeping his hair under control. He supposed it didn't matter. It wasn't as if he had anyone down here to impress.
Since he was- as far as he could tell- the only one down in the tubes besides the Conductor, Ward had taken it upon himself to act as custodian to whatever station he found himself in. There was a janitor's closet in every one, none of them locked, and he would make use of whatever he found there. The tunnels were beginning to become dull and dingy with dust and neglect and the decay made them seem creepy and threatening. Ward didn't want that and so began doing what he could for the tunnels. He would sweep, mop, scrub, dust and polish. He would have painted too if he'd had any paint. Some of the un-tiled walls were in desperate need of a touch-up. A lot of the tiles had come loose on some of the older stops and with a bottle of glue whose stench made him light-headed he stuck them back on. Ward reflected that the stations had probably not been this well cared for in years. It made him smile with a sense of satisfaction and pride. It wasn't a monumental task, but it gave him the feeling that he'd accomplished something. He hadn't noticed that up until then he'd been slowly becoming rather bored.
One day- Ward called it "day", any time he was awake he considered it to be daytime- Ward was thus dressed and thus engaged cleaning up the tube stop while waiting for his jeans to dry when the train pulled up. He was reluctant to leave his clothes and go running about the tubes in an improvised loincloth but thought he might at least stick his head in and call out to the Conductor. It wasn't often he had a chance for company. Laying his broom aside he went over to the train as it briefly paused to rest. The door slid open and Ward was forced to take a step back. Four, five, no six men, all walking in a close cluster trooped past him. Ward stood back amazed not only by the sudden presence of so many other human beings but at the their strangeness. They were all young men like him, the oldest certainly not more than thirty. All of them had long, untamed hair much like his own and were shirtless, clad only in jeans and sneakers of varying color and raggedness. They didn't appear to see or hear him, but that could have been because of the noise were making. Ward didn't recognize it for what it was immediately, it had been so long since he had heard anything but his own sparse words and those of the Conductor. The men were not humming precisely, nor were they singing. Instead they shuffled and stomped their own rhythm, improvising wordless, vocal accompaniment as they saw fit.
Before he had a chance to speak a word to them they were gone, heading up the stairs towards the railway station. Ward attempted to follow them but they turned off one of the side ramps that led down towards the other side of the tracks. Ward hurried after them but they disappeared down the stairs ahead of him. When he descended to the opposite platform they were gone. Where they had vanished to he had no idea, all he saw was the station he'd just been at, empty as the one he stood upon. The strange troupe of singing men had gone.
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