Train B-7

“Hopped the gate.” Someone said.

Meanwhile, about twenty feet down from the end of the waiting dock a heated argument grows louder from between the train tracks. The man screams, “What are you gonna do More? Huh? Run again? Get on that train? We almost got caught last time!”

The other man barks back, “I know… I fucking know all right!” Morrison screams at Thomas, his small stature barely reaching five feet, is shaking with nervousness and even more so with fear. Morrison lowers his voice, “We didn’t hide the body good enough man.” He looks toward the dark empty tunnel and then glances back down at Tommy’s trembling hands; he could tell Thomas was scared too. He knows he is because he knows him all to well. Morrison has known Tommy ever since the first time they “Played” with a girl… played until she had to go home... and go to bed, the painful thought cuts across his mind like a knife.

“We should have buried her,” Morrison hisses through his paper-thin lips, then, as if speaking to himself, “like I said too.”

Back up on the edge of the waiting platform, a businessman shoves his way to the front of the crowd. “Come on, come on,” he growls and taps the right toe of his Steve Maddens, “B-seven, B-seven. Let's go!” He says and keeps glancing back and forth from his gold Rolex to the tracks in anticipation of his train. His watch reads five to eight, and according to the electric display hanging behind him from the station’s ceiling, Train B-7 is set to arrive at 8:01 p.m.

From the back of the small crowd a man with a pinstripe suit on says, “What is going on down there, why’s that man yelling for? Is he arguing?”





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