Train B-7

The giant, vibrant eye of the big steel machine blast through the darkness of the tunnel. “WAAANK! WAAANK! WAAANK! WAAAAAANK!” The horn roars, warning everyone to get the hell out of the way.

“He’s gonna get hit!” The girl with pink hair screams. Morrison hears this; he can hear all the chatter from the crowd above him on the stage. He hears one of the male cops commanding him to, “Step away from the tracks. Stand down sir!” A female cop is ordering him to, “Put your hands in the air! Now!” He hears, too, the warning robotic voice from above. Morrison can hear all this. But what he is concentrating on is the rattling of the steel wheels vibrating on the metal tracks. The termites will be gone soon… no more bugs… no more Thomas. Morrison thinks as he digs the tips of his toes into the stone gravel floor getting ready to jump.

The silver, steel snake shoots sparks of spittle as it puts on the brakes. But when Thomas Morrison jumps on the nose of the locomotive, Train B-7 is still coming at killing speed. Like a fly crashing into a car’s windshield, SPLAT! Bloody chunks of raw meat spray the windshield of Train B-7. Thomas’s blood is sprinkled all over the gawking crowd. Morrison’s bones and flesh explode like fireworks over the waiting platform. The businessman’s slick black shoes are now speckled red.

For Morrison, the voices of the crying girls are erased for good now. His mind is lost amongst his splattered brain. With no more Thomas, Morrison can finally be at peace. No more murders, no more running. No more hurting those innocent girls like Thomas made him do. It is over. No more.

Overhead, the moon peeks out from behind an ebony cloud, still looking, still watching as a silent witness to the pandemonium that is mankind.

 

The Davenport Daily

-Guilt Trip-





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