They, Her, Us
by MM Schreier
We point out the magtrain windows at a dust cloud that’s growing into a typhoon. They race across the sun-cracked earth atop gaunt horses. We’re not sure what They’ve stolen to feed the beasts.
Muttering to ourselves, hands white-knuckled on the seats’ armrests, we watch Them draw closer. We can almost feel the savages’ obsessive need to come for what’s ours.
A mangy nag stumbles, throwing its sticks-and-bones rider to the ground. The horde slows its madcap dash for the train, circling back to the prone figure.
The danger’s past, and we lose interest. It’s nearly time for tea. We hope there’s those little cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches we like so much. The grumbling morphs into playful banter.
A hesitant voice breaks through the laughter. “We should help Them.”
Conversation dies. In the silence, there’s only the hum beneath our feet as the train glides over the magrail. Dozens of wide eyes turn, not towards the speaker but to the front of the car. A camera fixes its monocle eye on each of us.
We lean forward, eager to hear the guidance, the law.
The words sound mechanical over the loudspeaker.
“The Train doesn’t stop.”
We do our best to ignore Her moaning. So gauche. A copper tang in the air sours our wine, and we wish She’d just get on with it already. Someone discreetly hands Her a towel so She doesn’t stain the seat.
She clutches Her swollen belly and cries. We pretend not to see. She’s done this to Herself.
Our chess pieces shift on the board as the train winds around the base of a broken-topped mountain. The Queen tips over and rolls under the seat.
A newborn wails, raging against the world. She hugs it close to Her chest as if it’s Hers to keep. There is no room on the train for one more.
“Let us off. They’ll welcome us.” She acts as if She has a choice.
We wonder if dinner will be veal marsala or blanquette de veau.
She collapses when the ServoBots rip the wailing bundle from Her arms.
The Monocle stares down at Her.
“The Train doesn’t stop.”
We congratulate ourselves for our cleverness, living at eternal speed. Such a grand adventure. Outside, the air blisters, but the A/C is cool as we mingle over cocktails. Occasionally someone speaks of Them or Her—voice pitched in disdain. We frown and change the subject. It’s such a lovely evening; why spoil it with such ugliness?
The train car sways and our Old-Fashioned slops over the rim of our glass. Our hearts flutter-thump with the unexpected movement. We peer through the window.
As we hurtle around the bend, the path ahead comes into view. A jumble of knife-jagged rocks obscures the track. We scream and clutch each other’s arms.
“Stop the train!”
The hum of the magrail becomes an angry buzz. Suddenly, our elite utopia—never-ending momentum—is a death sentence.
“Please.” The plea tastes foreign on our lips, as we pound on the engine room door.
The Monocle is unmoving.
“This is what You asked for. The Train doesn’t stop.”