Tale of the Thompson Express

John Kennedy

The sound of the trains wheels tapping and clacking as it shunts through the vast countryside, it's red hot engine produces a thick musty fog.

John Kennedy, as he stares out the frosty widow, keeps watch on all the different characters surrounding him.

A lady, sat about a meter away, plays with her luscious brown locks, as she peers into the mirror of her daintily crystallised, vanity box.
A mysterious man, tucked in a corner, tries to hide his obvious flask of alcohol as he pours all of its contents into his fresh tea. The steam gently rises, slowly, towards the ceiling as raindrops race one another down the window. Mr Kennedy sees his reflection. His black pinstripe suit creating a blanket over his vision. His tie askew, he sets it straight.

Another man with a rugged look and pure white hair stumbles into the carriage. As the door slams behind him, followed by the eyes around him, he stumbles towards the vacant cushioned seat in front of John. "Got a light?" - his rough voice booms. In his hand he grasps a mahogany brown pipe with a golden trim. A singular peacock feather pointing out of the rim his hat, the freshly pressed handkerchief peeking out of his top pocket. This is the money man of our cryptic tale. John gives the man a stern look before reaching into his suit pocket to retrieve a box of matches. He strikes the match along the box's edge revealing his face from under the dipped fedora. A calamity commences further down the cart, a lady in a deep amethyst gown staggers and stumbles towards the bar. Onlookers concerned. She has already had one too many. The built bartender shakes his head, she knows the rules. She raises her voice to be turned away a second time to which she shouts obscenities.

John narrows his eyes, highlighted by the lit match. He clears his throat to divert her blurred attention while uncovering his police badge. Overcome with fear the lady backs away quietly and rushes to another carriage as John swiftly blows out the match. Passengers glare at the badge, glinting in the scattered rays of lighting streaming through the window. The man with wirey hair takes a puff on his cigar, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. John grumbles "Lose something over here?" as he darts from each onlooker. Everyone averts their gaze except the man with the cigar who stares deeper into John as time goes on. The man takes a last deep puff from his cigar before he extinguishes it.

"I like your attitude. Bold, assertive...". John stops him before he can go any further, he isn't there to yak. He sighs, gestures for the older man to leave, yet he stays. He focuses on the dark nebula approaching overhead, tracing its outline on the hazy void which is the window he sits beside. A feeling arises in his gut, deep down inside. The lights blow out as the train is suddenly halted, people and objects alike thrown about. Surrounding screams fade out as John's vision is blackened and his senses taken.

He wakes abruptly, face down between the seat and table legs. The taste of metal imbedded on his tongue; the smell of sulphur invading his nostrils. He feels for his face, numb. His hand returns, as does his sight, covered in blood. He sucks in his chest, it is tight and he's struggling for breath.

A hand emerges from the darkness towards him. As he tries to move his hand towards his concealed weapon, the hand grabs his and a familiar face emerges showing the wirey haired man. However, before John could react the man mumbles "Do you need some help getting up?" He uses his tie to mop up the blood bath  on his face. He grabs the rough grip of the elderly mans hand, worn down by age, wary of his actions. He shuffles onto his knees. John cautiously groans "Thanks, I'm John". The old man, with a smile appearing on his face, replies excitedly "Finally! Hello I'm Professor Grizwald". Although smirking Grizwald looks down confused at his own handkerchief and then to John, who is still clearing up the remainder of the blood with a tie. He grabs it and generously gives it to John. "Here, you must've fallen on your face when the train stopped" John has no expression on his face, he doesn't remember. The car is a wreck. It is dark... lightbulbs smashed, tables turnt and pages from books or newspapers blown about.

He reaches for his trusty flashlight but his briefcase.... ITS GONE!