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Amethyst cuts back twice on Monograph and slinks through the chained-off lot by the condemned bowling alley before horseshoeing over to dip into the train station. No one at the booth. She hustles. The backpocket of her jeans snags on some loose tooth of the ticket gate as she hip-vaults over, still breathing heavy, and rifles through her pockets for her phone. For a minute she must have dropped it in the scramble but phew, nope -- just buried under all the shit in her jacket.
Y’all good? she throws in the group chat. Hex’s bubble pops up and Jay gives a greenlight but Orla shoots something frantic to Chug as Amethyst turns to half-jog down the stairs to the train platform. Hex had the bag last. If she’s cool, no one else has anything hot. No fuss no muss no habeas corpus.
Back in Rockbridge two hrs, she plugs in. Meaning Fruitdale in 30. Hey, look, no telling what shit they can put in your phones now. Amethyst takes too many chances without taking the dumb ones too.
Orla asks, Chips?
Amethyst squinches. And rolls her eyes. uhhh ok? wat kind
No bitch i mean meet at chips
Oh.
😂 😂 😂
☠ ☠ girl
Big wall of breeze barrels by and whips her hair as the train screams into the station. Amethyst should be clocking the cars flying past. End of the platform empty, except for her. (MacReady Station, please stand clear of the doors, thanks robo-lady), and she takes a step, nose down to her phone.
Right away: she knows dude at the end of the car is a problem. Not a busker. Or homeless guy, trying to sleep. Something going on. He’s got his neck craned back, staring straight up at the roof of the car. And his adam’s apple has a little twitch to it. Like he’s trying not to swallow his tongue. Looking like one of those twiggy venti frappuccino kids, but. You know. Something.
She checks the time: 11:58. Trains stop at midnight. It’s either this, or a cool thirty-some block walk. It’s only four stops. The lights mosquito-flicker as she hitches up her jacket. (Please stand clear of the doors.)
Amethyst steps into the car.
It is only four stops, ten minutes if she’s lucky, but Amethyst cuts a hard right to pass through the joiner door into the next car, where --
-- fuck, the kids that run around the Seminary. Four or five. Which is four or five more than she feels like dealing with. Orla got her stungun. Shit.
Okay. Amethyst thinks. And parks in the long window seat that runs flush against the side of the car. Out of the eyeline from the door. Shrink your bubble, just like drama class. Slink backstage. She hitches her jacket up. Pretty sure none of them saw her.
Might get held up, she texts, popped a flat
shit
need a scoop?
You good?
Probably. She cuts a look through the door. They haven’t moved any closer to the joiner, anyway -- the end seats in their car still sit empty. She’s pretty sure it was four. Hard to tell with them all huddled in the middle rows like they’re watching something. She racks her brain. The Blazers jacket. Must be the big motherfucker with the gaptooth. He got Chug’s phone a minute back. Maybe still has it. Were the others big? Didn’t seem like it.
But, like. Shit. Amethyst ain’t either.
Both rows of washed-out fluorescents flicker as the train hits a rough patch of tunnel (metal screeeeeching, fuck, ow) and Amethyst sucks her teeth. Bump the fare up all the time, but cry poor over lightbulbs.
The train lurches. She looks back. Creepy dude’s a seat closer. And he’s lost interest in stargazing -- now he’s watching Amethyst.
Ha. Hahaha okay. Yeah. Nah, man. Amethyst has seen this damn movie.
She drills him clear across the car with the filthiest mug she’s got. "Fuck you want?”
Not that he seems to be taking in much. He needs some sleep. Glassy-eyed. He’s not white, but got that same cheesy color to his skin they get when they’re sick.
"You just keep your lil methed-out ass right over there.” She cranks it up, gets that real balancing-Tic-Tacs-on-your-nostrils type stinkface. Just in case. “I don’t need company."
(14th Street Station, as they hit a rough patch: metal-on-metal, boiling loud, plain evil-sounding. Please stand clear of the doors.) Platform’s empty. A couple stragglers on the far benches, but none of them get on. (Please stand clear of the doors.)
Three more stops. Light weight.
When Amethyst looks back again, dude’s still staring. And moving his lips. But not saying anything. Got that look people get when they’re trying to remember something.
“Oh, no-no-no, get that bibbidy-bobbedy-boo shit out of here. Keep out of my fuckin’ chakras.” Amethyst hitches her jacket. “Take a nap.”
The lights hiccup. One fizzles like those bug lamp BBQs. The train hits a bump that sways them both to the left… but dude doesn’t balance back. Amethyst watches him slip sideways in the seat til his head donks the glass. Then his eyes close.
Uh, shit. Really? Like that? Well... good. Looks like he could use it.
She pulls her phone out to answer Orla but keeps looking back at the guy. He is dressed nice. But like. Not local. ‘I’m here for the college’ nice. Clean but crinkled in the wrong spots, like he’s slept in them a few days. Like now. Huh. First time away from home, probably, and went all Hoovervac on whatever he found around campus. Stupid.
“It’s not a damn smorgasbord,” Amethyst mutters; maybe too loud, oops. He sighs in deep, and holds it, (Now approaching 5th Street City Station) and lets it out… sags a little lower on the window. His throat wiggles again. And he makes a little hmm sound (like Chug does when she’s halfway asleep), higher than you’d think -- oh shit, maybe a she? One of those soft butchy type of dykes. Filipina maybe. Or Thai.
Yeah Amethyst stares. So? Hits different when it’s a woman. Strung out like that, alone. She shouldn’t be down here.
Amethyst might keep staring (5th Street City Station), maybe even get this girl to dig out her phone and call someone (Please stand clear of the doors.) if the joiner door didn’t bang wide open.
“Yeah -- I thought that was her.”
(Please stand clear of the doors.)
Fuck.
Too late to dip. The doors to 5th Street slide closed, and the train lurches forward.
Amethyst keeps cool.
“Where is everybody?” Gaptooth spreads his arms wide, wiiiiide, and turns in a circle, goggling around -- real cornball shit. “I know they didn’t leave you all alone?”
“She’s looking a lil lonely.” Cheap Keds. He passes to her left to box her in. Bigger than he looked through the joiner.
“So lonely.” The smallest one hangs back by Gaptooth. Must be new, but Amethyst knows him. From high school. Still got the same St. Christopher’s medal from his mama sitting outside his shirt. Roger, or Robby, something. Asshole.
“You know I been looking for you?” Keds drops into the long seat next to Amethyst with a thump, arm around her shoulder and shit -- like they’re cooling on the couch. “Don’t you owe me a little money?”
She slumps it off, hard. “Don’t owe you shit, mijo.”
The girl in the tracksuit hangs off Gaptooth’s shoulder and leers. “I remember. Yeah. From the Spurs game, right?”
“That’s right.” Keds drops his arm on Amethyst again. “You and I made a bet.”
Lake Mayfield stop coming up. Two minutes. Amethyst could make the door. Maybe.
“You got me confused with someone.” She squirms like she’s trying to shrug Keds off again to hide reaching in her pocket. Fuck. Anything she can even use? “I only bet on water polo.”
Keds wrenches up a fistful of her hoodie -- damn near pulls her out of the seat -- and the rest of them slink closer. He jabs a finger in her face. “You made a bet. You owe me a little money.” Gives her a good whiff of the Backwoods he smoked earlier.
“Whoa, whoa, easy, man… listen.” She shrugs up. “I’d love to give you a little money.”
“Get her hand out of there,” Tracksuit says. Shit.
(Now approaching Lake Mayfield Station.)
“Maybe then you can stop stealing your auntie’s church shoes.” (Lake Mayfield Station. Please sta --) Amethyst kicks, “Fuck off me --”
She takes a few knocks (bing, ding, bang!) -- hard enough to taste her root canal. Yowza. Can’t move, left side of her face pink with heat. Bigass elbow kebabing through her back, fuck he’s heavy -- facedown in the seat she just got pulled out of. Hey: still warm.
At least two of them grub around in her jacket: her phone, yeah, and her wallet, duh -- and a novelty glow-in-the-dark condom, lime Tic-Tacs, de la Rosa peanut marzipan wrappers, a spoke wrench, orange zipties, receipt for 12 bottles of grout cleaner, dozen safety pins, a rubberband ball, curled sliver of yellow Post-it notes, a shitpot full of Bics, one third of a bike tube, a couple tampons, mechanic’s rag with tacky oil, bike brakepad, mini tape measure, a black Sharpie, a purple Sharpie, a teal Sharpie, a few packets of soy sauce and hot mustard from Monkey Master, novelty cocktail sword, bag of Dorito crumbs (cool ranch natch), some kinda jawbone she found on the beach in Almeida, it’s probably fox, okay yeah that’s a weird one, a coaster with an Amish joke, a ratsnest of peppermint floss pulled out of the box --
Keds is disgusted. “What the fuck do you keep in here?”
“Everything, shithead.” And can turn just enough to spit (“Bitch --!”), yeah she gets tagged good for that one. Full tweety bird, right behind the ear, clunky pinball ringgg, fuuuck me. Hot-stove-tasting.
Her eyes swim back. And her hearing. Ringing, boy, ringing! Ugh. Hard to breathe. Still pinned flat to the seat, but no one’s sculpting her head into a cereal bowl just yet.
“Who the fuck is talking to you?” Gaptooth. Pissed to hell.
Amethyst blinks. Spit smears between her chin and the seat as she tries to crane a look back. What even are they even… oh, shit.
“Go sit down,” Amethyst mumbles into the gritty vinyl. Gotta be him. Her. Whatever, college kid -- dumbass is gonna get hurt. Look like they could get shin splints in a stiff breeze.
“This your friend?” He shifts his weight on top; Amethyst wheezes.
“Man, go sit down.” It comes out a hiss. She coughs. Can’t see shit. “Just shut the fuck up.”
“You wanna help her pay o --”
Not a lot of ways to describe the sound. The closest thing might be when Amethyst went to a summer birthday party in elementary, where they got a hold of the garden hose. It was hot, and they took turns drinking classic backyard punch in between spraying each other and screaming lines from Terminator. One idiot kid took a dare that he was strong enough to force one of the kitchen knives through the rubber while the water was running. Fucked up a $60 hose (and all their house invites, for life), and made a vvvvvthsuck! from the ripping rubber, and the water. That’s what Amethyst hears as something warm splashes her ankle.
The lights flicker. Someone starts screaming.
The weight pinning her vanishes and Amethyst doesn’t look, she moves: covers her head and hunches and push-scramble-crawls down the long seat until she’s tits-deep in the corner of the car before looking back. Gaptooth is gone. He’s just fucking gone. A hot pile of red muck where he was, same size as a sewer cover, like God dropped a jelly donut. It pulls in long runny trickles on the floor as the train hummmmms Amethyst covers her mouth.
Bang bang bang Keds thrashing the train doors and Tracksuit helping -- trying to pry them apart -- the lights mosquito-flicker and their arms curl back like party favors. Blood patters on the floor and seats and window in jellybean blobs and, screams, the light flickers.
Warmth dollops her cheek and Amethyst’s eyes close, she can’t open them again. Mumbling into her hands Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo santificado sea tu nombre venga tu reino hágase tu voluntad she always forgot the rest so just says it over and over and over as the lights go out, and the train, the metal screams.
She can hear herself breathe. Wheezing -- into her hands -- well, they’re still there -- her chest hiccups and her eyes open.
College kid’s slumped straight across from her. In the long window seat, flush with the train wall. She is a woman. Woman-looking. And like she hasn’t slept since Easter. Thin as a minute, ma would say. Funny Amethyst is thinking about ma now. Her heart’s going like a fucking inmate.
The woman watches Amethyst watch her. Then she sits up from her slump, slow, like she’s sore. She spreads her arms wide -- and slowly swivels her head: left... right... left... “Where is everybody?”
What the fuck?
“... wh… what?”
The woman freezes with her arms out. Then lowers them. She looks… disappointed. Fuck -- Amethyst should have tried the joiner door. Too late.
“They,” clipped in the middle this time. More tinny. “leave you all alone?”
Something’s wrong with her voice. Or voicebox. A whistle of birdsong threaded in, itchy on the ears.
“Leave...” Okay. Amethyst laughs, wheezes. “We, y… yeah, man. Just... just you and me.”
The lights flicker like a film reel. Oh, don’t go out again. Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t. When she’s right there. Don’t fucking go out. Amethyst will pay backfare sixty times over if it means the bulbs can hang in there.
The woman…college kid... thing… tips forward in her seat. And reaches behind, like... oh, shit, oh Jesus, here it comes, Amethyst is fucking dead --
“Would you like a piece of gum?” The voice changes. Again. It’s… it’s grab-bag, patchwork, it’s -- okay, it’s beautiful, but it sounds wrong. Turns her guts like a gearshift even as she wants to hear more. It’s like three or four people talking at once, all braided together. And other shit peppered in -- a fridge engine, creaky hinge, ploink of pocketchange in water -- some fucked up radio signal from Mars.
Amethyst laughs. Once. Gum. The old fashioned stick kind. She laughs again. She has to haul it out of her body like dry recycling. “I’m… I’m cool, man,” she rasps.
“‘Cool,’” eyebrows bunching inward, “I’m ‘cool’…”
Her eyes cast off into the dark window behind Amethyst. Like lost in thought. The shorted lightbulb overhead goes hot for a second, and gives a better look: and Christ, the pupils go sideways like a farm animal.
The dollop of blood on her cheek is gone. And... uh… and now that Amethyst looks, the train is clean. Just -- normal. Normal clean. The blood is gone. Nothing on the windows.
No bodies.
Amethyst wants to ask where they went. But no. No actually she really super fucking doesn’t.
The train hummmmms and she feels her nervous smirk. From when she was a kid. Until Ms. Hurley squeezed it out of her in 4th grade -- then turned around and wrote her up for ‘defiance’ and ‘insubordinate expressions.’
It’s back now. With a vengeance. Her cheeks ache. “Wh… what’s your stop?”
The woman… grins back. Tries to, at least. Just as wide. “I don’t stop.”
Where is the train? Fruitdale should have hit by now but Amethyst will take Colosseum, San Junipero, fuck’s sake she’ll walk back from Chestnut Creek.
The next car is dark. Dark. She can’t see shit through the joiner. (The light flickers.)
Her eyes close a moment before no, that’s giving up. It’s just like Questions. In drama class. Stay quiet too long and you lose. Watch. Watch her. Amethyst laughs, crusty. “Sounds exhausting.”
“‘Exhausting.’” (Amethyst hears a sliver of herself in the word. Her voice.) “‘Exhausting’...”
Amethyst swallows. She can do this. Just keep talking. “What’s your name? Mine’s --”
(By pearl-online.tumblr.com! Thank you!!!!)
The lights flicker red, red red red -- the thing lunges. Amethyst shrinks back as it crams its hand over Amethyst’s mouth so hard her jaw clicks, (the breath is cold) --
“Don’t.” A woman -- one woman -- one whole, human voice, wrung out and desperate as she glares laser beams into Amethyst’s skull. Her hand is freezing. But she -- kinda? Swoons? She goes soggy in the middle and slumps slow onto Amethyst’s shoulder. Panting. Her hands come up to brace on the backrest as the lights go a softer pink.
“Fuck, man,” Amethyst whimpers, “chill out.”
“‘Chill out.’” Voice mixes again -- church organ windchime printer jam. The upholstery on either side of Amethyst’s head screaks and green flickers overhead. “‘Chill out!’”
“‘S cool.” Her hands go up. “It’s good. We don’t gotta… no names.”
“No names.”
“No problem.”
But she doesn’t retake her seat. Or back off, even. Still caging Amethyst against the backrest like a high schooler with a crush. Her posture slacks up some. Her face relaxes… keeps relaxing… her eyes close again like she’s about to nod off. Then she reaches into one of her pockets, and pulls out Amethyst’s phone.
Ha. Haha.
“H… hey, ta… take it, man.” Amethyst’s head shakes. “You want it?” Her hands go up in a flap, a shrug. “All yours.”
“How much?” A man’s voice. Briefcase and bluster. Too big for that body.
“... no charge, dude.”
Frowns down at the phone. Disappointed, like. And reaches, in no hurry, to tuck it into the breast pocket of Amethyst’s jacket.
The light’s back to queasy, cheesy white -- wavery -- Amethyst can’t look at the eyes, man. Windows still all black. Joiner door still all dark, can’t see the next car.
Next car is still there, right?
A yellow glint: college kid’s holding up the St. Christopher’s medal. From the cat earlier. Fuck. Fuck’s sake. There’s still blood on it. The honey walnut shrimp from Monkey Master tries to file a forwarding address but Amethyst squashes it back down.
“This?” Young. Little kid voice, almost. Real inquisitive-like. Amethyst stares.
… after a minute, they give it a little show-and-tell wiggle.
“... necklace?”
“Would you like this necklace?” The voice cracks on the last word. Like a puzzle piece jammed into place.
Amethyst doesn’t answer. No. No, she doesn’t want it. She incredibly fucking does not want it. But turning it down seems like a bad move.
Her jaw aches. Racking her brain. The thing sees her grin and grins back. And reaches for her jacket again. Tucks the medal into one of the inner pockets. Even gives an indulgent little pat, like a grandma sneaking candy.
College kid reaches behind again. She pulls out a leather wallet.
God. Amethyst shakes her head, slow. “I don’t need it,” but there’s no breath in her.
“Consider it a gift.” Fragile, tired, older man -- clatter of dishes in the background.
“I don’t…”
Amethyst hears herself: “No charge, dude.”
“Oh, Jesus.” She can’t help it. Her eyes squeeze closed as the wallet is tucked into her hoodie pocket and cold, the hands are fucking freezing -- and the thing makes this -- she gasps, and makes this trilling sound at the feel of the fabric.
“That’s just lovely.” Old British lady. The pressure doubles down against Amethyst’s middle and okay, she’s a teensy bit self-conscious even on a good day, but this is expressly fucking outside the realm of okay touch.
“Hey…” She scoots away best she can. Non-starter, really, with the motherfucker half in her lap. She even smells cold. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
The hand slides up to her bra and squeezes. It’s like sticking her tit in a snowcone. Fuck! Her teeth tighten up. “Stop.”
College kid frowns. Her hand withdraws to the seat. Sits back, still straddling. She’s not heavy, but she’s brick cold. And the warmth not even going anywhere. Just a heatsink. "Arrêtez-vous?"
“... if that means ‘stop’... then yeah, man. Stop.”
“Where’s your stop?” Amethyst’s voice again -- Amethyst’s question -- blended in with the mix n’ match house special. Even uses her own inton… shit.
When’s the last time we stopped? The windows have been all blacked from the tunnels but Amethyst looks now and just sees wide, rolling, nauseous yellow -- like the sky before a tornado. No buildings she can recognize. No landmarks, no streets, no platforms no nothing -- they’re supposed to be underground.
Something hoarse pushes up out of her. “Where the fuck are you taking me?”
The thing weaves fingers around the back of her neck and leans in, until they’re almost nose-to-nose. “Where’s your stop?”
Breath like sticking your head in a meatlocker -- Amethyst screws her eyes shut, and her cheeks stick (cold, it’s cold,) -- oh -- she’s crying. The kind you don’t even notice. Just starts up clean and quiet as powerline.
Then something hot on her cheek. The... it’s… licking her. At her face. The tears. Cupping her jaw to turn her. It’s almost friendly. Shit -- it’s fucking gentle. The thing purrs while it does, a little chirping hum on the tail end. A passerby might think they’re lovers if they didn’t look too close.
Amethyst can’t breathe. All the shit in the universe funneled into her jacket, and still forgets her goddamn albuterol.
“Why can’t… stop,” she wheezes. The tongue is some kind of toxic shore green-blue and unlike the rest of her, it’s feverish. The thing takes its time swiping it to the corner of Amethyst’s cheek, and brushes lips against the lashes. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I…” Amethyst, again, “... need company.” Glittery magenta strobes in through the windows. Green again, yellow, magenta -- Two women, one a whisper one a laugh, “You’re so pretty,” furred low with a thumping bassline.
“What the fuck, man...”
“Come home with me,” some sing-songy tenor boy.
-- frittery golden-orange, flickering, Amethyst is dizzy -- the hand tightens in her hair, and Amethyst braces for a hit -- but the woman from before -- one woman -- one voice, worn to hell but whole: “When the light turns blue you have to run.”
“Wh… what?”
She grunts. “When the light’s blue, you run.”
“Fucking where?”
Her hands clench, like she wants to pull herself upright; they give out. The one-woman swoons in and out. “Where you can. Blue, run.” Like bad reception. “Before it runs out of salt.”
“What are y--”
But she’s yanked back hard by the hair -- chin tipped high -- and the thing chirpy-squeals again, licking up the tears that tracked down her neck. The breath is warmer. Not warm but not stuck-behind-the-dairy aisle anymore. It moves down past Amethyst’s neck, finds the sour-scared sweat she’s had running since she saw the Seminary kids -- starts to squirm in her lap like a dog (way too lanky for that, its legs knock all over) -- and reaches for the neck of Amethyst’s hoodie, ripping outward.
“Oh, come on!” Amethyst snarls. Then laughs, terrified. Oh, fuck that. Fuck this. If she’s gonna be a pile of cherry cobbler on the floor, she should be allowed her tits in a state of dignity.
The thing doesn’t react. The middle of the hoodie rrrrrrips: the thing almost clips Amethyst’s chin ducking down to reach -- freezes. Staring at her sternotomy scar.
It sits just long enough that Amethyst starts to think it’s put off. But then it dips down and the scar, deadweight nerves for years, snap-crackle-pop to deepfried life and fucking ow none too pleased about that! Amethyst yelps at the raw zigzagging shock of it and kicks in the seat -- brain razzled up like an arcade, brrrrring! --
One arm bucks out and almost hits -- but the thing doesn’t care -- too interested in the scar, and restless with it. Like it wants to tease the skin open all over again. Crawl inside.
“Salt?” Amethyst swallows open-mouthed. Whited out for a minute. Now she’s stargazing through the roof. Fucking hurts. “Yeah?” The lights flicker milky yellow, hot enough to pop. A little baby-food green. A little bruisey blue.
Pressed hard into the seat but her arms can still move. She shakes, wipes her palm on the inside of her jacket pocket. Two, three -- four packets from Monkey Master. Amethyst swallows. One of the Bics to stick a hole. “You want salt, you weird motherfucker?”
More green -- less yellow -- less white -- the lights flicker blue and Amethyst full on slaps her hand down like an inkbomb and shoves -- the thing’s light -- and dog-crawls for the door --
-- it grabs her wrist tight enough to snap fuck she looks back: whatever it was thinking, it’s rethinking. Greenblue tongue stretched up its own cheek (Jesus Christ) -- scrubs over its face and free hand, licking --
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
Amethyst rips her arm away, covers up and hurtles for the door. Into bodies -- arms grabbing -- Amethyst thrashes. “Fuck off me -- stop!” thuds knees-first to icy tile and someone’s newspaper. Ticket stubs. Palms skinned raw from the fall. She looks up.
A platform full of people cut her plenty of space. A handful gawk down -- her hoodies still torn, and she’s doused with soy sauce. But not for long. Too busy slipping past to get a good seat.
Her phone. Amethyst scrambles -- battery at 3%. 32 unread messages, 18 missed calls. 11:58.
“You gonna move?” Tall horse-faced guy glaring down at her. Amethyst stares. Then laughs. She just laughs -- moves just enough for criss-cross applesauce, right in his way. The guy snorts disgust and steps on (“Please stand clear of the doors.”) “Need to stop letting these bums always sleep on the trains!”
Amethyst posts back on one skinned hand. Goes to tuck the phone back in her pocket. The St. Christopher’s medal is still there.