The Undying Man - Heroic Vol.1

Issue 3 - Stopping All Stations

The midnight train on the Eastern line was always dead over the weekend. Many of the people who caught the line during the day were generally quite well off and would either drive themselves home or take some other form of transportation. Very few of the upper-crust crowd were willing to relegate themselves to slumming it on the shabby late night runner. Rolling along rail-lines set high above the city streets, it actually offered quite a pleasant view of the city’s skyline at night. But the ancient heap of scrap metal was two generations too old, and was indeed the last of its model still in operation; a relic of a golden era long since passed. Still, it carried on, trudging along the lines like a stubborn old soldier – wanting to prove he could still perform his duties, if only his failing body would hold together.

Many of those who boarded the train were inclined to move towards the very last carriage, as if it somehow offered them greater privacy, despite the fact that security-cameras covered every corner of the train. Why they desired such privacy one could only speculate - though it was not surprising, considering the type of people who frequented the line. On almost any given night a medley of individuals from lower-class society would gradually spill in to occupy the rear carriage; from street-wandering derelicts, to overly intoxicated buffoons, to your simple 'average Joe' on his way home from a late-night shift at work. Tonight, it seemed, was no exception.

To the front end of the carriage there lay a pile of blankets. They were so numerous and dense; whether or not a person actually lay beneath them was barely discernable, however the occasional cough or shifting from underneath the sheets would indicate the fact. Further down sat a hooded man covered in thick layers of drab, tattered clothing. He was playing a series of songs from what appeared to be a harmonica - the relaxing tones adding a warm sense of ambience to the enclosed space. Only two others occupied the carriage, sitting close to the rear end. One of them was a blonde girl of modest height. She wore a light-tan coat that covered most of her clothing except for her shoes – brown leather boots they were. For long stretches of time she would bury her face inside the book she held; an old paperback novel with some mysterious sounding title. Every now and then, however, she would glance upwards for a brief moment before darting back to the pages in front of her.

She was observing the disheveled-looking man slouched back on the very last row of seats, his worn-out trench coat falling loosely over his body, the top half of his face blocked out by a wide-brimmed fedora. He appeared to be sleeping lightly, his only movements: the occasional snort or scratching of his cheek. She scrutinised his figure intently. His posture made him appear old, sore and tired, as if he'd been dealing with constant physical challenges for far too many years.

He hadn’t noticed her, or so she believe; as he seemed to be lost in some kind of restless slumber.

“Awful late to be ridin’ the train all alone like this, don’t ya think?” she said. Her voice sounded very close to him. She had moved silently. His eyes lightly drew upwards from the floor. It was just enough so that he could spy the top of her knees bending over the seat directly across from him. She had very nice legs, he noted.

“Seems like the sorta’ thing someone should be saying to you?” he said is a warm, raspy voice, his head remaining down.

“Really? Don’t I look like the kinda’ girl who can take care of herself? Hmm?”

He gave her a once-over. “You don’t.”

“Well, maybe that’s how I wanna' look. I kinda’ enjoy surprising people.” She grinned.

He eyed the novel she had been reading. It was now closed and sitting on the seat next to her.

“Good book?” he asked.