The Platform [NOW PUBLISHED]

The Platform - 3

"Nope," the teen says. "You're American, and I'm Australian. Should I know?"

The man snorts. "Prob'ly a good job you don't. Mauricio Talamantes. Name ring any bells with ya, kid?"

I take a sharp breath. "The Rosemont shootings..."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Damn right. Kid asks me why I'm here. You gonna tell him, or do I gotta spell it out?"

"Death row," I whisper.

"Still feel sorry for me, Aussie boy?" The boy with the guitar shakes his head. "Right answer, and so you shouldn't, but don't be so hasty to judge. Last thing I saw's that machine pump me with a lethal injection. Sure, I got some regrets outta it, too: regrets I got in too deep, regrets I've gotten myself caught. Regrets my little boy ain't never gonna know his papa, and end up just as bad as I am. But" - he leans in and rests his elbows on his knees again - "what can I do about it now? Time slows down in here, kid, an' when you're waitin' for that goddamn drug to kill you, days turn into weeks. You, Indiana Jones." He thrusts his chin at me. "You got regrets?"

I have to think about it. Nothing immediately comes to me. I was a privileged only child, did well in school, lived the party-life at university, failed, and travelled the world ever since. What was I missing? "I disappointed my parents, I guess," I tell him. "Drank too much, slept around, and smoked stuff I shouldn't have smoked. After that I buggered off without a word and left them behind. Never made them proud, and never got a chance to say I'm sorry."

He addresses girl at my side. "What about you, girlie? Pretty little thing like you got a name?"

She doesn't look up at him. Still, the crack in the tile requires her immediate focus. "I-I don't know. I can't think," she mutters. "I just ... I wish I'd been able to see. I mean ... see the monster he was."

"What about you two lovebirds?" Mauricio asks the couple. I sense his question was not welcome, as the pair let it hang in the air. "C'mon. We're all boarding the Helatide any time now. Ain't none of us gonna see each other again, and ain't none of us gonna get a chance to clear our minds like this. Any regrets? I sure as hell ain't askin' again."

"I ..." the bloodied man begins, "I was driving too fast. We were having an argument. I wasn't looking where I was going. I've ruined everything for us. Our future, our -"

The woman in his arms speaks for the first time. "I don't hate you, sweetheart. I just want you to know that I don't hate you."

"Well," says Mauricio, "ain't that cute."

"There's still something on my mind," I say.

"More regrets?" asks the teen.

"No. No." I run my fingers through my hair. How do I put this without sounding nuts? "We all know why we're boarding the Helatide. Illness, murder, lethal injection, three accidental deaths. But one of us doesn't belong here. One of us shouldn't be on the train, and I don't know why I know it."

The blonde-haired boy looks down at his hands. "I feel it too. As though something is wrong. Does anybody else feel it?"

The woman beside me nods at the floor, and Mauricio sighs with a heavy heart. The man in the bloodied shirt gives me a sad smile and nods, too. The only one on the platform that doesn't respond is his girlfriend.

"Is it you?" Mauricio asks her. His voice is not tender, though I can tell he tried. "You don't belong here, missy, do you?"

She sniffs and her eyes brim with tears again. "No," she says. "I shouldn't be here. I need to be somewhere else. I need to be back where we came from for -"

"I'm so sorry," her boyfriend whispers, burying his face in her hair. "I'm so, so sorry. Don't say it. Don't say it."

"You think you should be the one who escapes the one-way train?" Mauricio spits. "Like hell. You might be here by accident, but as Indiana Jones over there says: it happens. Accept it. You're here. And you're stuck with us unlucky bastards until the trains rolls in. Might as well make the most of what time we've got left in limbo."

"Not me," the bloodied woman sobs. Finally, after all this time, her partner lets loose his feelings, and his face contorts into grief. He clutches her hair.

And then I understand.

"Not me," she repeats.

I watch in horror as she rests a shaking hand on the bump in her abdomen.