Elephant Rider

Prologue

The train clapped over the tracks and a woman scratched her nails on a file. Sophie took a swig of coffee, pushed up her glasses and turned another page of the newspaper. The Ember, again. She sighed inwardly. The deaths had doubled yet again in New Zealand, but the virus only began a week ago. Sophie shut the paper.

"The Ember?" Bruce turned to his wife.

"I want gossip." She slurped her coffee. "Not this."

The nail scratching stopped. Sophie peered over the newspaper.

"People dying not doing it for you?"

The papers crashed to the table. The woman was Australian. "I'm sor-"

The stranger howled with laughter, winning herself the attention of a few surrounding passengers. "I'm sorry. Don't help myself."

The couple froze.

"I'm not infected!" She threw up her hands, eyes innocent and brown. "My husband and I have lived in New England for three years."

Sophie's attention turned to the sunset outside. An hour more and she'd be back at the station piling suitcases into her daughter's car for the drive home. Nothing beat sleeping in her own bed after a week on Joan's so-called mattress—the springs still clawed at her back.

"So where in Australia are you from?" Sophie said.

The woman flashed a smile. "Actually, it's New Zealand I grew up in. Beautiful country."

"Will you be returning when all this blows over?"

Her smile dimmed for a few seconds. "I'm Vale. Forgive me for being so rude." She offered a manicured hand.

Bruce shook it. "Sophie and Bruce Miracle."

"Miracle. Could certainly do with one of those." The woman finished scoring her nails and dropped the file into a Chanel bag. Her gold earrings swayed with the motion. 

Sophie placed the empty cup on the table with a bang. Passengers rocked with the carriage, busying their hands with a book or electronic device, and snores drew from the hung-open mouth of a gentleman across from her. Sweat and cheap trouser cotton did nothing for Sophie's patience. Her eyes shifted to one of the spilled newspaper pages, its heading displaying the words: Russia Is Next. Red specs dotted the illustrated map of the continent below. The USA, like any other country, were yet to issue restrictions, neither hint towards a possible lockdown.

Vale shot to her feet and combed a hand through her brown hair. "I'm going to pop and get my husband a coffee. Watch my bag, would you?"

"Bring him over." Bruce signalled to the free seat.

"I'd love for you to meet him but he's in the locomotive."

Vale took off. Sophie watched a few men turn the woman's way. The woman made middle-age something to look forward to the way she sashayed down the aisle like Vogue's next top model. Sophie gave her a once over, hips swishing with her steps. She had to give it to her—not everyone's ass looked like that in skinny jeans.

"She puts a lot of trust in strangers." Bruce's eyes trailed into the aisle.

The unattended bag enticed Sophie. "You wanna have a look?"

Bruce whipped back round.

Sophie narrowed her eyes. "In the bag...?" She slid a curious hand over the table and grabbed the bag by its leather handles. The weight caught her off balance.

"What are you doing?" Bruce caught his wife's arm mid-air. The bag swung.

She slapped him away. "I'm not going to take anything." Leather gloves, a nail file; some tampons. Sophie frowned— at her age? She gave the Christian Dior Oud Ispahan a whiff, drowned in nostalgia by the patchouli. Then something else caught her eye.

Bruce tapped his feet. "She'll be back soon."

Sophie shushed him, her eyes busy searching. She held a Green Card in her hand. "It's fake."

Bruce hissed. "Put it back."

"All form numbers on a green card read I-551. This reads 1-551. You still think they've lived here three years?"

"There could be countless explanations..." Bruce scanned the aisle. "You finished now?"

She gasped. "I bet they came here to escape it all last minute."

Bruce slipped the Green Card back into the cardholder and tossed the bag onto Vale's seat. "She's coming."

There was no bend in the woman's knees. Black mascara pooled under her eyes, lips pale and chapped. Passengers flashed her a look— this time a different one.

"Everything okay?" Bruce dropped to his elbows.

Vale plopped into her seat, shivering. She fastened her jacket.

"Vale?"

Her eyes wavered. "Everything's fine."

The clacking train on track ostinato bellowed as the carriage flew through a tunnel. Sophie winced at the yellow carriage lighting. The woman breathed quickly, stomach up and down as if struggling for breath. Still, she shivered, but when the carriage re-entered the light, sweat glittered on her forehead. Were cold sweats a symptom of The Ember?

The train made speed through an Acadian Forest, pushing the Miracles into their chairs. The sunset winked through gaps in the trees like Vale's earring, all gold and shiny. The Ember had killed a relative back home, perhaps? That would explain the sudden personality change after visiting her husband. But the forged Green Card— how did that connect?

"I'm sorry!" Vale could no longer stifle the tears. The words surged from her lips like vomit over the crescendo of the engine. Concerning conversations stirred. Someone laughed. The unwanted attention reddened Sophie's cheeks.

"What do you mean?" As Bruce leaned in the woman squeezed her eyes shut like the secret was there, in writing.

The train raced through the forest. Passengers bounced in their seats like buoys in a storm. Coffee lingered in Sophie's mouth, drying her tongue. Pages from the newspaper were still strung about the table. Vale slipped one to dry her eyes. God, the state of her now.

Sophie made a second attempt, afraid for her safety: "What's happened?"

Vale's black hair swirled about, the train jerking her forwards. Now the carriage screamed over the rails. Vibrations buzzed though Sophie's body and she swung out into the aisle as the train veered left. A child wailed.

Bruce roared above the screaming. "Tell your husband to slow down."

Vale sobbed. "I can't!" She spat out slimy strands of hair from her mouth.

"You fucking bitch. Lived here three years, have you?"

The coffee cup fell to the floor. Sophie tugged her husband's bicep. "Bruce."

"Killing some of us to even things out over there?" Bruce wriggled from his wife's hold. "It's not our fault you lot don't know how to plant crops. You deserve to die. I hope you're the first ones that go."

"BRUCE." Sophie's pulse drummed. "Look."

Smoke loomed over the carriage floor and carried into the air, its acrid smell a sign of disaster. Passengers coughed, wafting their hands and heaving for breath.

Sophie gripped her husband's clammy hand beneath the table. The bitter taste of coffee and smoke turned her stomach.

And then it happened. The carriage flew from the rails and into the forest. Everything unfolded in slow motion— the spraying glass, Bruce's bloody face, the innocent terror in Vale's eyes, all those limbless bodies. Broken and breathless on the forest floor, Sophie yearned for only one thing: the sweet escape of death.