One: Sneaking Out

             When I was a teenager, I snuck out. I snuck out rather often. Never did I do it because I was grounded. I was never even grounded anyway. My siblings and I were always well-behaved children (this being less so for my sister during her late teen years), so we were never grounded. But I snuck out to see the occasional boyfriend. And once I started sneaking out, I dare say I had a hard time stopping.

 

            The hours before I snuck out, my belly would roll with uncertainty and fear. As I tiptoed through the hall, I couldn’t keep my breathing straight. But the second I was outside, sneaking along the shadowed driveway, I felt so high on adrenaline I wanted to laugh aloud and howl at the moon. And the sad part is I got just a little bit addicted to sneaking out.

 

            It got to the point where, when I had no man to be seeing. I snuck out just because I could. I’d drive to the nearby city and raise hell for just a couple hours. Then I’d sneak back in and go to sleep. It’s actually how got most of my friends. Every one of those kids wanted to be bad. I just wanted the adrenaline rush.

           

            So when I had to sneak out of my grandmother’s house, I had some mixed feelings. I was a little bit scared I’d be caught. I was a little bit worried that I’d lost the sneaking skills I had back when I was young. But above all that, I was having one hell of an adrenaline rush. I was loving it, grinning like a madman the whole way as I snuck past the nicely painted walls and over the spotless, plush carpet. Over my shoulder I had slung an old rucksack. I’d found it in my bedroom closet, left there years ago from a previous summer vacation visit.

 

            It had taken several weeks, but I had obtained a good amount of foods. I had some bags of dried fruits, a can of beans, a loaf of (squished) bread, a bag of beef jerky, a couple cans of Vienna sausage, and a cantaloupe. Besides food, I had a pound of salt, my survival knife (my 16^th birthday present), my pocket knife, a half-empty canister of lighter fluid, a long pair of pants (it was spring now, and it might get chilly where I was going), two extra shirts, four spare pairs of underwear, two extra pairs of socks, a first-aid kit, and a scuffed up copy of A Farewell to Arms. Oh, and a jar of peanut butter. And a foldable spork.

 

            My bag was packed tight, but it wasn’t too heavy. The cantaloupe and the cans were the heaviest things, but there was no point in getting rid of those things. I was donned in a gray fedora, a plain t-shirt, a light hoodie, cargo shorts fastened unnecessarily by a belt, and an old, reliable pair of tennis shoes. I was set as I could get.

 

            It was just before midnight when I shut the heavy wooden door behind me. And it was like I was in Missouri. It was actually dark out. Back when we had electricity, midnight in California was as bright as dawn, with the city’s lights shining on in the distance. Like a fire on the horizon, Los Angeles outshone the moon and defied the night. But not now. Now I almost thought I was already home. The sky was a rich navy blue, expanding in every direction with its gorgeous balls of gas. The stars entranced me so, urging me to stop and grin and dance just a little bit.

 

            I stepped forward, feeling the wind brush my legs and stir me from my trance. Right. I had a train station to get to, which was leaving in " a glance to my wristwatch " seven minutes. Well hell. I took one of the two horses from my grandma’s backyard (not suitable space for a horse) and quietly led her through the shrieking metal gate. I winced as it squeaked on its hinges, attempting to make an international announcement. Mounting the black mare bareback, I adjusted my rucksack so its strap crossed my chest and encouraged my steed onwards.

 

            I started her off at a trot, and then kicked her into high gear. Her hooves clopped loudly against the asphalt, quite possibly waking up the neighbors. But I didn’t care at this point. I had to get a move on. The smooth feeling of the mare’s muscles shifting beneath me calmed me down, and I leaned in against her mane. It was past curfew, so when I got closer to the city, I had to slow down. It took longer than I would have liked to reach the city’s outskirts.

 

When I did reach it, I heard a train whistle not too far away. Cursing under my breath, I dismounted my horse, turned her around to face where I’d come from, and gave her rear a good old smack. She whinnied and raced off. With any luck, she’d be heading back to grandma’s. The government threatened that the city’s fences were electrocuted, but I didn’t believe them. Luckily, I was right, and when I started climbing, I was not shocked.

 

The train station had to be held outside of the fenced territory; it was a little bit easier that way. As I had guessed, no one realized I was climbing the fence because there was a shift change at the fence. And every time there was a shift change, all the guards stood around for ten or fifteen minutes debriefing on what they’d seen. And gossip.

 

I did my best to avoid the barbs on the fence, though I still had a four inch rip in the side of my shirt before I’d reached the top. At said top, I looked out over the city, smiling. Then I looked away from the city and saw the train start to inch out of the station. Oh no. No no no no. No. I vaulted myself over the fence’s edge.

 

A tree will catch me, I told myself. Except this wasn’t Missouri. Trees? Southern Californians probably don’t even know what a real tree looks like.

 

I barely had time to remember to roll when I landed. I cried out in pain as the shock of landing jolted up my shoulder and spread like poison along my nerves. The hushed murmur of guards ceased, and I could just register the flutter of movement where they were grouped, turning about and searching for me. “Oh god,” I muttered.

           

The started shouting after me, and with renewed vigor, I forgot my pain and hurried onward to the old train station, past an old abandoned ticket stall and into an equally abandoned lobby. I imagined the tall room had once been full of people and luggage. Families hugged and rejoiced and business men chattered to their bosses on their phone mundanely as if that was the only possible thing to do in life. Another whistle and blurred movement beyond the stone arches ahead brought me out of my head again.

 

            I quickened my pace, boots seeming loud in the echoing building. Once I was on the train station’s platform, I looked over to my right to see how far away the train’s end was. That was when it actually passed me, making my eyes widen. I cried out, jumping down to the tracks and running after it. If it had continued at its present speed, I would have caught on to it by now. But it went faster; I urged my legs to move with equal speed.

 

            I swear my heart rate increased with the train’s speed, pounding in my ears. Its end was getting closer, not doubt. But it kept going faster and faster and faster and the distance between us kept increasing and increasing and increasing. I realized I was panting and my legs had begun to slow, so I willed myself to move.

 

            Move damn it, I told myself. Move… move… move! With every word, my pace increased. I kept repeating the word in my head. Move… move… move… move, move, move, move, movemovemovemovemove! Arms swinging at my side and jaw locked tight, I gradually started gaining on the train. I met the machine with a determined gaze as my hand suddenly flew forward. There was a dull pounding - like a drum - in my ears as my fingertips grazed the cold metal of the train’s black ladder.

 

            The train still seemed to be increasing speed, as the ladder left my hand. But with the realization that I was so close, I put in a quick burst of energy and soon found myself more than close enough to grab the ladder. I took my opportunity and leaped forward, actually slamming into the ladder bodily. I felt me body leaning backwards as I began to fall. My hands just managed to grab the metal as I gained some footing.

 

            Relief spread over me like a welcomed wave of warm water. I grinned from ear to ear as I wheezed loudly. Glancing over my shoulder, I noted that no one was standing on the platform. No one saw me. Good.

 

*

 

            Hidden behind empty crates, I suddenly felt sleepy. My escape had been an adrenaline rush, but that had faded quickly, and now the idea of a nap was enticing. But I knew there would be someone to check and make sure there had been no stowaways soon enough, I was sure. I had my ticket (a faded old raffle ticket) tucked away in my pocket, so I just had to give it to whomever came back here first.

 

            I could almost swear nothing happened for hours; that’s what it felt like anyway. I could have moved forward through the train cars, but I really didn’t like the idea of crossing that hitch thingy. I’d rather be accompanied by a Train Runner, someone who did this every day.

 

            A continuous vibration was sent up through my body as the train glided cross the tracks. It was occasionally accompanied by clicks and clacks, and bumps and jolts. A sound that filled the air, and I couldn’t describe it as anything more than that of a moving vehicle - a sort of buzz in the back of my head. This pattern continued for a while longer until the high-pitched whistle of the train interrupted the sporadic rhythm.

 

            It wasn’t even a minute later when I heard the indiscreet sound of the carriage door sliding open heavily and slamming in its slot. “Hello?” I called out cautiously, standing up in a similar fashion. The man seemed surprised to see me. He looked a little bit irritable too.

 

            “Sorry lady, no stowaways.” His brow creased. “I’m going to have to ask you to get off the train.”

 

            “What? No,” I stammered. “I’ve got a ticket, I swear I do. Hold on, it’s…” I shoved my hand into one of my pockets, and then into the other. “Wait, maybe it’s in…” I searched my jacket pockets. And then my back pockets. Yeah, no, I had no idea where my ticket was. “Okay, I know this looks bad.” I held up my hands defensively.

 

            “Okay lady, off the train.” The Train Runner, quite obviously annoyed, opened the train car’s long side door with a heavy grunt.

 

            I’m not going to lie. I have no idea why I did what I did next. Look, I’m not the purest kid on the face of the planet. I always had a bad habit of asking for forgiveness rather than permission, if you know what I mean. I leapt before thinking. I made stupid decisions because of it, like sneaking out.

 

            It was just my instincts, I told myself. Survival of the fittest, I told myself. Never turn your back to your enemy, I told myself.

 

            I may have possibly just slightly shoved the Train Runner out of the train a tiny, ity-bity bit.

 

            “I’m going to hell,” I muttered to myself as I watched the slightly overweight man fly out of the car and into the dry desert of California with a strangled cry. I’m pretty sure I could hear the thump as the man’s body hit the ground. I was pretty sure I should have heard him yelling or something. Maybe he’s just unconscious, I though with a grimace.

 

            Or dead, said a British voice inside my head.

 

            “Probably not,” I countered verbally.

 

            Possibly so.

 

            “Maybe…” I mumbled as the male voice started to persuade me.

 

            Too bad you’ll never know now.

 

            “But what if he is dead?”

 

            Then you’re a killer.

 

            “It was an accident.”

 

            Still counts.

 

            “Damned British.”

 

            Damned Americans.

 

I used my fingers to painfully wrestle with the door’s rusty lock, slamming the sliding door shut. Checking my bag’s strap, I moved on to the small door where this train car met another. The door opened easily. I cringed at the booming sound, but quickly grossed the hitch between the two car’s opening the next one’s door. It was full of boxes, just like the previous one.

 

            When I realized I wasn’t feeling culpable, that British voice came back, trying to a pull a guilt trip. What about his family? asked the British man. What if he wanted to live? What if his fate had been to live longer? What will happen to him now?

 

            I thought about each question before answering them aloud, just to make sure that I had answers to that. “He probably didn’t have any. Looked single to me. Not too attractive. Anyway, no one wants to be a Train Runner. I bet he hated his life. If his fate,” I spat the word out like burnt toast, “had been to live longer, then he would have. Fate is defined as the unavoidable future. If his ‘unavoidable future’ had been to live more, than he would have lived more. Hence ‘unavoidable’. And as to what happens to the poor soul now?” I asked to no one physically substantial, heaving the heavy door shut behind me. “The coyote’s and zombies will fight over his rotting carcass.”

 

            Looking about myself, I decided I couldn’t stay in here forever. I should keep moving. If I ran into any more Train Runners… well I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to do that again. All the more reason to find my way to the passenger train and get myself seated. Taking a deep breath, I moved my legs as if I were walking in place, shaking my hands; I was preparing myself in case I ran into someone else. Alright, here’s where no experience whatsoever in acting comes in. I hoped I was a good liar.

Author's Note

If you didn't already know, this is a revised version of a different story. I've changed a lot of key facts, so if something doesn't make sense, please tell me so I can fix it. That goes for grammar too. I was too lazy to read over the whole thing, so tell me if you see anything. Don't forget to comment. Thanks. :)