All Aboard the Train (The Clockwise Station Book 1) Read online

  All Aboard the Train

  Clockwise Station

  Book One

  By Jennifer Ann Schlag

  All Aboard the Train

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Ann Schlag

  ISBN: 9798557975278

  All Rights Reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or recording without the permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Original and modified front and back cover by Jennifer Ann Schlag

  It’s a magical thing to fly through the dark and wonder when the light shall come. And when it does, and breaks through your dark, only to cast you back to the beginning and you must bear it all again; only then shall you appreciate the journey’s legs.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY JENNIFER ANN SCHLAG

  Chapter One

  Jolie stands in front of a barren, burnt yard where her house once stood. It’s a memory that will forever be painful, and a steady reminder that she will never have a normal life again.

  The destruction happened somewhere in her dreams, for she cannot remember being awake and seeing her home destroyed. Or her parents turned to ash. A storm had come. At least that’s what she wants to believe happened. She heard wind the night before. The rumbling, thumping—like a mad heartbeat. Had to be a storm.

  She has nothing left to call her own, save for the clothes on her back. Looking out at the open land, it’s hard to imagine this was once a thriving farm. That a beautiful white shingled house, a little red chimney puffing smoke, and happiness rang out from the windows during baking time. The open fields blend in with the rest of the openness as to make it appear as one. A blackened rocking chair sits on its side near the road. Fond memories of herself as a child being rocked to sleep in her mother’s arms there. She’ll never sit in that chair again. Her mother will never sit in that chair again. She’ll never feel her mother’s arms wrapped snuggly around her again.

  The days are crossing over each other.

  She has to stop coming here. She promised herself that she’d come here one last time and that’s it. That was weeks ago. She comes back to this very spot every sunset. The red and orange beams of the sun remind her of fire, and it fits in nicely with the burning smell that radiates from the charred ground. The ground hasn’t begun to renew itself, which she finds strange. Whenever lightning struck and burned something—something new would grow from it. Not here. Nothing grows here.

  She has asked herself many times: Why was she spared? No one is around to give her answers, and she’s done trying to make up ones to satisfy her curiosity. She wants real answers.

  She turns away. One lazy, weakened foot in front of the other. Takes a tumble. Her face hits the pavement. There’s pain that starts in her mouth, and then travels to her head.

  A whistle blows. Flashes of glass keeping dozens of people confined come into view. Puffs of smoke cloud her sight. A loud, unforgiving engine creates a sonic boom in her ears. The smoke clears, and there stands a beastly black diesel with red trim. The front stares out into the open air like a giant’s eye set upon a wayward traveler—determined to see them as friend or foe. Gold letters read: Property of The Steelhand Traders’ Company. A sign hanging on a circular overhang reads Clockwise Station.

  Her parents were given a pamphlet when she and they moved to the town Murberry thirteen years ago. It didn’t give much information on the world; only about the city Volde which consisted of six towns and the main artery that links them together called Hub. On the back there was the prices for a train ticket and the rules to abide by when riding the train. There is a screening process to ensure each passenger is not a danger to other passengers. No children under eighteen may ride without a parent or guardian. It doesn’t show how many stops there are or a map detailing the layout of the train track—only that the train moves in a clockwise direction.

  She slowly comes back to her current situation. Stands up. Looks down at the pavement. There are tiny puddles of blood in between the cracks. She touches her lip and sees blood on her finger. “What was that? How can I remember the train station when I have never been there? We drove past it but we never stopped. I was three years old.” She wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her tattered shirt. “I need to get proper food and sleep. The lack of both can mess around with your brain.”

  Her sixteen year old body can endure more than someone who is much older or younger than her, but her vibrancy and stored energy is waning. She checks her sneakers. The soles are worn down but they have a few miles left in them. She has searched numerous homes looking for people but no one is around. The few homes that are locked, she didn’t dare try to break into. She fears finding someone else, because they might not be in their right frame of mind. She has considered that a plague hit her town and for whatever reason has decided she is immune to it. She has read enough horror and science fiction novels to assume the worst kind of scenario. Getting fresh water isn’t difficult. Not yet at least. The water is still running to every home. Sometimes it comes out brown but it runs clear after a few minutes.

  She should have left this all behind, but the attachment to home is still powerful. It’d take a very strong tool to clip it free. She could have sought refuge in Hub, since it’s only a few miles down the main highway which is two miles from her street. Something always stops her from leaving her street. Whether it’s the way the wind blows through the trees, or the lonely sounds of the birds chirping; she remains a willing prisoner.

  She wipes old, dry skin from her forehead, scratches at her oily hair. She has only ever cleaned herself with washcloths from sinks, because she never wanted to risk a shower or bath and then someone comes in and attacks her. She’s done her best to not smell, but at this point there’s no one around to object to her smell. Being alone, feeling isolated, has brought in anxiety and depression. The last of her worries is looking ravishing for someone.

  She recalls the brief time she saw one of her neighbors, but he could have been a mirage. It had been one week after her home was destroyed. Her mind was in a scramble. But Chris came out to her and offered his help. Really, he only offered her companionship. Not food or water or shelter. When she had asked him if his parents were alive, and what was happening, he had nothing to say. She suspected that he knew more than he wanted to let on. How could he have lived next door to her and not know what happened to her house? When she followed him home, he quickly locked the door. She knocked and no one answered. She kind of wishes he’d show up now. Mirage or not. Having someone to talk to, in any capacity, is enough.

  She reaches the end of her street. This is as far as she goes. She comes here, looks around, and then makes her way back home at sunset. On the other side of this street, a newborn adventure begins. Maybe people trapped like her. She looks up at the trees. A soft breeze blows through them. She combs through her knotted hair as if her hand is the wind. She stretches her
ears to hear the sounds of birds.

  “Maybe today will be the day that I break free.”

  She takes a step towards the next street, then something catches her eye.

  Shadows dance between the homes to the left of her.

  “Hello?” she calls out. “This is new.”

  The shadows move to dancing between trees.

  “Please say something.”

  Something is moving towards her in the near distance. As the image becomes clearer, she notices that it’s a dog. Mangy and food deprived, but a dog nonetheless.

  “Here boy.”

  The dog runs past her and down to the other end of her street. She has no idea if he belongs to someone or he is a wild dog and found his way here by accident. But she is determined to follow him. He is the only spark that says she isn’t alone. During her sprinting, the soles on her shoes fly off. She takes off the sneakers and tosses them to the side. Her socks are still holding up, so she starts running again.

  She is halfway down the street when she notices the dog is nowhere in sight. She listens carefully. If she can only hear a bark or a whimper.

  A dog’s howl comes. Blasting her ears with a sanguine melody.

  She turns her head and is struck by the very suburban neighborhood. She is not on her street anymore. Her neighborhood was a mixture of farmland and suburban lifestyle, but nothing quite as intense as this is. Nothing fancy like this.

  The house and locale that Hub chooses for the residents is based upon the skills of those residents. Since both of her parents could cook really well, it was assumed they could be farmers too. They were given all of the open land and told to produce food for the city. Chefs are not in demand in residential areas, and those who work in Hub are carefully selected.

  All of the homes on this street are designed to be perfect little cookie-cutter upscale slices of heaven. The front of the yards have three foot vinyl fences with flowering bushes in front. The mailboxes are black with white vinyl poles. All of the back yards feature the same red dog house.

  She sits down on the sidewalk and rubs her feet. The socks provided no protection. Doors open and close. She looks around. The fancy cars are all parked in the driveways. The front doors look undisturbed. She must be hearing things. She must have imagined the dog. But she couldn’t have. She gets up to go back home.

  She doesn’t get far when she sees the shadows dance once more between the trees, and then one appears in front of her.

  “Who are you?” Her bottom lip quivers. “What are you?”

  It lifts its nearly transparent arm and points behind her. She doesn’t turn to look. Its lack of facial features startles her, but also fascinates her.

  “I really should get home. I am sorry for whatever tragedy has befallen you. I have lost everything too. Only your homes remain intact. Mine was turned to ash, along with my parents. I wish I had had a dog. At least then I wouldn’t be alone. I saw one you know. A dog. At least I hope I did. Did you see a dog?”

  It points behind her again.

  “Oh, alright.” She turns. Sees the dog she was chasing. It’s panting and wagging its tail. It resembles something of a chocolate lab. “Are you trying to tell me that this is your dog? I will gladly take him,” she says to the shadow. She approaches the dog with her hand out. It sniffs her hand, then snaps at it. She pulls her hand away and slowly backs up. “It’s okay, boy, I am not going to hurt you.” She looks over her shoulder at the shadow.

  Slowly, the shadow moves around her, past the dog. It expands to become a giant shadow that looms over the entire neighborhood. Then she notices more dogs, almost like they came out of the shadow. Some are the same color and breed as the one before her. Others are larger, more muscular. Surely able to snap harder. She stands perfectly still. Not wanting to cause alarm to any of the dogs. All of the dogs line up with each other and bare their teeth at her.

  A park sits in the distance. It has a few trees that look easy to climb. The dogs can follow, and they will wait until she grows weary and falls out of a tree. Hiding out in one of the homes, if they are unlocked, will only stretch out the inevitable. The dogs will find a way in and they will get her. The dogs move in unison towards her. The one she tried to approach takes lead and starts separating the line.

  She makes a run for the park.

  A snap and a snarl comes from each of them as they run hard after her.

  She slams into the gate to the park. There’s a tear at her jeans. She kicks away and opens the gate. The dogs jump against the six foot chain-link fence. Some are starting to climb it. She has no intention of waiting around to see who will make it over first. There’s a small tree, maybe around fifteen feet tall. She scrambles with all of her limbs to get a grip on the lowest branch to climb up. She is not adept at climbing. Give her a farmer’s tool and she can make magic. She makes it to the crown, by sheer dumb luck, and sits against the trunk.

  Some of the dogs make it over the fence and run for the tree. They circle the tree like hungry sharks in bloody water.

  Jolie looks over her feet. The socks are torn and she can feel the cuts oozing blood and pus from climbing and running on pavement. She closes her eyes. She just needs a moment to capture her thoughts. She hears a birdlike sound.

  She wakes from a short nap and finds the dogs gone. “When did I fall asleep?” She takes the chance at climbing down. Still no dogs.

  She runs for the gate. Her feet hurt. She can’t do another big run. She hobbles down the street. Past the picture perfect homes. Still no dogs. She quickens her pace, as much as her mangled feet will allow her. She reaches the end of the street, but on the other side is not her street. She looks behind her. Looks again in front of her.

  “There’s no way I went in the wrong direction. I literally ran in a straight line. Didn’t I?”

  She looks up at the street sign. It reads Blissful Avenue. Her already weakened body feels weaker. She came all this way to find herself lost. Lost, tired, and hungry.

  “I need to get to Blooming Avenue. That’s the street that is opposite mine.”

  She walks on, down the cross street Dunebridge Lane. The shadows that danced between homes and trees, appear again. They dance from one side of the street to the other.

  “Oh, go away,” she says.

  As they fade into nothingness, crows fly down at her.

  She swats them away. “Now you guys, I remember.”

  As quickly as they come, they fly off. A reminder that she isn’t insane. She isn’t dreaming it.

  The next street is in view. Through squinted eyes she sees the first letter is a B and prays it is Blooming Avenue.

  Garbage cans rattle as Jolie passes them. A collie comes from behind the garbage cans. Jolie freezes. The dog looks sweet enough but she won’t allow herself to be deceived again.

  “Go away!”

  She regrets shouting at it. She deflates her anger and goes into a squatted position. The dog slowly walks over. Jolie doesn’t put out her hand, but she also doesn’t give off that fearful vibe. The collie trots the rest of the way over to her and quickly licks her hand. Jolie is still apprehensive about touching the dog. It nudges her hand with its wet nose.

  “You don’t understand. Some of your brothers and sisters nearly tore me apart earlier. Aww, you are such a pretty lady.”

  The collie looks up at her with sad eyes.

  “Maybe you are one of the good ones.”

  She hears growling and immediately thinks it is coming from the collie. Then she notices dogs moving in around her. The collie growls at the other dogs. This dog is no match for the ones that are preparing their strike.

  “You need to run. Find somewhere safe to hide,” Jolie says to her would-be defender.

  Jolie looks over to her left and notices a pile of garbage cans configured to look like a strange kind of ladder. She darts for them. Climbs up. The roof of a shed is a few feet away. She makes the jump. She lands hard on the roof and watches as the collie snaps at the approaching d
ogs. They lose interest in the collie and focus on getting Jolie. Some of the dogs climb up onto the garbage cans and prepare to jump onto the shed. Jolie jumps down. The shed door is wide open. She goes inside and looks around for something to defend herself with. There’s numerous gardening utensils. She grabs a hand cultivator. If she gets good jabs, she can easily take an eye out or slash the side of a jaw open. She doesn’t want to hurt an animal, but circumstances have given her little choice. She closes the shed door. She waits and hears nothing. No rapping on the sides of the shed from dog paws. No chewing. No growling. She looks out the shed windows and sees no dogs. The smell from chemicals in the far back of the shed are starting to make her feel lightheaded. She cracks open the door and breathes in the fresh air. She looks around the shed once more. Grabs a pair of gloves and gardening shoes. The shoes are too big but they will cover her feet. The gloves will be good for various levels of protection. She leaves the shed and makes her way towards the house.

  A shadow appears. Points towards the park.

  “You again? I am not going anywhere near open land, especially that park.”

  It points again, very persistent.

  “Are you trying to bring me to my death?”

  Again it points.

  She looks up at the house and sees all of the dogs on the roof. They are perched like the morning doves she used to see on her own roof.

  “Why is this happening?” She lifts her weapon of choice.

  No response from the dogs.

  The shadow disappears into the darkness underneath bushes.

  The park seems closer than it should be. She gives in. Her bruised, bloody feet almost pop out of the shoes as she enters the park.

  The dogs bark in unison and then jump down to come after her.

  She falls against the fence. She readies her weapon.

  The dogs pile in. They all sit down in front of her.

  “You afraid that I will cut you?”