‘Tastes like shit right?’ He asks.

Sandra nods her head in agreement.

‘What the hell are we doing down here? It’s a damn train station, nothing news worthy is happening, unless you count bad coffee and train delays as news.’ He asks

Sandra takes another long sip of coffee

‘I don’t know Mike. Just stick to pointing the camera in my direction and leave the questions to me.’

Mike puts the camera on his shoulder and points it in Sandra’s direction. He pans a shot from her feet up to her chest, focusing on her bust.

‘Stop being immature Mike and save the space on the hard-drive. We don’t know how long we are going to be here do we?’

Mike nods reluctantly, putting the camera back on its tripod overlooking the tracks.

‘Why do you think Bob asked us to set up on this platform specifically?’ He asks

‘It could be one of many reasons. One of them could be someone famous or of importance is going to disembark on this platform.’

Both Sandra and Mike stare down the tracks in anticipation of the train’s arrival.

Sixty One

Frank is stocking up on ammo and weapons in the warehouse. He has the MSR rifle slung across his back and two 9mm’s hoisted on his belt. He grabs a twelve inch army knife from a box on a shelf above him. He suddenly spots a box next to it that has the word “EXPLOSIVES” tattooed on its side.  He reaches up and grabs the box. He settles it down on top of a stack of crates towering to his chest level. He tries to pry the wooden box open but is unsuccessful. He looks around for something to help him open the stubborn box. He spots a crowbar resting near his feet, he grabs it and splits the explosives box open, revealing a medley of frag grenades. He grabs three and attaches them to his belt, using the supplied frag clips in the box. He closes the explosives box and puts it back on the shelf. He spots some black face paint on the shelf under the boxes of explosives. He grabs the round shoe polish like tin and opens it. He starts to apply it to his face and arms. He rips the remaining sleeve material off his tatted shirt and pastes his arms in the paint. The dried blood on his skin is masked by the dark camouflage like substance. Suddenly he drops to his knees in pain as he grabs his head, his finger nails digging deep into his skin, scratching at the surface like a cat at its scratching post. The images of pain and suffering resurface in his psyche as he claws for sanity. He screams in pain as he uses the crates to steady himself back to his feet. The voices in his head are thumping away at his conscious as he relives the day’s events, the killing of Tasha, the bloodshed in the hallway, the massacre at Connor Chases home.

He falls down once again, shaking in pain; his head hits a puddle of water on the floor. He chokes on it, trying to lift his head up to draw breath. He tries again, but feels as if someone is holding his head down, drowning him. He forces himself up but it thrown straight back into the puddle, the force of the blow is tremendous and cuts his eyebrow open, blood is trickling out, the taste of copper in the water, is now in his mouth. He manages to force his head up and gasp for air, but again is pushed back down into the water. He screams, the force of the scream ignites bubbles in the puddle, he pushes one last time, this time he manages to free himself from the unworldly grip. His head bursts out of the water, soaking wet as he looks around the dingy warehouse, no one in sight. He breaths deeply and staggers up. His face is dripping, as he breaths, his breath is visible in the air, like breathing in a freezer. He looks around again and notices nothing out of the ordinary. He looks down at the puddle and sees his reflection. A blood droplet falls gently from his check and lands in the crescent of water. A small ripple bursts in the puddle, washed with a tint of red. He looks deeper into the sheen and sees nothing. No reflection, nothing, just pure black. He snaps out of his daze and looks around. He walks over to the shelves and grabs another gun. He pulls the hammer back and aims down the sights. He strafes from left to right, making his way through the dark warehouse. He sweeps the immediate area and moves on deeper into the seemingly empty building. He makes his way to a section near the entrance of the warehouse.  He hears a noise, similar to a pin drop, a noise that is very familiar to Frank, the sound of a shell casing hitting the floor. He ducks behind a massive pylon like structure next to the door, the light switches just above his head. He hits it and the lights go off. He hears a crash, like someone knocking into something.

‘Damn it’ the voice says quietly.

Frank grabs his torch and turns it on. He puts the torch in left hand while holding the gun in his right. He moves forward and spots a person slowly moving away from an overturned trash can. The person doesn’t spot Frank. Frank squeezes the hand grip of his gun tightly as he slowly makes his way towards the intruder. A mere foot away he cocks his gun for effect and places the cold barrel of the weapon on the back of the person’s neck, making the shadowy figure stop dead in his tracks.

‘Freeze dirt bag!’ Shouts Frank

‘Frank?’ Asks the man

Frank turns the man around and shines the torch in his face. It’s the DA, Eddie Smith.

‘Eddie, what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I was going to ask you the same question Frank’

‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you Eddie but I’m not taking any questions at this time’

Sixty Two

The year 2006: SIX YEARS BEFORE BOARDING THE TRAIN

Flowers commemorate the entrance to the campus of the Boston High school. Students stand in seldom silence as people continue to lay flowers and ribbons on the campus lawn. A mass of media outlets and news crews are strewn across the entrance of the school overlooking the flowers and students. Sandra Austin is standing on the spot just in front of the school’s Football team sign. She looks at Mike who is signalling her with a five finger countdown, Five, Four, Three, Two, and One.

‘High school teacher Maggie Gardener was found brutally murdered in her home last night. Neighbours complained about a so called ruckus in the early hours of the morning in which Boston PD responded. They arrived on the scene in which her front door was unlocked and open. They walked in and found a horrific scene in which blood was found in nearly every room of the house. They drew their weapons and searched the house for any sign of a body. They found Mrs Gardener on her bed brutally beaten. She was pronounced dead on the scene. The police have just informed us that the teachers’ cause of death was asphyxiation. They have also told us that they suspect the woman was raped after her death. At this moment there are no leads on any suspects. The only thing certain about this case is that Mrs Gardener will be missed by many. As you can see behind me, students and faculty members are paying their respects. Over seven hundred bouquets of flowers have been delivered by hand. The principle has declined to comment on the situation stating and I quote “This is a troubling time for us all, I would rather not comment on such a heinous crime, I will leave the character and resolve of the teachers and students to speak for themselves.” It’s obviously a sad day here in Boston, millions around the country are showing their respects for the decorated teacher who by herself, has lifted a countries standards in teaching, She has won many achievements in her career and was considered one of the more valuable members of the school board. Her mark on teaching will be missed.

This is Sandra Austin reporting live from Boston High.’

Sixty Three