Out of Order

The toilet door on the train says “Out of Order”: there’s a sign. I try the handle anyway, but the door stands firm. Probably for the best, really. I have to sit down, though, or I’ll never make the journey.

I find a spot between a man who smells like peanut butter and a fat sweaty woman. There’s hardly any room to move my arms as I squeeze between them, but I try to remain calm. I clench my hands into fists and dig my long nails into my palms to distract myself from the push of my bladder.

The boy opposite has his legs stretched out into my space. He sways in his seat, his face an alcohol green, though it’s only seven at night. On another day I might have fancied him, but I can smell the sick on his breath from this far away.

The man next to me flicks over his newspaper and rests the read pages on my lap. The woman’s jaw clicks as she chews on a McDonalds Chicken Sandwich, the mayo-smothered lettuce plopping into the carton as she takes another ginormous bite.

I turn on my iPod and the sounds of Kaiser Chiefs drown out the train as I close my eyes and try not to think about my bladder.

The boy sticks his legs out further and kicks me in the shin, laddering my tights. The fat woman stands up to throw her wrapper in the bin. She sits back down on my coat and pins me to the seat. I count slowly up to ten, and try to take deep breaths, but the urge to urinate overpowers my resolve.

I look back, wistfully, at the toilet door to see a man come out of the cubicle. I pull my headphones down to hear the end of a flush from within. I get up, pull my coat free from the woman’s behind, and trip over the boy’s legs as I squeeze my way past.

I change my mind when the door the man just pushed shut flaps open again and I see the confined cubicle inside. The narrow, filthy walls will be no bigger than those of my old wardrobe: once you are locked inside, there’s no way to get out…

But then, a little girl in pink darts towards the toilet door and my body threatens me into action with the familiar swelling sensation that comes just seconds before the gush begins. I rush to get there before her and close the door in her face with a firm click.

From the inside, it’s even smaller than it looked, and I have to squeeze around the toilet just to get the door closed. I try the lock – fine. I take a piece of toilet paper and use it to lift the lid. I test the flush – fine.

People say I’m anal but I never like to piss on trains. I hate the way the tall walls watch me. They seem to come in closer as I sit, unable to move until my bladder gives me back control of my body. And with these old toilets, you never know if the door is properly locked, or, conversely, if it will ever open again. Do you know what happens to your body when locked in an enclosed space for weeks? But any port in a storm, as they say.

Halfway through, the train juts to a stop and knocks me off the seat, but I can’t stop and the last few seconds of urine splash over the rim onto my trainers. That’s when the lights go out and the train fills with darkness.

The train grows silent, so the sound of my piss hitting the floor fills the train. I look through the frosted window, but there are no lights outside to help. I hit the wall where I remember the flush button to be, but it doesn’t work. I quickly find the toilet roll and then smooth down my skirt. I fumble around for the tap but the dark walls seem to push even closer around me and I know I will be crushed by panic if I don’t get out now.

There’s a noise outside, like someone kicking at the train door to get in. Then a smash – and the cold air outside hits me through the inch-wide gap under the toilet door.

The next sounds are confusion, frantic footsteps running through the train. There’s a heavy crack like someone has dropped a melon on the floor, followed by something sticky being slapped over and over again. Then the screams begin. Not one person’s scream, but a sudden outburst from the whole train, as if everyone just witnessed an event that horrified them.

“Oh no.”

“Oh my God.”

“No. Please, no!”

I back away from the door.

I feel feet pound along the floor, confused screams and chaos – like everyone has decided they must get off all at once – and other strange clashes that you might hear at a particularly vicious game of rugby.

The train shakes.

I search around in the darkness for the lock and wrench it open, but then something crashes into the other side of the door. There’s the same noise you get when a punch bag connects with a fist, and then a hard object, like a head, smashes into the door again. I hear a loud slap against the floor. It reminds me of wet meat thrown onto a slab.

All is silent then, except for a strange gurgle coming from outside the door. A hot sensation spreads over one of my feet, and then the other. It’s too dark to see what it is, so I bend down and put my hand to the floor. It’s wet and warm around my feet, like a hot sauce. I reach my hand to my face, and ever so quietly give it a smell. It has no aroma but I can almost taste its vapour in the air when I breathe. A kind of iron bitter tang, which reminds me of when you bite the side of your mouth. A wave of cold nausea sweeps up my body, but I remain still and try not to retch.

I’m being punished! I push the thought away, telling myself that this is no time to be irrational.

I hear the thud of footsteps, can feel them pound the floor as they tread through the quiet train – a number of them, but they walk slowly, calmly now. Some of them drag heavy items behind them as they pass, like they own large tails or something even worse that I can’t yet imagine. I see beams of light through the gap at the bottom of the door, as the invaders, whatever they are, pass by. That’s when I remember I’ve unlocked the door.

I hold my breath and grope for the lock in the dark. I find the cold metal and start to turn the latch. I move it with painful slowness to try to minimise the grate of the metal as it scrapes into place. It clicks ever so quietly as it goes all the way in, and I let out a long, silent breath of relief.

But of course, now I’m trapped inside this tiny box. An image of the wardrobe in my old nursery flashes through my mind, like a subliminal cut. I haven’t thought about it in a long time. I shake my head and try to concentrate. It must be the dark that has set off the memory, that’s all.

The beings walk up and down the train corridor. Each time they pass my door, I hold my breath and try not to move.

I hear one set of footsteps approach slower than the rest, and the tread of their owner’s walk is heavier than the others. They pass my door slowly. I make no noise that I am aware of, but a little later the footsteps stop, shuffle slightly, and come back towards me. Light floods into the cubicle from under the gap in the door, as the creature stops on the other side of my hiding place. It exhales in deep rasps. I hold my own breath even harder and press my hands against the cold wood of the door to brace it shut. My heart pounds in my head, trying to escape through my ears. It beats so loud I hope that whatever is on the other side can’t hear it. The light moves upwards; I see it through the tiny cracks where the door meets the frame.

The door starts to rattle, almost coming away from the wall. I back away and pray the small lock will hold. The rattle gets crazier. I sit on the basin and brace the door with my feet, but then it suddenly stops. I hear the rasping breath again, slower this time, see the light come up, again, though the cracks in the door as the creature on the other side examines it.

Look at the sign, I beg in my mind, as I remember the “Out of Order” message someone has scrawled on the door.

The light finally moves down to the ground, so I can still see a faint glow from under the door. The breathing grows heavier, rougher. The owner is excited. I get down from the sink as slowly as I am able and crouch down to the ground, careful to stay out of the wet areas. The floor is dry back here but sticky under my hands. I rest my head against the floor. I can smell the dried piss against my face. I try not to breathe as the contents of my stomach rise in my gullet in protest and sting my throat with bile.

I can’t see much under the door. A large object, like an overstuffed sack, lies on the other side and blocks off most of the light, but I do see two shadows, which look like oversized feet, nearby. I squint to see more detail, but in the torchlight there is only light or dark. I can smell a strange peanut butter aroma that seems familiar, mixed with a sour, sweat-like smell.

The light moves over the floor as it examines the object, but I still can’t make out what lies there, only that it twitches and splutters occasionally. A giant foot suddenly stamps on the mound, which makes a humph sound. A large, rubbery hand reaches down and pulls a sharp object from the sack. The sack seems to deflate a little as the object is removed.

The wetness on the floor spreads further until it reaches my head. The liquid is lurid red in the shadows of the torchlight, but I dare not move, so let it wash through my hair.

Suddenly, a bright object slices through the air, on the other side of the door. It glistens and dazzles me for a moment. It comes down once in a loud hack, and then again. I press my head against the floor to stop my screams. I have one quick moment to see that part of the sack has been hacked away, before the light is gone. The footsteps move slowly on again, the sound of dragging following in their wake.

I breathe out again in uncontrolled splutters, sure they will hear me, but the carriage now seems completely dark and silent. I try to think what to do, but with only darkness around me, my mind taunts me with images of that locked wardrobe in my old nursery.

I always knew a creature hid in my wardrobe, waiting until night-time to come out, when it was too dark to see it approach. Mum told me the monsters were only inside my mind. How little she knew.

It’s such a random memory, I don’t see how it can help me now. I have to concentrate – listen! Stay calm.

Outside the train, I hear muffled noises: some sort of speech. I look out of the frosted toilet window, but can’t see much through the stripes of smoked glass, except dark shapes that lug what I think may be long sacks of potatoes along the floor.

Then the scene is lit up for one second as a jet of fire shoots past the window and hits a dark mound some way off. For a moment, as the flames ignite the mound, I can see that we are in a station, and think I can see the sign “Vauxhall.” I make out a number of figures: bulky, clumsy shapes that walk upright, like massive humans with no necks. Then it goes black again.

The pile they have set on fire burns quickly, and gives just a little light this far away. I move from the window anyway, in case they can see my shadow. What can I do to escape?

Through the distorted glass, it’s difficult to make out details of this hellish scene, but I can see more dark figures move in and out of the carriages at the other end of the train. They drag out long objects that I hope are not bodies, and line them up for the others to throw on the fire.

Now is probably my best chance to get away . . .

I put my head to the door and listen. All seems quiet up here for now. I feel around for the lock. I know this is a bad idea . . .

One day I had to see what really was in the wardrobe. I had to look. I stole the key from Mum’s drawer where she kept all the items I wasn’t to touch. The key was stiff and hard for my small fingers to turn. I had to reach on tip-toes to remove the padlock. The door fell open a couple of inches on its own. I reached for the door to pull it open. Then I heard Mum call me for dinner and gladly ran out of the room.

When I returned, I pushed the wardrobe shut, without looking inside, and locked it again. I put the key back with all the other secret objects where it belonged. Some questions are better left unanswered . . .

I grope around for the lock on the toilet door, which is cold to touch. I give it a pull but it is stiff, as reluctant as I am for it to open. I tremble so badly that I have to use both hands to move it. I pull the door open a crack. The air in the train is cold and stinks of metal and old farts. I bend down low to avoid making a silhouette against the window, and stick my head out the door.

It is dark outside, but less so than inside the toilet. The firelight casts rippling shadows over the walls, so that they seem to move. The carriage, however, is completely empty. Everyone on the train must have got away except me. I see a lone shoe in the middle of the floor, a loafer; it looks like a good one. What must the owner have seen to make him leave one of his shoes in his haste to escape?

Along the floor, I see black patches of what looks similar to oil in this gloomy light. It’s spilled over the seats and windows. It looks like just like a large water balloon exploded in here. Someone has taken the time to daub handprints of the stuff throughout the train, and to scrape it down the windows and doors. There are trails of the dark liquid across the floor, like large oozing slugs have slithered through the alleyways. I trace their path for a moment; they all lead out of the train door. There is a large pool of the liquid just outside the toilet door where I crouch. It spills into the cubicle. In the torchlight, though, I recall that the liquid wasn’t really black – but red!

I look back at the carriage, and see the substance not as oil now, but as blood, smeared over the seats and down the doors, streaked across the floor! My throat clenches. I have to swallow a number of times before I am able to gulp down a breath.

In one of the seats opposite, I see a sudden movement. The little girl in pink sits there. She stares straight ahead in some kind of daze. She kicks her feet almost manically and grabs the rail in front of her with white knuckles.

“Hey,” I whisper, so quietly even I can’t hear any sound. I look up to check for the dark figures, but I can’t tell how quickly they progress through the train. “Hey,” I try again a bit louder.

She looks over at me, her gaze hostile. I gesture for her to come and join me on the floor, but she looks at me with wide eyes as she shakes her head. I reach my arm across to her, but I don’t dare move out of the cubicle yet. I grab hold of the bottom of her dress, but she screams loud, in the way only little girls can. I grab her arm and pull her towards me but she resists and screams even louder. She gnashes her teeth towards my hand like an angry dog. In the flickery gloom, her white teeth somehow look slimy and too large for her mouth. I pull my hand away but she screams on.

I hear voices instantly from the other end of the train and a rustle, like plastic material, as the creatures outside run towards the peal of her scream. I leap back into the toilet and lock the door. The little girl must have noticed their approach too, as she stops screaming in a sudden gasp and I hear her jump down from her seat. She knocks on the door.

“Wanna come in,” she says urgently.

For a moment, a crazy notion overcomes me that this is just some strange hallucination. Maybe there is just a little girl on the other side of the door who wants to use the toilet: whilst the other occupants of the train wonder why I’ve been in here so long . . . Then I feel the train lurch to one side as a number of the intruders jump on board and I hear them run down the carriage. The girl’s scream slices through my ears but it can’t drown out the scrape of her shoes against the floor as she is dragged away.

I look out the window, unable to see where she is. It’s my fault she was caught, but what can I do?

“This one’s still alive,” one of the figures says. His voice seems muffled, but human. For some reason, this doesn’t comfort me.

I put the toilet seat down, forgetting in my haste to use toilet paper to touch it, and stand on the lid. My legs shake so badly now I can hardly keep my balance. I slowly push open the narrow window at the top of the window frame. I put one foot on the sink, lean forward, and bend down until my eyes are level with the gap. This way I can, at least, see the bottom part of the platform. I can see three sets of white wellies. The little girl has pink socks on, folded down at the tops, and white patent shoes. “Hello,” one of the men says, his voice clearer than the others.

In the horror of the moment, I’m afraid my first hope is that they kill her before she somehow gives me away.

“Put your mask back on. Now!” one of the other men says, his voice still muffled and angry.
“I just want to see if she’s okay, boss . . .”

“She’s changing,” another shouts.

The girl falls to the floor. I can see part of her face through the window, and she looks to be in some sort of pain. A stream of blood runs from her nose, down her dress.

“Put your mask back on now, Jack. You touch that blood, then that’s it!” “It’s too late,” the other says. “I have to fire!”

There’s a jet of flames again, and through the glass I see two figures – one large, one small – covered in fire.

The man on fire runs down the platform. He falls in a heap halfway down, as his protective suit flares up. He lights the scene for me in a bright orange glow. The girl’s body is badly charred, her skin black in places, though somehow she hasn’t caught fire like the man. She howls, jumps onto one of the other men, and bites a large chunk out of his shoulder as if he were made of marshmallow.

“We’ll have to hack her now she’s gone,” the man that someone had called Boss says.

The girl turns and runs down the platform. I jump down from the window as she comes nearer and back away into the darkness. I turn my head as the men come after her, with the crazy idea that by not looking I can make myself harder for them to see. But I can’t block out the sound, like a golf club hacking away at soft earth, and the unnatural screams of some wild animal.

When I look through the frosted window again, it seems like there are lots of small animals scattered across the ground. Though it’s a risk, I climb up to have another look through the top window. On the floor is a butcher shop’s worth of scraps of meat, which writhe around like strange earthworms. The horrible, high-pitched wail carries on and on.

“It’s still screaming,” one of the men says.

“It’s in pain,” says the boss. “Even in bits, it’ll be in agony, now that she’s turned. All we can do is burn the pieces.”

“What about Brian?” he says more quietly. “He’s been bit.”

“If you were Brian, what would you want us to do?”

The question hits me like a punch in the gut. I come down from the window and turn on the tap to wash the blood from my hair, but the tap is dry. I look down at my hands. In the firelight, it’s hard to see how much blood they have on them. But surely, I feel fine!

My body shudders terribly, but then I’m scared!

I feel okay . . . don’t I?

Surely that queer feeling in my stomach is just from the sight of all that blood. I look in the mirror and catch a shadowed view of my face. It looks green in the firelight, but otherwise quite normal. I sway about rather alarmingly, just like how that boy sat opposite me did, but then I’ve been stood up for a long time now.

I’m probably in shock!

I’ll be alright if I can escape and find somewhere to recover. Now is my only chance to get out of the train, whilst the men are distracted. If I can get out of the other side of the carriage and onto the tracks, they might not see me.

Ever wonder if you’re really one of the bad guys? You know, in films, the type of selfish person that starts the apocalypse, running around with the deadly virus because they don’t want to die? I hope they burn Brian quickly for his own sake.

When they finally searched inside my wardrobe, they called me into the room to look. I saw then that there were monsters after all. A horrible beast stared at me out of empty sockets from inside the door, its dried jaw pulled back into a sharp-toothed smile. Its body was wrinkled and weepy like a gone-off prune. Matted fur hung from sharp ribs and it smelt like our compost box in summer. It took me one unforgettable moment of pure fear before I realised that it was dead and couldn’t hurt me, but still, I had to pull away from its stare.

Everyone asked me how I hadn’t noticed the scratching from inside the wardrobe, wondered how I could fail to hear that our own dog was trapped so close to where I slept. Of course they wondered how he had got in at all, but since Mum had the only key, there was no chance that I had left the door open and shut him in myself. I didn’t tell them what I had done. Instead, I told them what Mum had said: that monsters were in my head. After that, nobody asked me about it again.

The darkness has been replaced now by strange colours, which are too bright for my head; they float in front of my eyes, in a neon smoke. The blood on the floor has turned to treacle, stinging my nose with its sugary smell.

Maybe I’m just feverish after all, and none of this is real. If that were true, then there are probably train guards on the other side of the door, waiting to take away the crazy girl in the toilet who tried to drag a little girl from her seat. That’s the best-case scenario.

I wish I could stay in here, hidden in the dark, but I know I can’t forever. My hands shake so much I can barely undo the lock. I take a deep breath and screw my hands into fists to try to steady my nerves.

Fuck it!

I pull open the door and burst out into the carriage.