Train to Salvation
The thing here is, I knew this was coming. I didn’t even need to see the yellow letter sticking awkwardly out of my mailbox to know what it meant. It was a Thursday when the letter came, I came home at around 3 in the afternoon, tired and all, breathless as usual; I’m not asthmatic or anything, I’ve just been breathless lately. Anyway, it was a Thursday afternoon. I was on my bike, thinking about what happened in school today. My classmate Mark brought his pet toad to school and placed it on top of the teacher’s desk before class started. Boy, did she get a shock out of that! She was holding on to our test papers too, and when she was startled she basically threw them in the air like confetti. If only a gust of wind blew them out the window! I rushed then to open the window, because my seat was right next to it, but there was no gust of wind and nobody noticed me anyway. Mark was probably called up later that day, because he didn’t come back to his seat after lunch. Sometimes it’s like that: they don’t give you the letter at home. Nobody said anything about it, but we could all tell. More and more seats were becoming empty these days.
Anyway, I was on my bike going home, thinking about Mark and his toad, when I saw the yellow letter sticking out of our old rusty mailbox. I had been psyching myself up to see that letter since I turned 15, but it was still different to see it actually there. I stopped my bike in the middle of the road—there were no cars, don’t worry—and I just looked at it, wondering if it was a mirage. The seal on it was unmistakeable. It could have been drenched in neon paint and it would still stick out from ten million miles away. I took a deep breath, coughed a bit because of it, and I biked slower to my house, my heart racing. I began to wonder if Mom already saw, but then I remembered she wouldn’t be home until later. One of my friends told me though that when his brother was called up, his mom got the news in her office before he even saw the letter when he arrived home. Maybe that was what happened, maybe Mom knew about it already. Would she be crying? I thought as I parked my bike in the garage, walking slow. Maybe not, I mean, when my big brother got called up years ago she didn’t go ballistic.
I walked to the mailbox and picked up the letter. It was about five inches long, four inches wide, yellow as egg yolk. On the envelope was my address, and my (new) name; good thing, I breathed; if they hand’t used my new one it would have been me that would go ballistic. I wanted to open the letter right out in the open outside my house, but I looked up and saw that the old guy who lives across the street was watching me through the shutters. That guy’s name is Bill...something or whatever. He supposedly fought in the old war and got so traumatised he hated going outside, but he always spied on everyone, not just us. With our luck he moved into the empty house across ours about four years ago and spies on us all the time. We try to be nice to him; one time my dad forced me to knock on his door and ask if he wanted any Thanksgiving leftovers, since he looked pretty poor and sad and didn’t have anything in Thanksgiving. He never came to the door and just glared at me from the shutters when I knocked. Anyway, he was glaring at me again, watching how I’d react to being called up. I didn’t want to give him that entertainment, so I went inside the house and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
It was 3:30 when I finished just making the sandwich; obviously I was procrastinating opening it. But midway through the sandwich I remembered that you’d only have about half a day to pack up before going to the train and never coming back for five years, so I had to put the food aside—I didn’t really have an appetite anymore, anyway—and opened the letter. I didn’t even give myself time to reflect on what was happening. The letter was standard and straight to the point, the only difference between this and the one my brother got was our names and the dates on the letter. It said that I’m due to go to the camp at Salvation by 2 PM tomorrow, and that I have to bring only a few necessities since we will have some time to do shopping at the camp itself before training began. It didn’t give much information about the camp, besides a standard photo of the place itself: a fortress-like building with dark red walls, kind of like a university campus, but I only knew that from books. Nobody ever studied beyond high school here, because we all went to camp. No exceptions.
I spent the rest of the day packing, removing and placing and then removing things from my duffel bag for how many hours. I sent a message to Leika, who was already at camp, since she left last year; I tried to call her, but she must have been in training, because no one answered. Turns out my parents already knew, because when they got home they just looked at me and hugged me for what felt like a million years. I just awkwardly patted them on the back and told them I’d be fine. Besides, I’m 17 now, with average intelligence and a slightly lackluster body full of holes from needles. I’ll be fine, for sure I will be.
Eventually, the day came when I had to leave my home for the next five years, to do training at Salvation. It was this man-made island that was made long before my parents were born, and everyone has to go there. I was supposed to be drafted when I was 13, which was the regular age rule, but since my parents had dough I extended until past 15. It wasn’t easy, though, the extension I mean: sure you don’t have to leave so early, but you would never know when the letter came. You could be having the best day of your life and boom, you’d have to be drafted. Total mood killer, but what could you do? Anyway, my family wasn’t the really touchy type so only my parents and my big sister could go; my big brother had work, you see, so he couldn’t skip a day cause he skipped a lot already. But a lot of the other kids had whole clans of relatives to say goodbye to them, as if they were never ever coming back. A lot of them were even crying, and some of them looked much older than me. Look, it’s not that I’m not an emotional person, or that my family doesn’t give a damn. There was this awkward, somber air in the car when they were taking me to the train. I saw my sister wince when she saw the train station; she just finished her service some months ago, so I guess she still wasn’t over it. I pestered her for details about training, but she said I’d find out soon enough anyway. Leika used to tell me a lot about training; she’d send me messages everyday about it and sometimes we’d call each other, but this was before my voice started getting deeper. Recently I guess training’s harder, because we don’t always stay in contact. I still text her though, and I was certainly sending her many messages now about me leaving for Salvation. I just thought about seeing her again to distract myself from what was going to happen to me and the other kids at the train station.
I bid goodbye to my family a bit before quarter to 2, and then I lined up next to the train. The conductor was doing roll-call, you see. The line stretched far past me until it had to curve into loops because it reached the end of the station itself. A bit before 2 PM came around this really small kid came up and lined up at the very end. He was wearing these really rich-looking clothes that I would never dare wear in public places. He didn’t care though, he just lined up and looked like a big shot with his arms crossed on his chest. It nearly knocked me off my feet, that it did. It was odd though, because the general rule was that if you were below this certain monetary percentage—basically fancy words for whether you were rich or not—then you’d immediately be drafted at age 13; sometimes they even get drafted on their birthday. You only got to extend if you were richer. So if this kid who looked like a big-shot was probably 13—I mean, he’s too short to be any other age—then why did he look richer than this girl I know, Leslie Copperfield, who’s daddy owns like ten or twelve sugar plantations or something like that? She got drafted last year, by the way, at the same time Leika was. I even asked Leika if she saw Leslie Copperfield in the train, or how she was doing at camp, but Leika didn’t know her too well since they only had one class together. Anyway, the kid looked richer than Leslie herself, and she always dressed like she was going to a red carpet premiere at Hollywood. I kept thinking about that to the point I didn’t hear my name get called, until this kid behind me nudged me on my back.
“Elliot Wiggins?” the conductor called in this bored, monotone voice. He had probably been doing roll-call since the start of the Salvation camp, judging by how old he looked. “Here,” I began to say, but the kid in the back, this boy with curly hair and a sharp nose, nudged me again. Oh, shoot! I thought. I quickly saluted the conductor like I remember seeing my big brother do many years ago. I almost forgot that rule! The conductor didn’t seem to care and made a hand motion at me, telling me to go inside the train. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my suitcase and went in. I didn’t want to look back at my hometown like they do in the movies. If I did, I would have just run from the train and never go back.
The train was divided into four carriages. The first one was for the richest of us, the first class type with lounges and chandeliers and actual beds for two or three people. It’s strange how we were all still divided by how much money our parents had, when we’d all be treated lower than dirt in Salvation, judging from what Leika had told me. We all had to pass that, and I felt crummy for the poorer kids, since they had to see that and be reminded that they had to go to the common seats. You could tell who the rich and the poor kids were, it wasn’t rocket science for sure. We all had to pass those chandeliers and velvet sofas, and immediately the richer kids started lounging there, chatting with one another or just watching us pass.
The second carriage was the dining and lounge carriage. It was basically a cafeteria on rails, and it reminded me a lot about the one we had at school. We’d only spend one night in this train, but there were enough snacks and food on the menu for a whole week. There were no individual chairs though, which worried me; I couldn’t have food delivered to me (that option is only available if you get this red and black stub in your letter, which of course only went to the richer kids) so I’d have to find a group of kids to sit with and eat dinner with. I wasn’t liking my prospects already.
The third and fourth carriages, the longest ones on the train, were for us kids: the middle-to-lower class and the poorer ones. Perhaps I should just say financially-challenged. Either way, it was an unfair world for all of us, and we all had to face it. I was to stay in the third carriage, which looked like the regular type of long-distance train carriages that everyone took at least once in their life. Nothing fancy, just the regular. I happened to catch a glimpse of the last carriage when the door opened and some really small kids went inside. It had benches instead of seats, and there were so many of them in there that some were standing. It depressed me, really, but I couldn’t do a thing about it.
I found an empty seat near the end, next to a window. Some of the kids—I didn’t know any of them, unfortunately—were already chatting in groups, sharing stories about what they heard about Salvation. There were some kids like me, though, who immediately put on earphones after settling in. My pair broke recently and I was planning to buy a new one this weekend, but since the call-up I didn’t have the time. I snuck a text to Leika: did they have electronic stores that sold earphones at Salvation? it said. And just as I sent it, the train let out one long whistle, and it began to inch forward, slowly then faster, until the world outside me became a blur of colours and memories.
It had been about five minutes since the train left the station when I met Harriet. I was thinking a lot about Leika, wondering what she was doing now, when this girl in a green dress and yellow jacket came over and stood near me. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, gesturing at the empty seat next to me. I shook my head and sat up straighter, immediately moving my suitcase closer to my legs as she sat down. She carried about three bags, and she couldn’t reach the overhead baggage area, so I stood up and helped put one of her bags there. “Thanks!” she said, smiling. She had dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She had more freckles on her face than I’ve ever seen on anyone ever. “I’m Harriet Green,” she added, holding out a hand.
“Elliot, Elliot Wiggins,” I said, smiling and shaking her hand. Harriet sat down with a slightly loud sigh before I could say anything else. “How old are you?” she asked me. I sat down next to her before replying. “I’m 17,” I answered. “Ah, I’m 18!” she replied. “I was supposed to be drafted when I was 13, but I’ve been sick until late last year, so they’re only letting me go now.”
“Oh,” I said, taking in what she said. Did this mean she was supposed to be in the fourth carriage? “They never let go of me. Them, I mean. There I was, sick as a dog at home, and they’d come to my house a day after my birthday and ask if I was well enough to be drafted. Obviously, I was not! But I couldn’t escape them, anyway. If I didn’t get any better by the time I past 19, I’d be sent to jail.”
I gulped hard. I’ve heard of stories of kids who kept running away from Them until they past 19, and then they were tracked down and jailed. Being in Salvation was Law, so you could be jailed for actual and legal purposes, but still, I hated every bit of it. I knew of kids from my school who had physical and mental problems that would make their time in Salvation hell on Earth, but they weren’t exempt from going there. I’ve heard that some kids’ parents would bribe Them, offering money so that their kids wouldn’t be deported. These are for the most extreme cases though, like if they were lacking a leg or they were mentally retarded or something. Them, well, none of them listened. So these kids suffered in Salvation. Perhaps some kids died there. I grew scared, but Harriet was looking at me, so I couldn’t shiver in fear or hug myself like I usually do when I’m scared. So I began to tap my left foot on the floor, trying to keep a rhythm so as not to look too odd.
“May I ask what your sickness was?” I said. She shrugged. “Oh, there were a lot of them,” she said nonchalantly. “I’ve always been sickly ever since I was a baby. Luckily it never got so extremely bad, but there never really was a long enough time that I was well enough for me to be drafted,” she explained. She made a lot of hand motions as she spoke, and it reminded me a lot about what Leika would do when she was talking, back when she wasn’t at camp yet. Damn, I missed her a lot.
“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure of any other response. “That must have sucked a lot. The sickness, I mean,” I added quickly. “It’s alright,” she said. “We’re all in the same boat now either way, right?”
“Well, technically speaking, we’re in a train, but I do get your point,” I quipped. She laughed a bit and patted my shoulder. She didn’t look 18 at all. She was about two inches shorter than me. Her hair would turn almost red when the afternoon sun seeped through the windows. When she laughed, I tried to count the freckles on her cheeks.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. My heart began to race: Leika replied! I quickly grabbed my phone...no new messages. It was almost 2:15 PM. Supposedly we would be at Salvation by 8 tonight. I looked again at Harriet. She was dressed quite well, like those kinds of girls that dressed real good for Sunday mass. Besides being quite thinner than I was, and at least two shades paler, she didn’t seem like the kind to have been sickly since birth.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Harriet said suddenly. I shook my head. “Nothing, I was just thinking,” I said quickly. Her smile disappeared then and I felt my stomach drop to the floor. “I have a boyfriend,” she said suddenly. “Long distance.”
“I have a girlfriend,” I replied almost defensively. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She looked away and I realised then how quiet the carriage was. I began to wonder if the other kids were listening in. I looked away out the window, cursing my bad luck. But then, I wasn’t the one who made it awkward, right? I shouldn’t have tried counting her freckles.
I was about to say sorry when suddenly this little kid came up walking past us. I got a good look at him and gasped in surprise: it was that tiny kid who looked like a big shot! What the hell was he doing in the third carriage? Shouldn’t he be at the first? Or perhaps, the fourth? Anyway, he looked pretty lost, and quite angry. I couldn’t get over how tiny he was, and how well he was dressed. “Hey,” I said, standing up a bit. He looked at me—no, the better word is glare. He looked like he would send me to hell itself if I spoke another word. “Where the hell is the bathroom?” he asked, and I was honestly flabbergasted. He had a low voice, and was speaking in such a manner! Plus, he even had a lisp, of all things! So when he said ‘is’, he said it as ‘ith’, and I could have burst out laughing right there.
“I don’t know, sorry,” I said after a few shocked seconds. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. “What a train thith ith,” he scoffed. “No directionth to important platheth! Thith ith the foremotht thign that our country ith going to the dogth!” he complained. I began to cringe, and I could tell that Harriet was starting to feel uncomfortable. Was it even safe for him to say such anti-government things in a government owned train? “Why not stay with us for a little while and then we can wait until one of the train people or the conductor goes around so we can ask?” I suggested.
“The conductor will come here anyway, to check our tickets,” Harriet piped up. “I already had my ticket checked,” the kid said, crossing his arms across his chest again. He was acting so much like a little kid I almost began to doubt whether my decision to let him stay with us for a while was a good idea. But it was too late to push him away now. “So? Don’t you want to know where the bathroom is? Cause we don’t,” Harriet replied, gesturing at the empty seats across us.
“Don’t you dare baby talk me!” the kid exclaimed, and I saw some heads from the other seats turn to watch us. “I’m 19, for your information!” I wanted to laugh so bad again, and holding it down was making my face red, I could feel it. “...19?” I managed to ask. “Yeth, of course! Would you want me to thow you identification for proof? I lie, you don’t detherve to thee it,” he replied hotly. Then leave! I wanted to shout back. Boy, was this kid testing my patience. There is absolutely no way this kid could be 19. I know a lot of 19-year-olds, like the friends of my sister and some older friends of my friends who came around and hung out with us a couple of times. None of them ever acted so much like a kid like this one. 19, my ass.
“But you’re so short!” Harriet said, speaking my thoughts. “Tho now you’re altho judging me by my height? Ith it my fault if I inherited it from my maternal thide? Tho you want to inthult my mother’s family, do you?” the kid replied. I couldn’t stand it much longer. It’s fine if this kid wants to insult me, sure, go ahead; but there is absolutely no way I’d let him insulting Harriet pass. It wasn’t that I liked her in the way I liked Leika, of course not. It just wasn’t right. I stood up, and I didn’t care anymore what the other kids were thinking of me. “Don’t talk to her like that,” I said in the coldest way I could. I glared at him, standing up to my full height. “We’re just trying to help you, but like how we don’t ‘deserve’ to see proof you’re 19 as you say, you don’t deserve our help. Now please, just leave.” It took all of my energy to not shout at him and maybe hit him. But then that would feel like child abuse, and I couldn’t have that.
The kid was obviously shaken, and definitely intimidated by my height compared to his. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed his mouth. Finally, he said in a low, softer but not less angry tone of voice, “I’m Logan Jameth, and I want you both to know that you’ll both regret not anthering to me. My father hath a high pothition at thalvation, I’ll make thure that he will make your liveth abtholute hell.” And with that, he stormed off, walking like he was much taller than he was.
I couldn’t help but sneak one last mean remark. “You didn’t even ask for our names, so good luck with that!” I called out. “Don’t forget to bring a ladder so you can talk about us to your dad!” Harriet piped up. We looked at each other and burst out laughing, completely ignoring how angry Logan James looked now. I only heard later on from the other kids in the carriage that he stomped his foot and turned as red as strawberry jelly. What a baby!
Harriet and I kept laughing until I was almost lying on the ground. Sometimes I could still see some of the kids looking at us, wondering why we kept laughing. I didn’t care much about what they thought anymore. Out of breath, I looked up at Harriet. The sun was turning her hair different shades of platinum and red, and her freckles seemed brighter and clearer than they were before. I looked up at her, and she looked down at me, and we shared the same feeling, the same thought. This could be the last time we could laugh this hard. This could be the last time we’d feel this happy. We may never see each other again in Salvation. She’d go her way, I’d go mine. One day she might marry her long-distance boyfriend and have kids with him, kids who’d take this same train, kids who’d feel this same way. One day I might marry Leika, and maybe our future children would meet Harriet’s own. The future seemed so near and so far from our grasp, and yet all we could do was laugh and enjoy the feeling of being alive in this cold train that stole our youth.
