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The Rain Train

By planetgearshifter All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Thriller

V

It was like waking from a blackout to find someone kicking your ass. It wasn’t the police that had barged in it was the moustache man, beige slicker flailing around him. Pain shot through the left side of Kevin’s face, pulsed and flared. He was being punched. He put his hands up trying to defend from whatever was coming next.

“It’s me!” The man was saying through gritted teeth.

“I’m the one. Don’t…” Punch to gut,

“get…” punch to the jawbone,

“in…” kick to the shin,

“my…” right in the kidneys, “way!”

Kevin tasted dull, wet pennies in his mouth. He licked his lips. How bad was he bleeding? He did not know. He had a second to really appreciate what was going on here. One second to remember what his life was like before the dreams. Sunny. It all seemed so far way and so sunny. Once again the bathroom door burst open.

Kevin opened his eyes. It was hard. He was in pain and his sight was blurred. He saw waist lines and empty holsters. He was on his knees in the poor dead ladies blood. Reality was so loud and dirty and clear. All treble no bass. The air smelled putrid and ripe. Moustache man turned at the sound of the door in mid sucker punch and without hesitation screamed through gritted teeth storming the cops.

Somewhere back in Kevin’s mind where reason and deduction were locked in some dark closet, thought to themselves, what the fuck? You just don’t rush cops. Especially NYPD, and waited for them to turn the his attacker into a colander.

Instead there was a crack as wood smashed bone and the man with the, now blood spattered, beige slicker was on Kevin’s level. His head smacked the floor after the rest of his body his eyes looking right at him for the third time tonight. They registered brief hatred then went blank as the lights went out and his conscious went beddy by.

Kevin’s first thought in that moment was a question. Why had they not shot the guy? He was attacking an officer. Then he realized the man in the slicker had not brandished a weapon. Protocol, he thought and looked up. It was silent in the bathroom save for the sound of police uniforms and creaking utility belts.


“Sir, put your hands on your head. Sir? Let me see those hands”

A female voice, hard and stern, authoritative. He registered this from what felt like far away. He had closed his eyes after the man with the moustache went silent and was just now trying to open them. They hurt, he hurt. Slow waves of pain lapped at his back and face. he felt an ache around his eye and felt the blood moving in rapid pulses in the veins around it. He could see clearly out of the right but the left was like looking through lake water.

“Sir.” Firm, almost angry.

“Let…me…see... your hands.”

He realized he was hugging himself , hunching over his thighs as he knelt. He began to spread his arms, painfully bringing them above his head. There was a quick shift in noise as the cops braced themselves for anything.

As he lifted his arms he lifted his head. Beyond the still spreading tar-like blood pool he saw six pairs of feet. Six pairs of blue pant legs. Three badges. Three faces. And there in the front of the other two officers, where the stern cop voice had come was the woman from his dream.
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