Terror Train Two by James Ward Kirk

Author:James Ward Kirk
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: James Ward Kirk Publishing
Published: 2015-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

Dale Hollin

The Huns in Bloom

I have the most beautiful eyes. Men tell me this, but they matter little. The most beautiful slanted eyes. That's really all that mattered when I boarded the coach. With them awaiting me. They wanted my eyes. They always do. I boarded in Szombathely. I had my reasons. Do not we always? I knew they would find me this way. I wanted this. It had been too long. Centuries. It seemed I hadn't been lost and fucked in centuries. This was the blood talking. The blood of the Hungarian. A blood raped into existence. That is who I was and am. Raped into existence.

The coach itself, though? Fabulous. I've always adored luxurious furnishings. I wore a white dress, of course. I've always enjoyed adorning myself in white, as a virgin on her day of deflowering. The plush red interior of the coach went fashionably well with this. So yes. I was dressed perfectly for the Huns. Again.

Oh, this high siren. The siren of the train that sounded in my soul like screaming. Whether or not it was I screaming, I didn’t yet know. Sometimes the blood calls to me in such a way, but hardly recognizable in my ears until too late. The siren bled me and the coach moved forward, slowly. I curled my toes and then slipped my shoes off. The hardwood floor felt cool against the bare soles of my feet. I turned my face to watch the scenery outside the window begin to pass by more quickly. The waiting would be over soon. I have always been impatient.

“They’re already here.”

The whisper sounded familiar. Like the sound of glass as it shatters. I saw her movement in the reflection of the glass and turned to look at her. I smiled. It seemed I knew her from long ago. A child of maybe nine or ten. Her once pale dress and dark hair hung slack and dingy, as if she had emerged from a certain putrid lake or river. A water I had known in my youth. We always remember the wet things, do we not?

“Yes. I know they are,” I said. “I can smell them.”

Her eyes became darker and she glanced down the corridor. She whispered again.

“You don’t know who they are yet. The horses have moved on to other lands than this now. Tangri Han went with them.” She turned to me and grinned. Her teeth presented a dark greenish color from the putrid water. “The warriors have all become flowers. Now there are only the priests to tend them.”

The priests. The child thought I wouldn’t remember. Alternatively, maybe she knew I remembered. Always the priests caused the rape. The warriors raped only for pleasure. The priests raped for power. They never had slanted eyes. Thank God. Thank God, my blood carried the rape of the warrior and not the rape of the priest. I smiled and let my face turn toward the window. I wanted the child to leave. She had no place in this coach.

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