Editorial Note: this was written for Scoot’s prompt: “This ain’t your train, son.”
Scrub felt terribly pleased with himself as he scrunched down in his seat, watching dark pines rush past the window. “And Leon said I couldn’t do it,” he muttered to himself.
“Couldn’t do what, sir?” a uniformed man asked, touching his cap politely.
Scrub jumped, startled. “Nothing, ah, never mind, just, erm, talking to m’self. You know.”
“Of course, sir,” the man in uniform said. “May I ask if you have your ticket, please?”
Scrub’s hand slipped into his grimy coat pocket. There was a faint smell of ash, and the uniformed man sniffed. “Right here,” Scrub said, producing a white bit of paper.
The man took the ticket, sniffed again, and hurried away. Scrub leaned back in his seat and looked at the other passengers. They all seemed contented, happy even. The nearest was a gentleman in a sweater-vest decorated with haphazard reindeer and candy canes, who looked as if he’d just nodded off. Scrub decided he would start with that one. He’d never liked Christmas anyway. Serve the old fella right.
Then the car shook slightly. Scrub looked up. In front of him stood the ticket-taker, and another man, much more stolid, wearing a fisherman’s cap. “Who’re you?” Scrub said.
“Pete,” the man with the cap said. “I’m in charge of running this train. Seems your ticket doesn’t check out.”
“Oh yeah?” Scrub said, standing up. “I say it does. What’re you going to do about it, huh?”
Pete reached one burly arm over and grabbed Scrub by the nape of his neck. With the other arm he wrenched open a window. “This ain’t your train, son!” he said, and pitched him out screaming into the dark.
“Thanks, Pete,” the ticket-taker said. “I thought he seemed suspicious.”
“You weren’t wrong, Rafe,” the man said, brushing away the remnants of ash on Scrub’s seat before turning back towards the front engine. “See you at the Gates.”
Ooooo.. nifty man. Well done.