The Blonde

5:23 a.m.

The train bucked and Jack was thrown into a seat, on top of someone. Someone who smelled like wet cats. His hand grasped fabric, but two meaty hands pushed him back into the aisle. “What the hell was that?” someone shouted, and Jack thought he heard glass shatter, which confused him. Had the train crashed? Had he tripped an emergency brake or something?

No. It was slowing down for another station. The last station? Jack had no idea.

But no matter. Hands found him. By the collar of his suit coat, by his arm. Dozens of hands. Guiding him along. Helping him. At long last.

Helping him right out of the car, onto the platform.

“Get the fuck out,” someone yelled.

Jack stumbled forward into the humid air, his knees scraped against the cement, and he screamed.

This was no way to die.

“Watch the closing doors, ” an automated voice said.