See Something, Say Something
The Engineer closed his toolbox and stood up. It was the hour before sunrise and the train station was empty. The storm had subsided, but the air was still heavy with moisture, and the Engineer suddenly felt as if he could not breathe. He patted his coat pockets for a cigarette, but there was no cigarette; he had quit two months ago. Instead, he found a pack of Bicycle cards. The therapist had recommended picking up a new hobby to replace his old one, and the Engineer had decided to try his hand at magic tricks. It was amazing, really, how easily the human mind could be fooled. People see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe, he had once heard a magician say. You just have to help them along.
The station office was an ugly building, all red brick and no windows. A large yellow poster covered the door. See something, say something. The Engineer raised his hand and gave three quick raps with his knuckles. There was no answer.
“Hey, Carl?” he said. “I fixed the wires. The video feeds should be up now–”
He pushed the door open. The room was dark, but the video feeds were up, all right; the entire opposite wall was covered with them. The Station Master was bent forward in his desk, his face inches away from the lowermost screen. His white hair glowed in the dim blue light.
The Engineer flicked on the light switch. “Are you okay?” he asked.
The Station Master turned to look at him. His eyes were red, and his face was flushed. “Come here,” he said. “What do you see?”
“It’s the train platform.”
“I know it’s the train platform, smartass. Look, over here, under the bench. What do you see?”
“I see a black duffel bag.”
“And was this duffel bag there when you came in for your shift?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t really pay attention; I was working on the other side of the station.”
The Station Master turned away. “It’s probably nothing. Go home.”
As he said that, the Station Master gave a flick of his hand, as if to wave the Engineer away.
The Engineer felt a sudden pain in his head. He had been getting headaches ever since he stopped smoking, but this was something worse. “Wait a minute. Suspicious duffel bag left overnight at the train station? Why do I feel like I’ve seen this movie before?”
“Go home, kid,” the Station Master said. “This isn’t your problem.”
The Engineer stepped forward. It was the gesture, the way the Station Master had flicked him off. “No, it is my problem now. There is a suspicious object in this train station and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”
“What I’m going to do is none of your business. I’ve been Station Master for thirty years; you come here once a month to pretend to tinker with the switches and write a bullshit report –”
“Have you called Security yet?”
The Station Master brought his fist down on the table. The screens on the wall shook precariously. “Look, it’s a fucking bag. People travel with bags. People leave them behind. People come back and claim them. Everyone’s so paranoid these days, it’s like they’re trying to find things to be afraid of.”
The Engineer rubbed his temples. He looked around the tiny office: maybe there was a pack of Newports hidden away somewhere. “People are afraid for good reason. How many times has terror made the headlines, even in this year alone? Remember Paris? Brussels? Boston?”
“If you’re talking about the Boston Marathon, kid, that happened three years ago. You should do some research next time before trying to lecture me.”
The Engineer thrust his hand back into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of the cards. “I know enough about the Boston Marathon,” he said quietly. “My brother died in the attack.”
For a second, the Station Master looked almost apologetic. Then it passed. “Is that why you’re so strung up about this? Let me tell you something, kid. This is a small station in the suburbs, in the middle of nowhere. This isn’t Paris, or Brussels, or Boston. There’s no reason to target us. Just relax.”
“Then call Security. See what they have to say about this.”
The Station Master shook his head. The Engineer’s hand crept toward his pocket.
The Station Master snickered. “Good luck with that. The closest cell tower is 20 miles away, if it’s still standing after that storm last night.”
“Then why don’t you –”
The Station Master picked up the receiver and shoved it in the Engineer’s face. A long, steady beep filled the silence of the room. “Look, it’s broken. I thought you might know something about that; I could swear it was working before you “fixed” the wires.”
“This isn’t my fault!” The Engineer slammed his hands on the table, shocked at his own outburst. The picture frame that was sitting in the corner wobbled and fell; the smug expression slid off the Station Master’s face as he dove forward to catch it.
The Engineer looked at the picture in the Station Master’s hands. There were two laughing girls in ponytails: one was giving the other one a piggyback ride. “Are those your kids?”
The Station Master opened a drawer and shoved the picture inside. “That’s none of your business.”
“How old are they? Ten? Eleven? What if it was them getting off the train? A harmless trip on a school holiday, coming down to visit the suburbs. And then, just imagine the unimaginable. You call them, and they don’t answer. It’s way past their bedtime. You turn on the news – and then you see it. The explosion. The bag. The doorbell rings, and you know it’s the policeman, dressed all in black. You hear it ring again, but you can’t answer the door, because it should never have happened. It can’t have happened, because there is a system in this world. There are people whose jobs are to protect us. But they didn’t. Your daughters are dead, says the policeman, because one of my colleagues was sleeping on the job. Because of a distracted driver. Because of a drunk Station Master.”
“What did you just call me?”
The Engineer stood up without a word and flung open the closet door. Brown paper bags spilled out like fleeing rats. On the top shelf, half-empty bottles clinked but did not fall.
“This is your station. Your job. Your responsibility. You screwed up, but you can still fix this. The first train is not due to arrive until sunrise; you have time to go down to the platform and take the bag somewhere safe. Into the woods, on the other side of the station. Go now. Before it’s too late.”
The Station Master looked at him with bloodshot eyes. He wrung his hands in desperation. “Look, there’s nothing inside that bag!”
“But what if there is? If there’s even the shadow of a chance. . .”
“If you’re such a cautious person, then why don’t you go?”
The Engineer took the pack of cards out of his pocket and started shuffling them on the table. The Station Master looked at him as if he had gone insane. “You’re right. This is my fault too. How about this? We flip a coin to decide who has to go.”
“I don’t have a coin,” the Station Master said.
“That’s fine. We can use these cards. I’ll draw the top card, and put it face down on the table. Then I’ll let you guess: black or red. If you get it right, I’ll go. If you get it wrong, you go. What about it?”
The Station Master shook his head.
The Engineer shuffled the cards one last time and slowly drew out the top card. He slammed it face-down on the table. “Red or black?”
The Station Master slumped forward and looked down at his feet. He was so still that the Engineer was sure that he had fallen asleep. Then, he answered.
“Black.”
The Engineer flashed him the card.
The Station Master stood up, pulled a bottle from the closet, and drank deeply. Then he staggered over to the door, his footsteps not quite even, and let it slam behind him.
The Engineer pulled the card out from inside his sleeve and shuffled it back into the deck. It was so easy. People never saw the trick, not even when they were expecting it. He patted his pockets again. Goddammit. He opened the drawer and rummaged through it. Broken pens and empty plastic bottles. An invoice from a divorce lawyer. He closed the drawer and slumped back into the chair.
A digital clock on the table showed him that one minute had passed. And then two, and then five, and still the Station Master had not come back. The Station Master . . . he jumped to his feet. The duffel bag was still there, tucked ominously beneath a bench on the train platform. He scanned the other screens, but there was no trace of the old man.
Outside, the first streaks of light were already breaking through the dispersing storm clouds. He yelled the Station Master’s name, but there was no response. Below him, the lights of the train station glowed softly, as if to mark the outlines of an oasis. He took out his phone. No fucking signal. He looked up, and then down, trying to fight the feeling that he had been here before. This is not my fault. Not my responsibility. He fought back a headache and began descending the stairs.
The train platform was littered with advertisements, flashy Broadway titles and college students smiling down at him, their arms full of books. A poster from the Department of Homeland Defense: If you see something, say something. Report all suspicious activity. He patted his pockets but he had left the pack of cards on the table in the station office. I suspect that this world is not what it seems to be. I suspect that the monsters are hidden in plain sight. I suspect that Harry was the only light in a sea of darkness. I suspect . . .
The duffel bag came into view. It looked so small, so innocent. But a bag was what had killed Harry. He felt an overwhelming hatred for it, a desire to smash it into a million pieces. A desire to turn away and run as fast as he could. A desire to rip open the bag and see the face of his dead brother.
Suddenly, the ground trembled. He looked up into the blinding light of the train. It was too late. He thought he was the magician, but he had been tricked. Harry had pulled a disappearing act on him, and so had the Station Master. The train had tricked him by coming too early. And now his eyes were pulling a trick on him, too, because no matter how hard he looked he could not find anything under the bench but a ripped, black garbage bag.