Willard adjusted the straps of his leg supports, pulling them up as far as possible. The hospital had run out of the standardized mechanical contraptions, so he was fitted with a crude, experimental one. It was a bit too large for him, as its upper shell was wrapped around his pelvis, not his thighs.
The dwindling sounds of the wind outside indicated deceleration. As the train cruised through another cliff bridge, Willard saw several tiny flickers of light below. Then the lights vanished behind the ancient megaliths—two giant cogs that were nearly as tall as the cliff itself, one flat on its side, the other propped up slightly by an enormous shaft that dwarfed even the Bagiraek skyscrapers he saw on the news. It was as if a meteor had crashed into the earth and, in the center of its crater left the two giant rocks there. In between the narrow opening of the two cogs he saw the Sorissian Tak. It wasn’t lit at all, but the luminous surface of its Sibithian stone outer wall made it easier to pinpoint. Several hundred meters above it, above the slanted cog and under the enormous shaft, was another settlement, its snow-covered houses tiny sugar cubes compared to the megalith that loomed over it.
Home.
The train sped across the bridge, and the scenery started to betray more artificial influence. Tall signal lights replaced the scarce flora, and settlement-planner grids started to emerge. As the brakes finally screeched, the train platform came into view. It was exactly as Willard remembered: the grey bricks, covered in snow; the dark stairs that stretched downwards into an even darker tunnel; the rows of dirty galvanized seats; and, as his sights moved up, a tattered sign that read: B6 Ferah. One of the earliest harvest settlements erected in Sorissu, its founders had promptly turned away after discovering more profitable locations to exploit, leaving an unfinished mess that remained a site for altercation to this day. Willard had heard that without Krummlae’s Tak, Ferah wouldn’t have survived its first winters. It might just be because of it that Ferans are reputed as the meekest settlers when it comes to Sorissians.
Something caught his eye. Tonight, the usually windswept platform was packed with people, a sea of heads bobbing up and down, all straining their necks to get a better glimpse at the train—at the one passenger in it. Willard pulled his hood over his own head. He had been afraid something like this would happen.
Oh well. There’s nothing to be ashamed for, so just act normal. Like a regular Tuesday evening.
He took two deep breaths, stood up, shook his supports, and clanked his way to the exit hatch. The doors on either side closed, and he heard the sound of air getting sucked into the airtight tubes. The train’s screeching rang in his head.
One of the onlookers spotted him through the door and pointed, shouting something. In an instant, the entire station was in uproar. People shouting, pushing at the station barriers, just to get a look at him, at the only one who survived the cave-in. He could see them better now. People he recognized and people he had talked to. Friends and family, all red in the face, hope in their eyes.
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A group of men clad in black was standing guard behind to the crowd barriers. They did a good job at driving the people back just by being there. Willard pulled his hood further down until it covered the entirety of his upper face. The train’s hatch hissed and opened. A cloud of vapor flowed out and settled at his feet. Willard, though, remained in the compartment. He bit his lips and, to his surprise, drew a bit of blood. The next moments would be the hardest.
Willard took one step out onto the platform, then another. The night air scraped against his cheek, tearing at his lungs. He could feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on him, some in anticipation, some in dread. And when the front lines saw him clearly, some rubbed their eyes as if expecting someone different when they opened them again. A woman wrapped in a thin winter suit approached him from the crowd line. She wore a pair of dark yellow glasses, and as she got closer, Willard recognized the company logo on it.
“You must be tired. I will escort you to your residence.” She said in a monotone voice that somehow calmed Willard down. Willard nodded and followed her down the elevated entry platform. As he got closer to the barrier, he glanced at the crowd under his hood. They stared back at him with wide, desperate eyes. He knew them. He had laughed with them, drank with them, and even dined with their families. Families that were now broken.
His teeth sank deeper into his lips. Be it a self-imposed sense of power, morals, or something else, he stopped, his feet rooted to the cold, hard ground. He gulped the terrible responsibility slide down his throat.
“Sir?”
Willard couldn’t hear her over his own heartbeat. He turned around and walked back towards the platform. Slowly, one agonizing step at a time, he climbed back onto the top. The wind blew across his chin, parching the coldness into it. The noise died down. His lips trembled.
What are you doing?
“My...my name is Willard Price.” His voice echoed around the platform, though he knew they were familiar with him.
Nobody made a sound. It was as if the world had frozen over. Willard clenched his fists, squeezing them as hard as he could until his nails dug into the flesh. The pain failed to pull his attention away from their eyes.
Stopstopstopstopstopstopstop.
“I am sorry.”
Tears welled up in his eyes.
Why are you apologizing?
A strong wind blew the hood off his head. The train behind him blasted its horn, blaring into the night sky, ringing inside Willard’s head and deafening him. He did not hear their cries. Instead, he could only stare in horror as mothers buried their faces into their hands, as fathers collapsed onto their knees, as siblings hunched over and retched, as friends thumped the ground with tear-streaked eyes, and as children—who did not realize what had happened—opened their mouths to join the cacophony. The winds howled.