Kincade opened his eyes. Lifting his head off a wooden floor. His body reacted to the traumatic experience only a few moments ago. Action. His body called for ACTION. Leaping onto his feet and pawed at his neck, searching for the needle, noting nothing. He spun, peering into the darkness, looking for clues. The wood underfoot was ruff and uneven and slick with grime. Underfoot it felt like a build-up of grease and smelt like animal filth. "I had shoes?! And hosiery. What happened to my shoes?" Kincade thought; patting himself down, he noted that his wallet was missing, and his pocket watch and jacket the items were in. Robbed, he was robbed by ruffians! He is in an ally somewhere in the night. "Harry was there too. Why was Harry there?" Kincade continued to fire questions and clues at himself like a Sherlock Homes in some sort of detective story.

Kincade continued to check himself and noted more clues; his intellect was strong but clouded by something. "That must be a drug. Where am I?" he thought, peering into the darkness of the poorly illuminated room. Holes in the walls were parallel, running the length of the wall holes. Each plank ran from side to side and was raised about the one below, leaving a gap like on a... the unmistakable rhythmic clack-clack as the train wheels crossed from one track length to the next. Clack. Clack. Train car after train car passed over and over the join.

So here are the facts, he was on a train, felt terrible, all his valuables were gone, and the place smelt like animal filth. He had one sock almost pulled off his foot but not all the way off. He smelt like filth. He was standing in filth. It was night. And now is not the time for him to Carpe Noctem to seize the night. He thought, "Small mercy." Kincade was not overly pessimistic; others would have told a story of the one lost sock, but not Kincade Rollins. He was left with a good set of wool pants and a mostly white, and one sock, also white but less so. Everything was stained with filth. And would need to be burnt with fire.

"Water. ," he said hoarsely to anyone or anything that was in the room with him.

The darkness kept the contents of the car's insides hidden from him. A shadow resolved in the corner of the boxcar into the shape of a man. Lit by moonlight, casting a shadow and shine on the part of a man as he walked. The man placed a bucket of water on the floor and, filling a ladle, offered it to Kincade. Kincade grabbed the offered scoop and gripped it by the bowl; holding it in two hands, Kincade lifted it to his lips and upended it into his mouth. He must be dehydrated, and his body demands he repeats the process. So he held out both hands again. The man filled and returned it full of water. Lifting the bowl to the level of his forehead and nodded his thanks before drinking deeply again.

"Another," he said, and the man refilled the ladle. He looked into Kincade's face.

"We were wondering if you would live," the man said, filling it a third time.

"I am not the feeling best, Sir. But, I am far from casting off this mortal body. How long have I been here?" Kincade asked.

"Gerald. My name is. Gerald," replied Gerald, touching a hand to his cap. Gerald's face showed the deep lines and crevasses of a man who had led a life in the sun and doing the type of work which offered no protection from the rain or cold. His white beard was interspersed with a few strands of brown, and his hands were large and rough.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Kincade Rollins. Well met, Sir," Kincade held his hand to Gerald, standing gingerly. Gerald took it, then grabbed his elbow and shook vigorously. The weight of each shake threatened to pull Kincade's arm loose from his shoulder. Then wiped his hands on the legs of his own pants.

"Now that we have met. Could you tell me why I only have one sock on?" Kincade asked.

"That's simple. Taking a dead man's shoes and both socks is bad luck. So, you leave him with a sock," said Gerald.

"Then how do you ever get two socks?" asked Kincade with a tone both mocking and superior.

"You end up with two pairs of shoes," Gerald responded.

"Well, that makes sense. Can I have my shoes and the other sock back?" asked Kincade, half demanding to Gerald and what he sensed was at least another person in the shadows.

"No," came the quick reply from the corner shadows.

"But, clearly, I am not dead," insisted a confused Kincade.

"Yeer want-a-be?" asked the shadow voice.

"Look here, Sir. I am not one to be trifled with--" responded Kincade, deepening his voice and curling his fingers into fists. The movement of the train, coupled with the effects of whatever he had been injected with, took a toll on his ability to stand, and he wobbled from side to side. This made his protest appear like a drunk on a bender cursing out a seagull for organizing an early closing of the local.

He took a step, wobbled, and fell forward. Gerald wrapped his hand around his bicep.

"A wise man would know where he is before marching into the shadows and Hade's lands?" Gerald said quietly and squeezed a little more on Kincade's arm.

"Then where am I exactly." Kincade challenged.

"You are on a train to Auckland. A train carrying people, cattle, and property belonging to the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate," added Gerald.

"Then why are we in a cattle car?" asked Kincade.

"Because that is how the Steamspire moves its cattle," replied Gerald, swapping his hand to Kincade's shoulder.

"That is ridiculous. I am no one's cattle. This is a clear error. And I shall have it corrected as soon as I speak to an official. We will clear this matter up and return to Wellington forthwith," insisted Kincade.

"Are you so sure of that?" the voice threatening him asked. "Baaaa." continued the voice, soon joined by the shadows courteous of men. "Baaah, Baa Baaah," they continued.

The tempo of the clack-clack began to slow audibly, and the car that had been rocking lessened as the train slowed. Then the inhabitants of the car were forced first from one side to the other as the train started to move around, repeating the sharp turns left then right for over an hour. One of the car's occupants let out a noise like a bucket of water emptied and spattering onto the floorboards.

Reminding Kincade of when he was at sea and traversed the Bass Strait that separated the Van Diemen's land from Australia proper. The journey from New Zealand to Africa was one of the army's little jokes. They made the trip to a place such a horrible test and trial of one fortitude. That your arrive at the destination would be a relief. And if you lived, then you may be useful to them. And the same thing was happening now.

* * *

The train stopped.

Kincade felt the accumulated and suppressed rage over his abduction and confinement well up inside him, like a bonfire burgeoning to life. The heat invigorated and fed his indignation. Kincade stood before the door; the muscles of his body, from his feet to the top of his head, were clenched tight. His hate projected at the door, willing it to disappear. But, the doors would remain locked and closed for hours to come.

As the morning had given way to the day and, in turn, the day now stood aside for the coming night, Kincade approached the door, placing both hands on it.

"You must open this door!" he yelled at the door. "I demand to be heard," he said at the top of his voice, the yelling beginning to tear at his vocal cords.

"Open this door!" he repeated over and over again. He banged on the door to no avail until exhausted from his protests. He finally slumped against the door and drifted into a fitful hungry sleep.