Chapter 65

Chapter 65: “Train”

Rush-hour subway stations were so crowded they could make anyone question their life choices. Inside the car, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder until it felt like all of Boundary City had decided to ride at once—and if he had any choice, Song Cheng wouldn’t be here.

But he didn’t. Under normal circumstances, “train” only appeared reliably on the second run during the morning peak. There were sightings at other times, but they were unpredictable.

Broad-shouldered and built like he belonged anywhere but a subway, Song Cheng stood pinned in place as the train pulled out of the station and began to gather speed. Office workers filled every inch of space, faces turned toward their destinations, and every narrow gap between bodies carried a muddled, oppressive stink—

A steel cage stuffed with compressed meat. In the dark underground, it bored through concrete-braced pipes, roaring as it hauled itself from one place to another. Artificial lights could push back the darkness inside those “pipes,” but outside them, in the packed soil beyond, darkness and the unknown were the true face of the world below.

Song Cheng half-closed his eyes and held on to that image. A steel meat-hauling cage burrowing through black earth like a grotesque blind worm. The suffocating weight of the ground rushing toward him, cold seeped through with rot.

With his eyes closed, he began to move. The car was still packed, but people unconsciously shifted, opening a path without realizing it. Song Cheng walked unhurriedly toward the back of the car, then opened his eyes.

The markings on the door said this was the end of Car 2. Up ahead was Car 3.

At some point, the loud noise behind him had faded. He could still hear voices now and then, but they sounded distant, as if a thick wall had risen between them.

Song Cheng didn’t look back. He pulled a strip of parchment from his pocket, already soaked in anointing salve, and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed slowly. A sharp, icy burn shot straight into his head. Then he stepped forward.

He passed through the door at the end of Car 2 and entered a new car that was completely empty.

The car behind him had been crammed with rush-hour passengers. Here, there was no one at all.

A few old newspapers lay scattered on slightly worn seats, but the date printed on them was tomorrow.

Song Cheng glanced back. The automatic door behind him displayed: Car 16.

The sharp taste in his mouth kept spreading. He turned and continued on, passed through the door of Car 16, and entered the next section of “train.” This car was mottled with rust, and grime coated the windows on both sides. Outside, faint glimmers flashed past now and then, but they didn’t look like tunnel lights. They looked like eyes—strange, skimming things—watching the howling steel worm from within the dark soil.

Car 12.

Song Cheng kept moving, checking the car number as he went. The farther he walked, the more uncanny each car became: some were filled with plastic mannequins, some were overgrown with mushrooms, and some had no roof or walls at all—only a bare floor racing through a mud pipe that rose, fell, and writhed.

And every car number was scattered randomly between 1 and 21, with no order at all.

Warm candlelight suddenly washed into view. In the next car, there was no trace of a subway’s structure. Song Cheng stepped into a large wooden carriage. Several beautiful ladies in extravagant, seductive finery sat along both sides, chatting animatedly and laughing in clear, bright voices. Outside the carriage window floated a thin mist, and now and then a streetlamp slid past, briefly lighting the street of some unfamiliar city.

One of the women noticed Song Cheng’s sudden intrusion. She stood in surprise and approached, asking why he was here.

Song Cheng ignored her completely. He only glanced back at the number on the door.

Car 23.

He turned around and walked back.

A “normal” car came into view—an ordinary subway in every detail. Spacious. Empty. Brightly lit. Neat, clean seats lined both sides.

Only one passenger sat near the window in the middle section, holding a newspaper that hid their face.

Song Cheng checked the door behind him. Only after he saw 22 did he finally let out a breath and head toward the lone passenger.

The person wore a jet-black coat. A black briefcase sat by their feet, and a black umbrella hung from the rail beside the seat. From coat to case to umbrella, everything had the same strange, rubbery texture.

Song Cheng sat down beside them and tapped the edge of the newspaper lightly.

The passenger lowered the paper and looked up.

His face was smooth with a faint sheen—like rubber. The features belonged to a gaunt, middle-aged man, and he wore a stiff, old-fashioned black top hat that looked absurd in the modern world.

“Hello,” the strange-looking passenger said with a polite nod. His voice quivered and went off-key, like a warped instrument. “What would you like to chat about?”

This entity—Passenger No. 22—was generated in otherworld-train. He usually stayed in Car 22, remained sane, could talk, and sometimes even helped outsiders escape the otherworld. Under certain conditions, though, he could turn aggressive.

Right now, he was friendly.

“Have you ever heard of an address—wu tong road No. 66?” Song Cheng asked, as casually as if he were making small talk on a normal commute. “Someone named ‘Yu Sheng’ lived there.”

The rubber-faced “passenger” shook his head. “Train doesn’t have that stop.”

Song Cheng’s expression tightened.

Passenger No. 22 knew a great deal of information related to “places.” Aside from a few extremely bizarre or deeply hidden ones, as long as you could point clearly, he could tell you the basics of almost any otherworld—even if it lay millions of light-years away. At worst, he would at least tell you whether that otherworld existed, and whether it lay within the Borderland.

“Train doesn’t have that stop” meant he knew nothing about it.

Ever since the Special Operations Bureau first began recording Passenger No. 22, answers like that could be counted on one hand.

After a brief silence, Song Cheng tried again. “Then what about ‘Yu Sheng’? Have you heard that name during your travels?”

“If it’s information about a person, go ask ‘Storyteller,'” Passenger No. 22 said. “He knows a lot about people. He’s in the park, telling stories to children… Do you need directions? I can tell you when ‘park’ appears.”

“Thanks, but no. I know where the park is.” Song Cheng could feel the anointing salve’s effect fading in his mouth, so he hurried on. “Any news from Nightfall Valley lately?”

“Nightfall Valley…” Passenger No. 22’s gaze drifted, as if he were searching memory that wasn’t quite his. “A traveler left from there, but I don’t know the details. If you want to know what happened after that, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

“Why?”

“Because this stop has been cancelled.”

Passenger No. 22 set the newspaper across his knees and spoke with calm certainty.

Song Cheng went still.

That answer had never appeared before.

“Train doesn’t have that stop” was at least something mentioned in the files. But “this stop has been cancelled”—

He was sure of it. This was the first time.

“Why would it be cancelled?” he blurted, unable to hide the urgency.

“Who knows?” Passenger No. 22 shrugged in a way that was almost too human. “I only know what happens along train’s line. Anything off the line… I don’t know.”

Song Cheng blinked. The salve’s effect weakened further, and faint human voices began to creep back into his ears. He still had questions, but then his gaze caught on the newspaper resting on Passenger No. 22’s knees.

It was the only thing on the entity that didn’t feel like rubber. It truly was just a newspaper.

The front page carried a huge black-and-white illustration. In an era when even the cheapest street tabloids used color printing, the image looked oddly retro. The picture itself was fuzzy and abstract, warped and distorted. It didn’t look like a real photograph taken on scene. It looked like a crude sketch smeared onto canvas by a clumsy artist working from rumor.

A desolate valley. A massive eye floating above it, slowly drifting away.

Beneath the illustration was the headline:

After Grand Feast.

“We’re about to arrive.” Passenger No. 22’s voice snapped Song Cheng out of his daze.

Song Cheng turned. Passenger No. 22 was already reaching for the umbrella hanging from the rail. As he rose, he asked, almost idly, “How’s the weather now?”

Song Cheng studied him with sudden care.

Passenger No. 22 had brought an umbrella today. But the umbrella was dry.

“It’s cloudy today…” Song Cheng said.

Then he noticed a thin water stain appear on Passenger No. 22’s briefcase, as if invisible rain had just fallen on it.

“But the rain’s already started,” Song Cheng added quickly. “Bringing an umbrella was the right call.”

“Indeed.” Passenger No. 22 smiled. His rubbery face made a faint tearing, rubbing sound. “Have a pleasant trip—and watch your step getting off.”

“Have a pleasant trip.” Song Cheng let out a breath, smiled back, and nodded.

Noise surged in from all sides again. Human heat filled the cramped car.

Broad-shouldered Song Cheng was once more squeezed into the crowd as the subway slowed on its approach to the station.