The Train Station

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man arrives in a train station on a late evening for a business trip.

Submitted: October 03, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 03, 2013



The Train Station

I was alone in the train station. It was three A.M. I was the only one who got off at that exit, and now I know why. Aviandorf had a name bitterly reminiscent of the infectious disease that had riddled the poultry industry three months since. The memories were still fresh in my mind. Poultry houses, long and wide, had become silent within 24 hours, and reeked of mortification by the next day. Chickens in every state were infected. Entire farms wiped out or exterminated. Chickens were extinct. Eggs, breasts, nuggets; these were all that remained.  Frozen chicken goods sold for exorbitant prices and were seldom consumed. The beef and swine industry had boomed after taking the place of chicken in the markets, but I still often crave an omelet or a chicken sandwich.

The train station was deserted. Newspapers were scattered on the floor, a streetlight flickered on and off. Broken glass, and torn posters hung on the wall. The prime ministers face had been vandalized with a certain amount of facial hair, and his poster now read, “Eat your vegetables!” The vandals were commonly found in every city. Upset civilians that did not agree with the way the country was running. Even in this small town, Aviandorf, you could still find these extremists.

The sudden urge to use a urinal hit me, and I quickly rushed to the nearest restroom. The relief was immediate as I closed my eyes and sighed. That moment every single urinal in the bathroom flushed simultaneously. My eyes snapped open and I realized that these were manual flush urinals. What does it mean? I finished my business, washed my hands, and turned to leave the bathroom. Standing in the doorway stood a chicken, 5’10”, with a wing pointed at me. A man stood before me in a chicken suit, and I was a little unnerved.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I casually asked to mask my shock. There was no reply; he simply beckoned me forth through the door. I followed his lead, and was confronted by a line of people in chicken suits on either side of me. They led silently stared. The first man prompted me from behind, and I walked down the aisle feeling quite uncertain about this strange town of Aviandorf. There were at least 50 people in all. They must have been waiting for me. My presentation on the following day was about the history of the poultry industry and how we could prevent that situation from happening again. Being a government worker these people may see me as an extension of the administration, and so I did not know what to expect.

Walking straight down the aisle of chickens flanking me on each side was the most bizarre and unexpected event in my life. I would never experience anything quite like it again. At the end of the train station, just before the platform stairs took you outside, another chicken man stood before me. He simply stood waiting so I joined him at his side. I don’t know who pushed me, but falling down the stairs was another turn I was not expecting. Bruised and bloodied I lay at the end of the stairwell, looking at the starry night sky. The chickens began to cluck, as they piled down the stairs. Their leader jerked me to my fight and led me to a stump and placed my chin on it. The stump was sticky with dark liquid, and I knew my end was near. The chicken leader picked up an axe as two other roosters held me to the stump.

“No don’t do this!” I cried in desperation, thrashing with my hands and feet to get free. The pain was unbearable, and two large chickens joined in holding me down. My hope was lost. I could not free myself. “No please! I understand. This affected all of us, not just you! Please you don’t have to do this.” The chickens gathered clucked, resolute in their task at hand. The rooster crowed, swung his axe, and held my shocked head in the air for all to see. The mob  squawked and hooted in glee.

© Copyright 2017 Reagan Fair. All rights reserved.

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