Train to Nowhere

Stiles frowned faintly as the board flipped around again. Destinations he’d never heard of rolling over, most coming back to sit above Mystic Falls. Some vanished all together, another – where the hell was Soda Springs anyway? – taking its place. Trains all of them were cancelled like there was some huge apocalypse raging outside this place. As though he’d see some sign of it through a window, he flopped back in the hard plastic seat and glanced listlessly around. No windows.

A faint grunt rolled out of him. If the storm had hit, and he was sure there’d been plenty lately, then it wasn’t still lashing down now. The whole place was deathly silent. He’d seen Twister enough times as a kid (when he’d been in that five minute phase of wanting to be a freaking storm chaser) to know they might’ve been at the eye of the storm, but that would’ve meant it had been thundering down out there at some point in the recent past and it didn’t look like it to him. The tile floor was dry, nobody was standing around dripping wet. In fact it was … dead in here. The thought had a shudder rolling down his spine, driving him up out of his chair.

His back ached, the stiff sensation rippling up his spine as he stretched. Stiles squinted around, looking for a concession stand. There was always one of those right? Selling sodas and newspapers like all you need was a little tragedy and some sugar to get through a long journey. The place was all shuttered up. No staff floating around, no suitcases, just rows and rows of people, all of them seeming as zonked out as he had been five minutes ago.

Squinting, Stiles rolled his wrist. No watch. He patted down his pockets, his frown growing as he failed to turn up his phone, or even his wallet. Had some asshole pickpocketed him while he’d been here? He hadn’t been asleep, at least he was pretty sure he hadn’t. Zoned out maybe, but he’d still have felt someone patting him down or heard them bitching when all they managed to turn up was a five dollar bill and a couple of sticks of gum. They were pouring every penny into the apartment, trying to keep their heads above water and considering how badly smashed up Roscoe was, it wasn’t like there was any …

Roscoe. An accident in the woods. The hospital. When had that been? Stiles swallowed hard, trying and failing to rearrange the pieces in his head. He’d been better after that, the hospital was releasing him, Lydia was probably heading back here to take him home. Why he was in a train station instead of at the hospital he didn’t know, none of this was making sense.

Spotting some guy moving among the rows of seats, Stiles started over in his direction. Finally someone who was zombified. ”Hey, excuse me man. Have you got the time? I’ve … uh … I don’t know where my watch is, my phone either.” He frowned, glancing over his shoulder. There had to be a pay phone here, right? ”Can I borrow a couple of bucks too? I need to call my girlfriend.” If anybody could make sense out of this it had to be Lydia. She’d been there when they’d crashed, she’d been picking him up from the hospital. They were gonna get home safe and he was gonna buy her that nurse’s costume, even if it emptied his bank account.

Tagged: SEBASTIAN GRAVES * Word Count: 590