The Caretakers trilogy

---

Saturday, December 2, 2017

The dank staleness of uncirculated air pressed against him, weighing him down. Robert Granville scanned the slick advertisements slapped starkly against Kenmore Station’s greasy, stained tiled walls. A humid, musty wind blew in from the tunnel, scattering paper and debris. Swiping a hand across his stubbled chin, RG’s gaze drifted to the man at the far end of the tracks.

8:25 p.m. 

Five more minutes and it would be over. Everything. All he was or ever hoped to be. RG blotted his moist palms with clenching fingers, a cold sweat seeping from his pores. The underground station’s buzz filtered to silence as he fought the images flickering in his mind, dark thoughts taking root.

How had it come to this? 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pictured Kacey on the front porch swing, their fingers intertwined and resting on her prominent baby bump. Twenty-four hours ago, RG had the promise of a fulfilling life, but now he paced the subway station’s dusty concrete platform contemplating murder. The dream had spiraled into a nightmare—and he couldn’t jolt himself awake.

8:26 p.m. 

A faint metallic squeal crackled through the darkened subway tunnel. 

The other man stood alone at the far end of the tracks. His long, dirty hair hanging below his shirt collar shielded an expressionless face, chiseled and stern from life on the street. He clung to several worn-out plastic bags overflowing with personal items. The man repeated his movements in a compulsive pattern, leaning over the tracks and gazing into the tunnel, then turning and walking in a circle, mumbling to himself. 

RG studied the man, a plan formulating in his mind. He crept toward the far end of the tracks. 

8:27 p.m. 

His mind drifted, the stranger’s words echoing in his head—a story about an exchange of souls. One for another. The stranger had told him to keep those thoughts far from his mind, but time had run out, and dying wasn’t in RG’s plans. If a train whizzed by at 8:30 p.m. and struck a man, death would be instantaneous; and if the timing aligned perfectly, it would deliver the required soul at the exact moment and satisfy the matrix. 

Life could go on. 

RG stared into the tunnel. His stomach seized imagining the train’s fury as it exploded into the station, the man’s wide eyes as he grasped the inevitable, a final scream interrupted, and a twisted, broken body strewn across the rails. He tried to exorcise these demonic thoughts from his mind, but continued to creep toward the far end of the tracks. His feet scattered shreds of trash littering the grimy concrete floor. 

8:28 p.m. 

Down the tunnel, the train’s screech indicated it had made its way from street level to underground. Could it arrive at precisely 8:30? Doubtful, but he continued to slink toward the far end of the tracks. The homeless man repeated his ritual, his dirt-smudged boots licking the platform edge time and again, giving RG plenty of opportunities to act. It would just require a nudge. 

8:29 p.m. 

RG stepped closer. The sound of the train’s churning wheels thrummed in his ears. The homeless man leaned over the tracks and peered into the tunnel. Moving within ten feet of him, RG withdrew trembling hands from his pockets. He could almost taste the city’s stench wafting off the man. 

What the hell am I doing?

The piercing scream ripped through the station, echoing off the walls and reverberating in RG’s ears.