"The Wrong Track" by Heather Ann Larson

Driving home after work, Liz sighed deeply when she noticed the flashing lights of the incoming train far ahead of her. She could see the train wasn’t even to the crossing yet so knew she would be waiting for a while. It wasn’t even her normal route home, which irritated her that much more. 

It’s so late and I’m so damn tired, she thought. I don’t know if I can stay awake for this.

Working late after a day full of classes exhausted her. Every night that she worked, she made it home and stayed awake long enough to heat some leftovers, take a quick shower, and plunge herself into her bed. There was no wiggle room for trains built into her bedtime routine, especially since she had to rinse and repeat the next day.

After she put her CRV in park, she scanned her surroundings. “Awfully dark out here,” she said aloud. With no other vehicles at the crossing, she felt exposed. Letting her brain get to her, she slammed the lock button, comforted by the sound of the doors clicking. She laughed at her irrational thoughts. “Pull it together and stop watching so many horror flicks late at night, Liz,” she counseled herself.

The train started across the road.

***

Her brain was foggy, and she couldn’t open her eyes all the way as they felt heavy. Her head pounded like it was trying to explode. 

What the fuck happened?

Deciding to keep her eyes closed for the moment, she went through a system’s check to see what hurt and what didn’t. She could turn her head without her neck hurting (although it felt like somebody had hammered a railroad spike through her skull), but her face stung and felt wet. Her right arm moved without issue, but the left wouldn’t move. She felt along her abdomen and chest with the good hand, noting her coat felt sticky and gelatinous. Ewwww, it feels like something vomited on me, she thought. Working at a college bar, she unfortunately knew that feeling too well.

Moving beyond her pelvis, she realized she couldn’t feel her legs. They didn’t feel cold, they didn’t feel hot, they didn’t hurt; they didn’t feel like anything. Panic set in, and she tried to sit up. Flaring pain in her gut stopped her in her tracks, and she flopped back down the few inches she had managed to gain.

Panting, her vision wavered, colored spots flickering in and out. She closed her eyes and took in some deep breaths, holding them before exhaling over an eight count. I guess therapy paid off. She opened her eyes slowly and continued the breathing exercise.

Once her heart rate was back in normal range, she took stock of her surroundings with her eyes and her right hand. It was still pitch black, and she was lying on the ground. There were trees everywhere but not so thick she couldn’t see the full moon shining down on her. She heard a light breeze rustle the leaves above her and the ones around her. 

Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and with the help of the bright light of the moon, she gently picked up her head, looking at her torso and legs. She was covered in blood, a lot of it. It saturated her coat and pants, and it was so thick in some spots that it had congealed into large clumps. She also saw multiple rips in her coat, and through that she saw large, deep gashes in her belly.

What the actual fuck happened? She racked her brain, the panic setting back in.

Flashes, quick clips of scenes, assaulted her brain, but they came at her like one of those rapid-flashing lights they used at haunted attractions. The images were stilted, jittery, and they weren’t in any order that made sense. She forced herself to breathe and to replay the scenes.

I was in my car. The train came.

Something scratched the driver’s side window.

A large hairy paw. No, not a paw. A hand.

The window broke.

It ripped me out of the car, got stuck in the seatbelt, felt my back crack.

It roared in my face, saliva dripping. Claws in my gut.

I was flying.

The memories aligned.

Something loosed a guttural growl.

Liz screamed.