Rush Hour

They say the apocalypse is coming. In five years, they estimate, a meteor will strike the earth and wipe it clean of life. Five years is not a long time, but it is long enough. It is long enough for weddings and funerals for those who cannot wait, for that walk down the beach, where he first holidayed with his family at St. Bees. It is long enough for work, long enough that the world still turns, for now at least. So he finds himself on a train platform each morning, stepping onto a carriage, staring through dirt-smeared windows as the world passes him by.

Sometimes he thinks he could sit there forever, watching the countryside slip past. Trees blur into fields, which seem to stretch, longer than any field should, until there are no boundaries, no roads, no thicket hedgerows, only a palette of greens and browns beneath blue shining skies. The carriage rocks beneath him, lulling him slowly in his seat, while far above cerulean clouds blossom with wind and rain. He has only eyes for their phosphorescence, their purple twilight tinge, and for the twenty minutes it takes him to reach the next station he is lost in their depths, rolling with them through the sky; a fish caught in their awesome ocean pull.

Then the train shudders, stops, expels its load, and he is back inside his business suit. His mouth sighs. His shoulders sag. The Underground drinks deeply of his soul.

People swarm up escalators, spilling out of the station into the road. Traffic screams after them; a chorus of sirens and sudden brakes. Women wobble past him on heels too high while men with faces shaven clean march briskly in their wake, and in between their legs dogs gambol, vagrants dance another day with life. He wonders when it began; when things first showed signs of ending up this way, then remembers he need not wonder about anything anymore, ever again, for more than the minute it takes to type as much online.

His offices are tall, grey things overlooking a grey Thames. His room is on the fifth floor, next to administration. At eight-fifty he takes the lift, in the foyer beside the stairwell. His shirt is hot and wet beneath his arms. Inside his office, he closes the door, sits at his chair, which sinks beneath his weight, and stares at the face reflected in the blank computer screen. Drawing a deep breath, he begins to type.

He does not know why administration is called administration, why it is singled out when they are all administrators; every man in his pin-stripe business skin, every woman with her pay-check pulse, record-keeping, number crunching, so that the world will keep on turning. He thinks about love, and what it might feel like. He thinks about death, and when it was that they all died. Sometimes he turns in his chair and stares at the plant in the corner with its plastic fronds, its sterile soil, its bright, synthetic stem, until it is all he can do not to close his eyes, ball his fists and scream at the top of his voice.

He does not remember weeks in terms of days. He does not remember working weeks at all. There is only one day repeated, in which he wakes up, travels by train, pushes through crowds, through streets made black with rainwater to stinking, sweaty offices built of old brick the colour of dried blood, peopled by corporate puppets in black suits with empty eyes and long thin fingers twitching by their sides.

They say the apocalypse is coming. In five years, they estimate, a meteor will strike the earth and wipe it clean of life. He wonders if it has not come already. Not by fire and smoke but a commuter contagion; this, the human condition, made better for a few minutes each morning by the birds in the sky, the distant glimpse of a dream in the clouds.

~ Thomas Brown

© Copyright 2015 Thomas Brown. All Rights Reserved

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About Thomas Brown

Thomas Brown is a postgraduate researcher at the University of Southampton, where he is exploring the relationship between horror and the sublime in literature. Literary influences include Clive Barker, Poppy Z. Brite and Thomas Ligotti. He writes dark, surreal fiction.

16 responses to “Rush Hour”

  1. Christopher A Liccardi says :

    Thomas – this is excellent work. Your ability to put me in his shoes – the visual granularity of the commute and the office – just fantastic. Thank you for sharing!

    Like

  2. Nina D'Arcangela says :

    Exquisite use of descriptive prose to paint this picture, Tom! A nice, tight piece that speaks volumes. Major kudos, LDP! 🙂

    Like

  3. jonolsonauthor says :

    Reblogged this on and commented:
    RUSH HOUR by Pen of the Damned’s Thomas Brown

    Like

  4. Magenta Nero says :

    I really enjoyed this Thomas, it is something all readers can relate to ~ that sense of utter hopelessness and meaninglessness that engulfs you when you are a faceless commuter and a white collar worker…it has a certain romance. You always depict the conflict of human experience very well.

    Like

  5. Joseph Pinto says :

    Excellent story this week, Thomas!! It most certainly pushed me to appreciate my working from home a bit more… 🙂

    Like

  6. blazemcrob says :

    Great story, Thomas! Horrors of the worst kind often are plucked from the mundane existence too many people exist in. Dreary. Gray. No color. Merely those waiting patiently for their demise. You capture it so well in this story.

    Blaze

    Like

  7. adeleulnais says :

    Great descriptive piece of work, I was there all the way with the character and the ending, I loved it.

    Like

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