Cut

Train

'What's this?' I ask, pointing at two shiny metal things that stretch through the valley. 'And who would brush off the snow...all the way?'

'Train tracks. We wait here.'

'What? What are trainracks? And why—'

'Train tracks. Trains have been around since the nineteenth century; they transport people. Some train tracks reach more than two thousand kilometres.' He takes a thin rectangle from a side pocket of his backpack and flicks his index finger across it.

'User login,' a female voice says.

I jump. Runner arches an eyebrow at me. 'Runner,' he says to the small machine and she answers, 'Runner. Logged in.'

He runs his fingers across the smooth surface again and I hear a bleeping. 'We are in position. Sending coordinates. Please acknowledge,' he says.

Tat tat tat.

'Acknowledged,' a male voice says. 'The toy you requested is on board.'

'Thank you.' Runner swipes three fingers across the thing when I step closer. The screen goes blank. I'm not sure, but I think there was the face of a bearded man on it. 'What is this?'

'A SatPad. I use it to communicate with others, to receive the weather forecast, and to see where we are, among other things. Tonight, I'll show you how to work it.' He steps forward and puts his ear on the train tracks. 'They are close.'

Soon, I hear a buzz coming from the tracks. Runner nods south, towards a long silver bullet that's approaching fast. The thing has so much speed my legs take several wobbly steps back. He remains rooted to the spot, right between the two metal ribs. The man must be insane. In a few moments, he'll be mush. 'Runner?!' I cry, unsure if my voice can drown the hollering of my heart.

A screeching sounds when the bullet slows down. The thing is very fast and he's still not moving. 'Runner!'

He grins at me while the massive train screams to a halt a mere two metres from him. A hatch bangs open at its front.

'Fuck, dude! Every single time! Get off my track!' A man with a grey ponytail and a gap in his front teeth spits in the snow.

'Hey, Aristotle, how's the wife?'

'Don't you Aristotle me, dude! Who's that?' He points at me.

'This is Micka. She's an outsider,' Runner answers.

The man eyes me, spits again, then slams the hatch shut.

Runner stomps through the snow to the door closest to us. He presses his palm against it. It bleeps and hisses before it permits us.

'We don't have much time,' he says once we climb in. He strips himself of his backpack, his coat, and mittens. 'Drop your stuff right here and follow me.' Then he shoulders his air rifle and I wonder what the heck he's planning to shoot.

The train begins to move and we walk in the opposite direction, along a corridor, through doors and small compartments that connect wagons — as Runner calls them. Everything is made of metal, shiny and polished with diamond patterns hammered into it. No dirt anywhere. I'm inside a huge machine and I'm loving it, the scent of metal, the quiet grinding noises, and the hum of power. Only the smell of grease is missing.

He holds his palm against a small red screen until a heavy steel door groans open. Lights flicker on, and we enter a room filled with weapons. Large rifles hang on the walls. Below them are boxes and drawers labelled with "ammunition" and a number-letter combination indicating specifics of whatever nature. Runner places his air rifle on a counter and begins searching the drawers.