Thank you to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers!
“We’re relics,” Ike says as the train slows.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Damn computers. Something on the tracks maybe?”
I glance out at the vacant buildings. The last rays of the setting sun reflect from the windowpanes like eyes tracking us. They creep me out, like most of the last fifteen minutes as we passed through dead towns.
Silence falls as the last wheel settles. Ike opens the door. Hot oily stench fills the compartment. An unearthly sound reverberates in the valley. Like a puma, but worse, far worse.
Even as Ike wrenches the door closed, it’s too late.