Young Writers Society

Professor Socrates stepped out of his dark room into the rest of his house. It wasn't so much of a house as a ramshackle shed, but he kept it well enough. A dim lamp cast feeble flames on his couch and fridge, broken down and beyond saving. Stacks of paper were lined up neatly on the shelves, each one containing calculations complex enough to befuddle any sane human. 

Of course, Socrates was no such man. He went to his wall, observing the giant cork-board he had attached, hanging sideways at an infuriating angle. A criss-cross of lines and maps were the main decor, furnished by the occasional newspaper article.

Socrates smirked. Even in these times, the sad remnants of the old society would try to limp on until death. One such paper article showcased a mayhem of rubble in a shoddy photograph. Iron skeletons of buildings had been cast aside and twisted beyond repair, while the streets were littered with the debris of obliterated lives. Chicago in Ruins, the heading read.

Socrates blew out a puff of smoke, examining the article next to it. Moscow in Flames. He sighed outwardly. Perhaps reflecting on what had already come to pass was foolhardy. Then again, those who did not learn of history were doomed to repeat it. As were those who had studied it.

He chuckled softly to himself, pulling out his cigarette and scrutinizing a map that he had put up of the United States. A silver tack had placed a trail of red yarn in its wake, forming a line that tattooed the map. And currently, the pin was at-

"Vegas," Socrates mused. "Las Vegas, Nevada." A half-smile touched his face. "Never assumed you were the gambling type, Silverdeath. I guess we really have grown up." Stamping out the butt of his cigarette against the map, he turned back towards the computer room, his lab coat swishing out around him. "See you soon, buddy."

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The cold splendor of night gripped him with shivers. His breath was all the more visible now. Socrates shuddered, pulling his lab coat tighter around him. A thick scarf was all that adorned his neck, while a self-made hat squatted atop his golden hair. Still, winter in the City was living hell.

The streetlights were few and far between, flickering upon the destitute snowbound streets. Snow danced down from the sky, an unwelcome guest who's wretched kiss burned on his face. He still had a long way to go to reach Vegas.

In his hand he carried a briefcase. A simple, unassuming briefcase, typical of the homeless. He patted it to reassure himself.

A piercing cry rang out through the night. "Damn you! You Soviet bastards! Damn you all!" Ragged with grief, the voice carried on the wind, brought to the ears of all. But nobody listened.

Socrates laughed inwardly. The world's pattern never changed. Nobody had the time to care about one man. There were thousands just like him.

Turning his head down the street, he saw the owner of the voice, a man hunched over the corpse of another, sobbing in haphazard rhythm. The corpse was a woman, lifeless and blue-faced, resigned to an eternal slumber. Taken by the cold.

And the man still saw fit to blame the Soviets. The Soviet Union had dissolved long ago, due to most of its members being, well, dead. Socrates averted his gaze and continued down the sidewalk. 

The cold nipped at his heels like a starving pup. He turned silently, plodding across the street through the snow.

Cuba. That's where this had begun. Nuclear missiles poised to wreak damnation upon every American citizen who dared defy communism. Within minutes, the U.S.A. would've been dust on the wind.

He blew out air from his cheeks, watching the cloud vanish. It was impossible now, to tell who was truly responsible for what had happened. But history would remember that America struck first. 

Saint Petersburg. Kablooie. Socrates kicked a drift of snow into the air, watching it break into dust and blow away. Prime real estate efficiently transmuted to scraps of flesh and gravel. Russia was quick to reply.

Perhaps mankind had grown too reliant on power. Socrates stepped onto the curb, continuing his route. They had spent decades amassing an army of nuclear demons, ready to unleash hell upon Earth. And they did so with blind gusto. Sides were taken. They had to be. In the end, the world simply collapsed in on itself.

But then again, perhaps it was a good thing, in a way. It was through this necessity that Project Alchemy had come to rise. And now they were on the verge of immortality, immunity, and the end of world hunger. Socrates half-smiled. A blessing shall rise from the carcass of failure, he thought to himself.

He stopped, looking up at the sign that loomed above him. Crude and misshapen, it was barely visible in the indigo night. The Devil's Express, it read. Morbid, yet accurate. As were most things these days.

He cast a tired gaze to his surroundings. An old train platform, with decrepit tracks incarcerating the land for miles in either direction, cast in shadow by the indigo night. An icy breeze skulked past, accentuating the nothings and no-ones that accompanied him. It wasn't that nobody wished to travel; rather, few could afford the fare, and the people who planned to hijack the train tonight wished discretion, which was understandable.

A train whistle pierced the night. He could practically hear the vagrants beneath the platform tensing in anticipation. 

All at once, a single crimson light washed through the station, painting everything velvet red. A rickety, dilapidated train clattered in with a wheeze, its head mounted almost jokingly with a sculpture of a demon. Socrates sighed. The Devil's Express. It wasn't much; but then again, nothing was.

The door slid open, letting the light from within spill onto the platform. Socrates shivered, bathed in the unsettling hue. He stepped on slowly, allowing the concealed vagabonds a bit of time to board.

As he entered the driver's car, the driver turned his head to face him. "Got the fare, sir?" The "sir" was a bit put-off by the presence of a scowling face, a monstrous cigar, and a shotgun in his left hand. Still, the courtesy was appreciated.

Socrates said nothing, reaching in his pocket. He pulled out a small card, displaying it to the conductor, who scratched his head uncouthly.

"Special ID? Well, that's no good. Whatever. I hope that my services satisfy you, Mister-" he referred to the card, squinting a bit. "Midas? Mr. Midas."

Without saying a word, Socrates slid the door open and entered the passenger car. The carriage was completely empty. It really was a luxury for the rich. What was left of its seats were falling apart, and there was some manner of strange liquid pooled in the corner. Its rank stench betrayed its identity. A rat the size of a football skittered across the floorboards before vanishing into the thin walls. It really was a luxury for the rich.

Taking the seat that looked least liable to spontaneous combustion, Socrates sat down as the Devil's Express rumbled to life, and the City peeled away outside the window, the landscape of the night speeding up into a violet blur. "I'll see you soon," he whispered. "Silverdeath."