Reincarnated Cthulhu
Chapter 40: Infinity and Eternity

Thus, the London train wore two faces.

Throughout the week, the train bustled with suburban workers being ferried into London. Poor laborers were packed into the iron beast without room to even stand properly, treated worse than livestock as they were shuttled to factories and workplaces.

Unable to secure lodgings in London, they spent their nights in cheap shelters with nothing but a roof and bench, waiting for daybreak. After toiling until the Sabbath, they would carefully pocket their meager earnings as if they were precious jewels and board the train home. Then, when the next week arrived, they would return to London on the dawn train once more.

Though these two faces appeared different, they shared the same essence—neither could escape London’s grip.

London was always there at the beginning and the end.

London is truly a city that has achieved infinity.

—Clack-clack, clack-clack…

The train rumbled beneath the black sky. Pale steam billowed from the chimney, dispersing behind us, each wisp of vapor twinkling like distant stars.

On the red wasteland stretching to either side, gusts of wind would raise dust clouds several meters high, rising and falling in rhythmic patterns. It was as if an invisible giant were playing with the earth.

This was a barren space, utterly devoid of life.

Each pebble scattered across the ground had remained undisturbed for thousands of years. With our finite human lifespans, it was impossible to comprehend how many ages it had taken for the ground to become so perfectly flat.

—Wheeeeee!

The moment I stepped onto the car’s terrace, a fierce wind nearly toppled me over. Had Marie not grabbed my hand, something truly disastrous might have occurred.

“Master.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Startled, I found myself repeating the same words.

“Are you troubled by what that Universal Bureau person said?”

“What? No. The words of such a spineless fellow aren’t worth my attention.”

I suddenly gazed up at the sky.

At opposite ends of the pitch-black heavens hung a pair of ominous stars. These twin celestial bodies were positioned at the ends of the railway tracks, creating the illusion that we were adventurers journeying between stars.

—Clack-clack, clack-clack….

The train continued to shudder due to the ancient tracks. I wondered who could have laid these rails here. Surely not SMR? Though the invention of trains wasn’t even a century old, the tracks beneath us seemed to belong naturally, as if they had existed since the wasteland’s very creation.

In simpler terms, they appeared incredibly ancient.

—Screeeeech….

The coupler connecting the cars emitted a piercing scream. The double loops and thick chain looked stretched to their limits, appearing longer than their actual length. Only these three easily removed links separated one group of passengers from another.

“I’ll cross first.”

Marie took the lead again. She stood before the gap between cars.

Below her feet, the ground raced backward at 140 km per hour. A fall wouldn’t end with mere injuries. She stared down at the rushing ground, took half a step back, then after a moment, advanced half a step forward, only to retreat another half step.

Forward, backward, forward, backward.

“I’ll go first.”

The invention of trains gave birth to new forms of tragedy. While carriage accidents had existed before, being struck by hundreds of tons of locomotive steel was something altogether different. Ghastly rumors about train accidents had spread throughout London, and undoubtedly several haunted her thoughts.

“No, Master. Allow me to cross first.”

She was stubborn as a mule. Perhaps sensing my impatience, she bounded across the gap between carriages with unexpected vigor. Her sudden boldness startled even me as I watched.

A raspy, metallic sound escaped her throat—something resembling a triumphant cry.

“There, you see?”

After this ordeal, she remained inexplicably cheerful. Whether it was courage or insensitivity, I could take no pleasure in discovering this spirited side of her. She seemed increasingly unlike the person I believed I knew.

“This is hardly your first crossing, and I won’t praise you for such elementary feats…”

I stepped onto the terrace with deliberate nonchalance. The lack of sensation in my prosthetic leg actually eased my anxiety. My only concern was whether the coupler might snap after we had crossed.

Marie, apparently thinking I might struggle with the crossing, gripped the railing with one hand while extending the other toward me. I ignored her offered hand and reached the opposite side with casual ease. Whether she felt disappointment, I couldn’t tell, but she withdrew her hand wordlessly.

“Let’s proceed inside.”

I—no, we—had already witnessed much. Whatever awaited us inside remained unknown.

After a brief warning to Marie, I pulled open the carriage door.

As it swung open, a barrage of coarse voices spilled forth. While outside the carriage the howling wind had nearly drowned all sound, the interior proved equally chaotic.

The passengers had clustered near the door at the carriage’s far end. Oblivious to our entrance, they shouted through the doorway, unleashing inventive profanities I’d never before encountered. Most absurd was how, even amid their vulgar outbursts, they maintained their refined Oxford accents—creating a spectacle both ridiculous and unsettling.

But this was far from comedic.

A dreadful memory flashed through my mind. Being so recent and vivid, it inevitably carried a scent with it. The smell of blood. With my face hardened into a mask, I strode purposefully inside.

“Gentlemen, what precisely is transpiring here?”

Only then did they notice our presence and turn.

“Who might you be, sir?”

“I’ve come from the forward carriage to investigate the situation. Has another gentleman already passed through?”

I inquired, recalling the elderly man who had headed toward the rear of the train before us.

Their expressions shifted immediately, and they began exchanging furtive glances—not at me, but among themselves. These were desperate, secretive looks: the unmistakable signals of accomplices. Instinctively, I knew something horrific had occurred here.

“Yes, sir. He came through. And continued toward the rear.”

After a brief exchange of meaningful glances, one man appointed himself spokesperson.

“To the carriage behind this one?”

“Have you come searching for him from the forward section?”

I nodded.

“Then we shall not hinder you. Please, proceed.”

As the man finished speaking, the crowd parted as if choreographed, though their movements revealed no prior rehearsal. They cooperated with the unified precision of a single organism. I bowed my head slightly in acknowledgment.

“My thanks.”

Marie followed in silent vigilance behind me.

“Ah, and one more thing.”

The eyes of those surrounding us shifted subtly. My vague intuition crystallized into certainty. They were harboring a secret—one concerning a terrible atrocity still fresh in its execution.

With newfound conviction, I inquired:

“Has something unnatural occurred here?”

“Whatever could you mean, sir? What manner of occurrence?”

“Some unspeakable horror. Perhaps involving human bodies becoming… fused together.”

I maintained my composure while letting my gaze drift across their faces. Contrary to my expectations, they exhibited none of the telltale agitation of those whose darkest secret had been exposed.

Impossible. Could everything truly be mere imagination? Had my recent experiences rendered me overly suspicious?

“Pay it no mind. Simply a word of caution to keep your distance.”

“Yes…”

I let my words trail off as I placed my hand upon the door handle.

When I pushed open the heavy door, a gust of red, sand-laden wind surged through the gap. My eyes, already parched, could no longer remain open against this new assault.

“…”

A peculiar thought struck me. Since time immemorial, the howling of wind has been compared to human voices. This must surely indicate wind’s remarkable aptitude for mimicking human utterances.

“…”

So was what reached my ears merely the devil’s trickery carried on the wind, or genuine human cries?

The answer became unmistakable.

Someone was indeed shouting from across the void—from the terrace of the opposite carriage.

“Run!”

The elderly gentleman who had preceded us now clung desperately to the railing of the third-class terrace in carriage number 7, bellowing warnings in our direction.

I pivoted sharply. Almost instantaneously, hands lunged toward both Marie and myself.

“Seize them! Don’t let them move an inch!”

Perhaps hindered by the sandy gale, my reaction came a moment too late. Before I could mount a proper defense, my shoulder and left arm were firmly seized. Just as I began searching for an opening, a horrified shriek erupted from behind.

“This woman—dear God, she isn’t human!”

The cry came from those who had grabbed Marie. Their eyes were rapidly glazing over with unmistakable madness.

Though unintended, Marie had provided an excellent diversion. Apparently dismissing me as a harmless elder, the young man restraining me foolishly turned to witness the commotion. Seizing the opportunity, I tossed my walking stick upward, caught it reversed in my grip, and prepared to demonstrate precisely what happens when one underestimates a former naval officer.

“Argh!”

Judging by the sensation transmitted through my stick, I had struck his liver with surgical precision. That would ensure his immobility for some time. I readjusted my grip on the stick as one would a rapier and methodically jabbed at the Adam’s apple and solar plexus of another who stood gaping at me in disbelief.

“Gack!”

As the second assailant crumpled pathetically to the floor, the remaining attackers finally appeared to comprehend that I was no defenseless old man. As well they should.

“Marie, position yourself behind me.”

Marie scurried behind me, pressing herself tightly against my back.

The initial confrontation had gone in our favor. Even among those united by malicious intent, such hastily formed alliances lack true cohesion without leadership. No one dared make the first move against us.

“I had no idea you could fight so skillfully, Master.”

“I told you I had some training in swordsmanship. Royal Naval fencing, no less.”

I deliberately emphasized the word “Naval” as I spoke. Fortunate for them they were intimidated; had anyone attacked with genuine intent to harm, I would have had no choice but to respond in kind.

“One moment, please listen! This concerns everyone’s welfare.”

With the situation thus altered, one man stepped forward, seemingly intent on persuasion.

“Such considerations should have been voiced before attempting to hurl my housekeeper and myself from the train.”

“Circumstances were dire!”

He pleaded with an air of indignation.

“Consider our situation. Do you know where we are? Do you realize how much farther we must travel before reaching familiar territory? I’ve traversed the whole of England, yet never heard of such a wasteland. Certainly not between London and Oxford.”

“A rather inadequate justification for throwing an elderly gentleman and a woman from a moving train.”

“The train cannot run forever. When the coal is depleted, we’ll stop and become stranded here. Did you see those monstrous birds passing by earlier? They’re merely waiting for us to halt. Waiting to devour us!”

“You mean to tell me you intended to cast people overboard merely to distract the attention of birds?”

He shook his head.

“For the same distance, greater weight requires more coal.”

I was aghast as understanding dawned on me.

“You planned to detach entire carriages! Those people were standing on the terrace trying to prevent it!”

“If sacrifices must be made, shouldn’t they be the first? Lives are at stake. Surely you understand why carriages are classified as they are.”

I couldn’t contain my outrage.

“They are human beings too!”

During this heated exchange, the elderly gentleman and several stooped third-class passengers began hesitantly crossing over from the rear carriage. Like oil and water, even within the same space, they remained distinctly separate.

The first-class passengers cowered in the corners at their appearance. The situation had completely reversed. I struggled to suppress the urge to throw these contemptible individuals from the train myself.

“I left making such a grand fuss, only to end up receiving help instead… Thank you.”

The elderly gentleman, his voice lowered to a degree I suspected was unprecedented in his lifetime, expressed gratitude with visible dejection. The realization that he had nearly been abandoned with an entire carriage had clearly subdued his spirit.

“Is this everyone who wished to cross?”

“Only passengers from carriages seven and eight—the two forward third-class carriages. There are still people in the rear carriages, but…”

The elderly gentleman’s voice trailed off.

“Do not go there.”

“What do you mean?”

“That place, that place is… wrong. This entire location is strange, but from carriage nine onward, it’s particularly aberrant. I apologize for my inadequate explanation, but I cannot send my savior to certain death.”

I realized then that I was approaching my destination.

“That’s precisely what we seek. I recognize your exhaustion, but could you watch over these people while we’re gone? Ensure they attempt nothing rash.”

The first-class passengers had clustered together like sheep awaiting slaughter. The third-class passengers, who moments before had seemed poised to pummel them, now appeared oddly cowed by their social betters’ immaculate attire and bearing, despite holding the clear advantage.

“Most assuredly! They may have deceived me once, but they shall not do so again! Should any resist, I’ll personally hurl them from the train one by one!”

Pitiful groans emanated from the huddle of first-class passengers. I lowered my voice and asked:

“Is such vehemence truly necessary under the circumstances?”

“No, I am completely serious.”

The elderly gentleman’s expression was grave beyond any possibility of misinterpretation.

I love London, but this exemplifies my perpetual difficulty with the English. For forty years, I had failed to discern when they were being earnest or merely engaging in their infamous deadpan humor. Trusting that the elderly gentleman hadn’t abandoned his quintessentially British sensibilities, I proceeded toward the next carriage.

Carriage Seven.

With all passengers now crowded into carriage six, this one stood eerily vacant. White, crystalline formations glistened on the floor—salt residue left by evaporated sweat. I bitterly regretted wearing my finest shoes.

“Was your claim about Royal Naval fencing genuine?”

“Which claim?”

“About your swordsmanship training.”

“Having never experienced seafaring life, you wouldn’t comprehend how insufferably tedious months at sea become. Bored officers, magnificent government-issued sabers, and endless hours—what else would you expect us to do?”

I casually manipulated my walking stick as one would a sword, executing a practiced flourish. Marie observed without visible impression.

We departed carriage seven.

Carriage Eight.

This carriage, too, was abandoned. I wrinkled my nose with pronounced disgust.

“What troubles you?”

“You’re fortunate to be spared the odor I perceive.”

The nauseating stench of unspeakable filth permeating the carriage had intensified to the point of physical discomfort.

“Should I consider that a blessing?”

“No, no, that wasn’t my meaning! Why have you adopted such a peculiar manner of speech?”

I gestured frantically in alarm at Marie’s unexpected retort.

“It was merely a jest.”

Every Englishman believes themselves a virtuoso of wit—a conceit I found endlessly tiresome.

We proceeded beyond carriage eight.

Upon reaching the terrace, the train seemed to have accelerated considerably since our last crossing.

The landscape had transmuted from distinct lines into planes, and planes into pure chromatic abstraction. Peering through the gap between carriages, the railroad ties and crimson earth below had merged into something resembling coagulated blood—an indeterminate, murky confluence.

We traversed the terrace with the delicacy of tightrope walkers, as though relinquishing our grip on the railing would surrender us to that swirling maelstrom of color below.

I grasped the handle, drew a steady breath, and opened the door.

Carriage Nine.

Within the darkened carriage, only coughing disturbed the silence—the rasping coughs of aged men. I understood instantly why they hadn’t fled forward with the other third-class passengers.

They were all frail, decrepit figures, seemingly incapable of rising from their positions. I stepped with deliberate care to avoid treading upon their withered forms.

A grasp.

Amid my cautious navigation, bony fingers closed around my ankle. The grip was too feeble to startle me.

I studied the figure before me.

He was unnaturally, grotesquely aged. His scalp was almost entirely bare, with only sparse, isolated tufts remaining. Of his visible teeth, merely three remained intact. Deep furrows carved into his face had nearly sealed his eyes shut, and his distorted nostrils forced him to draw breath solely through his mouth.

This was a man who belonged in a sickbed wearing a nightshirt, yet incongruously wore worker’s suspenders. Even these hung loose on his emaciated frame, appearing worse than nakedness.

“I know not who you may be, sir, but I implore you—hear my tale.”

The old man beseeched me with desperate intensity.

“My name is Norman Adam Higgins. Norman was my brother’s name, who perished before my birth, and Adam honors the priest who baptized me. I first arrived in London at eight years of age. Initially, I survived as a chimney sweep, but after outgrowing the flues, I labored in a charcoal factory. Though I am but twenty years this year, my flesh has withered thus from daily exposure to the furnace heat, and my eyes have nearly failed from gazing overlong into the flames. All my life I have toiled in London, while my family remains in Kidlington. Once monthly I gather my meager earnings and return to them—today being that appointed day.”

He concluded with a sound like his final breath.

Another ancient figure abruptly hauled himself upright. His legs curved in perfect O-shapes, making even standing appear a torturous endeavor.

“I am James Cook of Bayswater. Born as John, I renamed myself James, as John Cook proved both common and awkward on the tongue. In childhood, I sold newspapers through the mornings and trapped rats in sewers by night. At twelve, I concealed my age until fifteen, fearing the higher wages of adulthood would cost me employment. When deception became impossible, I carried cargo at the Thames docks until last year, when ships ceased to enter. Then I twisted ship’s biscuits at the workhouse. My hands are now flayed raw, and these legs—bent from daily labor in oak braces—are permanently deformed. With my body thus ruined and unfit for further toil, I sought after ten years’ absence to return to my family’s embrace and offer what small services I still might render.”

His testimony complete, he collapsed to the floor like a marionette with severed strings.

“I am Anthony Green of Osney. Each Monday at dawn I board the train for the textile mill, dwell in the factory dormitory through the week, and return home Saturday evening.”

“I am Peter Jabling from St. Clement’s Street. I worked in a cutting factory until losing my fingers, whereupon I was dismissed. Unable to remain in company housing, I have no recourse but to return home.”

Following these initial testimonies, elderly voices erupted throughout the carriage. Yet these “elderly” men were, I realized with horror, scarcely thirty years of age. Time, like London’s officials, reserved its cruelest exactions for the poor alone.

I deliberately averted my gaze and continued forward.

“Marie?”

“I… I wish to remain. I want to hear their stories.”

I seized her hand and pulled her alongside me. Marie’s substantial form followed with reluctance.

“Do not be drawn to the dead.”

We exited carriage nine.

Ah, now even color had vanished utterly from the world.

The train hurtled across infinity itself—an attribute only the cosmos and eternity should possess.

We stepped onto the terrace of carriage ten. Marie continued glancing backward, clearly troubled by what we had witnessed, but I could afford no such distraction.

The door handle radiated heat so intense it seared through my leather gloves. Such scorching temperature seemed impossible—beyond what even a raging inferno inside could produce.

I clenched my eyes shut and violently wrenched the door open.

The interior revealed pandemonium beyond comprehension. Even the deepest circle of hell could not match this abomination.

Living passengers had liquefied while still conscious, their molten flesh fusing and intertwining into a singular abhorrent mass. These amalgamated tissues—for whom individual identity had become meaningless—shared a collective agony, their mouths emitting nothing but primal lamentations and guttural moans. The unholy symphony produced by this repugnant, pitiful choir created such perfect dissonance that it threatened to shatter the sanity of any who heard it.

I stepped into the carriage.

The soles of my shoes adhered to the viscous flesh beneath with sickening suction. Still, I pressed forward. Like a moth entranced by deadly flame, I lurched inexorably toward the carriage’s far end. With each footfall, the crushed flesh-choir harmonized in tortured screams, and I—their unwitting conductor—navigated through this grotesque orchestral nightmare.

At last, at the terminus of this flesh-encrusted chamber, I grasped a gleaming stone tablet.

I brushed away the still-warm tissue clinging to its surface.

As I had somehow known I would find, etched upon its face was the numeral “8” in luminous green script.

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