The Railroad Station with a Blaring Siren (1)

I sent the last email and let out a breath of pure relief. When I checked the clock, it was past midnight, and I was the only one left in the office.

This is what a day often looks like for an editor on the eve of a publication. Evenings and weekends are a given loss; a full day of staring at manuscripts leaves your eyes bleary, your back stiff, and your brain lightly scorched, as if something in it had quietly burned out.

And yet, regrettably, I still love this job.

Every person has their own story. An editor sifts through all those tales — ordinary or strange, good or bad — finds the ones worth reading, and binds them into books. Then hands them to readers, so that everyone fumbling through a life they're living for the first time might get by a little better.

Yes, if there weren't at least that much satisfaction in it, who would do such grueling work? Especially at this hour, on this pitiful salary, when I have to take the night bus instead of a taxi.

By the time I gathered my things and stepped outside, it was already one in the morning. I could hear myself wondering why I even bothered going home just to sleep and come straight back — but I had a meeting with my author tomorrow. Just because that author shows up in slippers every single time doesn't mean I have to do the same. So I'd go home, wash up, shave, and dig out some presentable clothes instead of this worn-out hoodie.

I was mulling over whether I even owned an ironed shirt when my feet stopped.

……Where am I?

Up until a moment ago, I had been walking down the familiar road with the bus stop on it. Now I was standing in a brightly lit passageway — the kind that connects to a subway station or an underground shopping arcade.

Sure, I'd been walking half-asleep, but I had no memory of wandering into a place like this.

I looked around, then turned back.

"Huh……?"

Somehow, impossibly, there was a wall behind me. Given that I'd been walking forward the whole time, it made no sense — not in time, not in space.

Half-doubting, I touched the wall.

Thud.

It really was a wall. Cold cement, immovable, unopenable.

I stood there like an idiot for a moment, then fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my phone.

"What the hell — why won't this thing work……?"

Every signal indicator on my phone was dead, and the date and time display had gone haywire. Month 19, Day 50, 07:16? What kind of error was even that?

I tapped at the phone-turned-brick, then touched my own neck. Warm, thankfully. Apparently I hadn't dropped dead from overwork after all.

Then what on earth was this? Teleportation? Entry into another world? Some kind of dimensional trap? Half-remembered urban legends from the internet flickered through my mind.

Come on. This has to be a joke, right? I still have work tomorrow.

Nothing made sense, but I turned around anyway. Unlike the wall behind me, the path ahead continued on. Whatever this place was, I needed to get out, so I walked.

Following the corner where the passage bent left, I found a staircase. I jogged up it — and a new space opened up before me.

Now what is this place……?

I saw the interior of a modern building. The space was broad and utterly deserted, without a single soul in it. The high ceiling was made of glass, and a blue sky shone through it.

A blue sky? What are you talking about — do you have any idea what time it is?

I lifted my phone to check. Then — damn it. Right. It's bricked.

I put the useless thing away and looked around properly. High ceiling, marble floors, a row of shops along the wall. At a glance, it might have been a department store — except there were trains painted on the pillars.

This was the waiting hall of a railroad station.

I looked around again, trying to find the station's name. There happened to be a signboard nearby.

But I couldn't read it.

Seriously? Now I can't read a giant sign right in front of me?

The letters on the signboard were unmistakably Hangul. And yet no matter how I stared, they refused to resolve into meaning. Only when they flitted past at the edge of my vision did they register as something vaguely Korean. An editor — a man who eats words for a living — unable to read.

I focused desperately, willing the letters to make sense. And then a piercing pain flared deep behind my eyes.

"Ugh!"

The moment I flinched and clapped a hand over my eyes, a loud voice rang out from somewhere.

"Hey! You! Can't you hear me? I said, where is this!"

Startled, I turned toward the voice. As I stepped out from behind the pillar's blind spot, I spotted the ticket booth — and in front of its glass partition, a middle-aged woman was in the middle of a full-blown tantrum.

"I've been wandering around for ages! And why won't you answer me? Aren't you an employee here?"

From the way she talked, she seemed to be in roughly the same situation as me. Heartened by the sight of another human being, I started toward her.

Then, without warning, the woman jammed her arm through the slot at the bottom of the ticket booth's partition.

"Are you ignoring a person talking to your face!?"

She appeared to be going for the collar of the employee sitting across the counter.

Startled by her audacity, I quickened my pace. But at that very moment, something long and rope-like slithered out of the hole her arm had disappeared into.

Shhhk—

It thrashed in the air for an instant, then spun like a propeller — and sliced the woman's head clean off.

Fwip— THUNK!

I tracked the round thing as it bounced away, then looked forward again. The woman was still standing, headless. Unable even to fall, she sprayed blood in violent pulses, like a fire hydrant with its cap blown off.

My mind couldn't process what I was seeing. But my body understood the danger before my brain did, and I was already running. My nails scraped the floor as I did what an ostrich does — hid my head and pressed myself flat against the nearest pillar.

What — what is this. It's a dream. It has to be a dream. This is a dream, right?

At the threshold of panic, I clamped a hand over my mouth. And then something gripped my shoulder.

"Mmph……!"

My heart nearly dropped out of my chest, but I didn't scream. I didn't have the breath for it — I was too busy gasping. Instead, my mouth simply fell open, and from beside me came a sound demanding silence.

"Shh!"

I forced my head to turn, and there was a man. He had one hand locked around my shoulder, and his other hand — one dark finger extended — pressed against his own lips.

In that position, he asked quietly, "How long have you been here?"

My mouth flapped, but no answer came out.

"Don't tell me you're new?"

I had nothing to say to that either. Forget whether I was new or used — I couldn't even fathom how "arrived" applied to this situation.

At my hapless expression, the man clicked his tongue and tried again. "Hey. You did your military service, right?"

"What? Yes. Yes."

"Then get a grip. Unless you don't want to die here."

The man firing those words at me looked about my age. Casual clothes, a piercing in one ear, half his face hidden behind glasses — and still unmistakably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handsome. He could have been some celebrity I simply didn't recognize.

I was studying him when a heavy, rolling sound made me jump all over again.

Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. THUD—!

The sound came from behind the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pillar. The man peeked around it at the noise, and after a moment's hesitation, I leaned out too.

Blood was still trickling across the floor in front of the ticket booth. But the dead woman was gone.

In her place, a man in a business suit was giving the puddle an energetic, thorough mopping.

A cleaner? His outfit was a little odd, but the role seemed about right. Beside him stood a cleaning cart fitted with a large trash bin.

And yet something was wrong. No — everything was wrong. Someone had just died, so why was he cleaning instead of calling the police? And why was that cleaner smiling so brightly while he wiped up the blood?

A groan escaped me at the grotesque sight. "What — what is that……?"

"No idea. Same as you."

"Where is this?"

"Don't know that either. I was heading home after practice, and suddenly I was here."

None of that made any sense. But I'd lived it too.

"I was on my way home from work," I said.

"Sounds about the same as the others."

"There were other people?"

"They're dead now."

"How many—"

"Two."

When my face went ghost-pale, the man smiled and added, "But hey, now we can live. This thing we found earlier—"

He was reaching into his pocket when a roar crashed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down from the ceiling.

WEEEEEEEOOOOON—!

A siren. I clapped my hands over my ears at a blare that felt like it would rupture my eardrums. Beside me, the man was grimacing and holding his ears too. Mercifully, the sound died down almost as quickly as it had started.

"That damn thing's been screaming its head off all morning."

Once the air went quiet again, the man clicked his tongue and dug back into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and held it out to me — an ordinary tri-fold leaflet, the kind you'd find anywhere. As I took it, he spoke quickly.

"So, look there, you see—"

I was looking down at the leaflet when his sentence cut off strangely. So I raised my head and looked to my side.

Crunch-krunch-CRACK—!

The man beside me was being crushed like a rubber doll — the kind children stuff and stuff and stuff until, at long last, they break it. The human-shaped kind.

Crunch— snap, snap, splinter—!

He kept being pressed down, down, until at last he was flattened like a can stomped upright under a boot.

Sploosh—!

His blood welled across the floor and soaked into my shoes. At almost the same instant came the sound of wheels dragging. I turned toward it and the cleaner was smiling, right there beside me.

The suited cleaner stepped past me, hoisted up what had been a man, and dropped it into the trash bin on his cart.

Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. THUD—!

Exactly the sound I'd heard before.

By the time my mind reassembled itself, I was running.

Every person has their own story. I was no different. But the story I'd built for my life had been a predictable, peaceable thing — one whose direction I could more or less see coming. It had never been like this. Grotesque. Merciless.

So why? Why did I have to go through this?

As my head churned with nothing but question marks, a few short sentences drifted through my mind.

Ah. Maybe that really is how it works. The woman's head simply flew off. The man simply got crushed. It simply happened, and meaning doesn't matter — no, there probably was no meaning to begin with.

Then what about me? Should I just nod — well, it simply happened — as I die in some bizarre new way too? It would certainly be easier that way. Death might really be kinder than I think.

No. Don't make me laugh. You're not dead until you're dead. If I'm going to die anyway, that's all the more reason to try anything. Nothing is more pathetic than reckless flailing — except not even flailing at all.

I crammed one more breath of air into my already overloaded lungs and, with great effort, forced out the breath I'd been holding.

Earlier, that man had said we could live. And in my grip, I still held the leaflet he'd handed me.

I unfolded it. The text still didn't come easily — but as I kept picking through it, I found a passage inside ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the leaflet that leapt out, clear as day. In writing I could read, unmistakably, it said:

I was determined to survive this, whatever it took.

And yet at the same time, all I could think was: Okay — and what exactly am I supposed to do?