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(See Jon Berthal or Woody Harrelson) It started with two trains and a hammer. The second train had a manifest of four hundred and eighty two people going about their lives. Geriatrics, mostly. Sleeping, chatting, reading magazines as opposed to staring into insatgram, tic tok, ect. It was the 371 from New York to LA. (Include proper details later) None of them knew that they were all going to die. Do not misconstrue; This is not a James Bond novel, and I'm no hero. The hammer wasn't to knock off a junction seperating individual cars; it was for when I walked into the conductors cabinet and bashed the back of his skull in. It sounded like a watermelon being thrown on the floor, but we were on a train and the sound was muffled. How did I get in? Easier than you would think. I'd done my research. I purchased a uniform that closely resembled the conductors, and walked right into the den. Boop! Brain salad. I may have taken a couple extra swings just on principle. I'd planned in advance and pulled the packet of baby wipes out of my pocket, cleaned myself off, and then changed out of my blood spattered suit and stripped the conductor of his uniform (black hides blood very easily.) Got dressed and then headed back out. Sound ridiculous? You'd be surprised how unobservant people are. Once seated calmly back in my seat, I pulled out a pack of thick cigars. I rarely smoked them except for special occasions like the birth of a child. They were for celebrations. Train one, where one Mr. James T. Wilson- who has now been properly robbed of his pulse in train two-was the conductor. Intoxicated, he failed to perform his duties, which lead to the derailment of the train in an accident that killed my wife and daughter. I took a sniff at the cigar, knowing it would be my last, but this was a celebration. The murderer was dead, and I'd get to see my family soon. I pulled out my lighter, lit up, took a long pull, and exhaled. "Hey, buddy," a deep voice yelled behind me. "You can't smoke in here!" "You sure?" I asked, not turning my head and neslting back in my seat. "Because I'm pretty sure I am." I heard some heavy stomping steps come up behind me. I exhaled another puff. Big guy. Not geriatric, but older. Stance says ex-military, and not the friendly kind. He' glaring at me with his hands on his hips the way my father used to when I was a kid. His chest puffed, and I could tell that he was about to snatch the cigar out of my hand. I stared at him blandly. I knew that we were all going to die. I'd switched the bi-rails a different direction that lead to a dead end. The old guy, hardened, must have seen something in my eyes: what's up, Doc? I look calm, but I'm about to leap up, gouge your eyes,break your arithtic knee He backs off. There's a lot murmuring from the other passengers. I'm okay with this. They don't know it, but they're going to get to meet my wife, Jude, and my daughter, Toni.They're also going to get to see the ones that they've lost. About halfway through my cigar, I heard a shuffling walking up my way. Old gent, wizened. White hair, white beard. Plops himself down in the seat next to me. Doesn't waft away the smoke. Pulls out a can of chewing tobacco and puts a pinch in. (Think Hershal from WD) Were both quiet. After a few minutes he says "Names Jimbo." I nod. " Names Brian."...That wasn't my name. My name is Alex. Jimbo is a good ol county boy, and he knows I'm full of shit.