Dead Zone

by johannespunkt

The train slows to a halt in the middle of one of the few dead zones left in the country, all fields of wheat and poppy. We get out our phones in vain, then there is nervous chatter to fill the space the engine rumble left.

A sextet of police officers comes in through the door calmly, wielding their instruments. The front man points – “Him,” he says, baton a millimetre from someone’s nose. “And him. And her.”

These people are led to the last cart, that cart is detached. The train starts rolling again and those left exhale with relief.