Bullet Train Disaster

  For the musicians, groupies and roadies of the Ginninderra Wind Orchestra. Rock on!

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  30:00

  28:15

  26:50

  26:50

  24:03

  01:05

  21:20

  21:20

  18:39

  15:22

  15:22

  11:05

  11:05

  07:34

  03:40

  03:40

  00:45

  10:30

  10:01

  10:01

  08:13

  08:13

  07:52

  07:52

  05:30

  02:25

  02:25

  13:11

  09:29

  11:11

  08:24

  08:24

  19:09

  03:03

  03:03

  04:41

  04:41

  03:10

  09:29

  09:20

  09:20

  13:11

  07:03

  03:10

  07:03

  04:03

  04:03

  02:10

  02:10

  04:50

  04:50

  02:33

  02:33

  01:46

  02:20

  02:20

  03:09

  03:09

  02:18

  02:18

  01:02

  02:48

  02:48

  01:41

  01:41

  52,560,106:55

  01:05

  06:13

  10:01

  00:43

  00:43

  09:21

  09:21

  01:46

  01:46

  Copyright

  It doesn’t look like any train you’ve ever seen. It has the usual parts—sliding doors, plastic windows, massive, grinding wheels—but it’s facing up. The mountain is so steep that the rails are almost vertical. How is that supposed to work? It’s only one carriage long, but still. Can trains even go uphill?

  Despite the strangeness, it seems familiar. As if you have taken a ride on it before. Unsettled, you glance at your watch. Wasn’t the train supposed to depart an hour ago?

  The other passengers seem as baffled as you feel. They all look as though they’ve just woken up, and are surprised to find themselves here. Everyone except Pigeon.

  ‘This is going to be awesome,’ Pigeon says, hopping from foot to foot on the platform. Her brown boots are too big for her and her woollen jacket is inside out, showing off the cool patterns in the lining. Her purple-streaked hair sticks out in tufts from under her beanie.

  Her real name is Paige, but everyone calls her Pigeon because she’s curious about everything. You’ve been friends with her forever. When you won the ticket—‘You and a friend can be first to ride the new bullet train up Mount Grave!’—it only took two seconds to decide who to invite.

  ‘You reckon it’s safe?’ you ask.

  ‘Of course! They wouldn’t be letting people on if it wasn’t.’

  You’re not so sure. The website looked very professional, with pictures of everything from the train conductor’s controls, to the lookout on the mountaintop. But now that you’re here, you see that the staff bustling back and forth all wear running shoes. The security guards have bloodshot eyes and rumpled uniforms. The signs on the walls have spelling mistakes. And Mount Grave looks really, really high. Black clouds coil around the peak like smoke. The cliffs are leopard-spotted with snow. In the stunted trees halfway up, crows dart from one withered branch to another.

  ‘The train has never had a single crash,’ Pigeon adds.

  ‘This is the first trip,’ you say.

  ‘You know what I mean. They’ve tested it.’

  You’re not sure how she knows that, but you say nothing.

  ‘All aboard!’ the conductor yells, his black cap low over his eyes, a manic grin on his round face. He sounds like he’s been looking forward to saying those words.

  A dark rumbling fills the air. The platform vibrates beneath your feet. Maybe it’s the engine of the train warming up. Maybe not.

  Pigeon joins the queue of passengers. ‘Are you coming, or what?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ you say.

  Go here.

  You line up behind Pigeon. Ahead of you, an old woman glares at the train and tightens a silk scarf over her drooping mouth. A lanky man in a broad-brimmed hat fiddles with a bulky video camera. A boy about your age is rugged up in ski gear and carrying a snowboard. Ice clogs the creases of his outfit, as though this is his second trip up the mountain today.

  Pigeon seems more excited than any of the other passengers. When the train gets to the top, she plans to search for some super-rare—and super-deadly—giant ticks which supposedly live up there. She thinks she’ll be famous if she can prove they exist.

  A burly security guard glowers at you from a distance, one hand on his earpiece. You look around, but no-one is behind you. It’s definitely you the guard is looking at. Why? You haven’t done anything.

  You nudge Pigeon. ‘See that guy?’

  ‘What guy?’ she asks, too loudly.

  ‘Shh. The security guard.’

  By the time Pigeon looks, the guard has already turned away. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was looking at us.’

  She grins. ‘What did you steal?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘I’m kidding.’ She elbows your ribs. ‘Relax. Soon you’ll be on top of the tallest mountain in the world. He won’t be able to see you from up there.’

  You frown. ‘Isn’t Mount Everest taller?’

  ‘Depends how you measure it. Everest is higher above sea level.’

  ‘How do you measure it?’

  She flashes a wicked grin. ‘By how long it takes to hit the ground if you fall off the top.’

  Another guard—a beak-nosed woman with watery eyes—takes Pigeon’s ticket and says, ‘Thank you, Miss Nguyen. Your seat is by the window, five rows up on your left.’

  Pigeon steps into the carriage and disappears around the corner.

  You reach into your pocket for your ticket.

  A hand grabs your arm. It’s the beefy security guard who was staring at you before.

  ‘Are you Taylor?’ he asks.

  If you say, ‘Neil Taylor, that’s me,’ go here.

  If you tell him, ‘No, I’m Shelley Black,’ go here.

  ‘Neil Taylor, that’s me,’ you say. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The guard sighs. ‘No, I’m looking for Taylor Morton. Do you know him?’

  You shake your head and glance at the rest of the queue. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the guard admits.

  He says something else, but you’re distracted. A man in a brown golf cap is skulking around the platform. Could he be a passenger? If so, why isn’t he getting on board?

  The man sees you looking and walks briskly away.

  ‘Who is this Taylor Morton?’ you ask. ‘And why is there so much security?’

  ‘Because of the bandits,’ the guard says. ‘This train is made from valuable metals. In fact—’ A nervous look crosses his face, as if he knows he’s said too much. ‘Just get on board, Mr Taylor. You’re holding up the line.’

  You shuffle up the stairs into the carriage. The inside is completely bizarre. The slope is so steep that there are stairs instead of an aisle. The seats have complicated harnesses, like you’d expect to see on a rocket ship. Passengers are throwing gear into overhead lockers, where it won’t bounce ar
ound while the train is moving. The whole carriage smells like bleach. You wonder if one of the test operators threw up and the floor needed to be cleaned. Climbing the stair-aisle feels the same as approaching the top of a waterslide.

  You find Pigeon about halfway up the carriage, fiddling with her harness. ‘Stupid seatbelt,’ she mutters. ‘Why does it need so many buckles?’

  ‘Because the train goes at 300 kilometres per hour,’ you say.

  She jumps. ‘Neil! Don’t sneak up on me like that.’

  ‘It’s true—I’m a ninja.’

  She glances at her watch. ‘Pretty slow, for a ninja. What took you so long?’

  Turn here.

  ‘No,’ you tell the guard. ‘I’m Shelley Black.’

  ‘Oh.’ He releases your arm. ‘Sorry, Miss Black. May I see your ticket?’

  You hand it over. He inspects it.

  ‘That person you were with …’

  ‘She isn’t Taylor either,’ you say. Clearly he’s looking for someone he’s never met.

  The guard looks at the ticket checker. She confirms this with a nod.

  ‘Who’s Taylor?’ you ask the guard. ‘Why are you looking for her?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just got a message: Tell Taylor Morton not to get on the train. But none of the female passengers are named Taylor.’ He frowns. ‘Taylor is a girl’s name, right?’

  ‘Not always,’ you say.

  He groans and gives your ticket back. ‘Never mind. Have a safe journey.’

  He walks away, shaking his head.

  ‘Why is there so much security?’ you ask the ticket checker.

  ‘Defence department restrictions,’ she says.

  You look around. You don’t see anyone who looks military. ‘What does the defence department have to do with this train?’

  ‘That’s classified.’ The ticket checker waves you onto the train.

  The inside of the carriage is surreal. The slope is so steep that there are stairs instead of an aisle. Lighting strips line the ceiling, like on an aeroplane. You can smell rocket fuel sizzling in the engine. Heating vents drone above the seats.

  You’re puffed by the time you’ve climbed the stairs up to your row, where Pigeon is fiddling with her five-point harness. ‘Stupid seatbelt,’ she mutters. ‘Why does it need so many straps?’

  ‘I think we’re about to find out,’ you say.

  She jumps. ‘Shelley! Where have you been?’

  Go here.

  ‘That security guard I told you about,’ you say. ‘He wanted to ask me a question.’

  ‘What question?’

  You’re about to respond when the conductor’s voice crackles over the PA. ‘We’re almost ready to get underway,’ he says. ‘In tests, this train was able to accelerate to its full speed in thirty-six seconds, but we’ll take four minutes instead to minimise the risk of, uh …’ He mumbles something.

  ‘Did he just say “broken neck”?’ Pigeon whispers.

  ‘Or “smoking wreck”—’ A roar drowns out the rest of your reply as the train lurches into motion. The force pushes you down into your chair. Other passengers scream. Now you know why they call it a bullet train—it feels as if the carriage has been fired from a gun. You’re hurtling up the mountain at a dangerous speed.

  The platform vanishes from the windows. A dramatic skyline swooshes into view, littered with the spikes of other brutal mountains. It feels like your stomach has been crushed into a tiny ball.

  You think you see something between the trees. A dark shape against the snow. A person—no. Too tall, too wide to be a person.

  The figure is gone before you can get a better look.

  ‘We’re going really fast!’ Pigeon yells over the thundering wheels.

  ‘I noticed,’ you shout.

  The train swerves left up a bend in the tracks. Some commotion up the front of the carriage catches your eye. The kid wearing ski clothes evidently wasn’t buckled in properly. The turn has knocked him out of his chair, and now he’s clinging to the seatback as the train goes faster and faster. His eyes are wide with terror. If he loses his grip, he’ll go flying through the carriage.

  ‘Help!’ he screams.

  One of his hands slips off the chair. He’s going to fall.

  The guy seated next to him grabs for the boy’s hand, but the angle isn’t right. He can’t quite reach with his seatbelt fastened, and he isn’t willing to release it.

  You could catch the boy as he hurtles past—but you’d have to unbuckle your own seatbelt to stretch out far enough. What do you do?

  If you release your buckle to catch the falling boy, go here.

  If you stay belted in while you reach for him, go here.

  ‘Me?’ Pigeon demands. ‘Why am I going first?’

  You don’t want to leave your oldest friend trapped in a shrinking carriage as a giant blade hacks off more and more of it. But you can’t find the words to explain that right now.

  ‘Just go!’ you shout.

  The guillotine rises out of sight. Trusting you, Pigeon throws herself through the gap—

  Just in time. The enormous blade comes crashing back down, slicing off another segment of the train and narrowly missing Pigeon’s feet. She lands on all fours between the rails outside.

  It’s your turn. The guillotine rises up. You run and leap towards the outside world—

  The blade swooshes down from above you, shrieking as it rips through the carriage walls.

  Something hits your foot—

  And then the ground rushes up to meet you.

  Wham! You find yourself lying facedown against the gravel in the rail bed, breathing heavily. Your face hurts. And your hands, and your knees. But you’re alive.

  You twist your head and look back at your feet, making sure they’re still there. They are, but the sole of one shoe has been sliced off. If you had jumped a split-second later you would have stumps for ankles.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Pigeon asks.

  You nod, too shaken to speak. Behind you the chopper is noisily turning the rest of the train into valuable scrap metal.

  ‘Hey!’ Pigeon yells. She’s looking up and waving her arms. ‘Down here!’

  You follow her gaze. A helicopter circles above you, but it’s not the bandits. The word POLICE is printed on the side.

  You stand on aching legs and join Pigeon, shouting and waving. It looks like everything’s going to be OK.

  You survived! There are ten other ways to escape the danger—try to find them all!

  Just as the boy loses his grip on the seatback, you release your own buckle. The harness pops open.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Pigeon shrieks.

  You ignore her. The boy hurtles past, scrabbling at the air. You reach out for him.

  Success! You grab his wrist and he grabs yours—but instead of hauling him to safety, you get pulled out of your seat. Suddenly you’re both tumbling down through the carriage, sweeping dizzily past the other passengers, the universe lurching around you.

  The boy slams into the rear door of the carriage, shoulder first. You crash into him. His ski gear dulls the impact, but the wind is still knocked out of you.

  The train keeps accelerating. The force pins you down. The boy tries to push you off him, but as he moves, one of his hands bumps the EMERGENCY OPEN button.

  ‘No!’ you cry, but too late. The door whooshes open. You both tumble out of the carriage into the cold daylight. You glimpse the tracks rushing past beneath you, before—

  Wham! You and the boy smash down onto the rails. The impact leaves you stunned, your stomach swirling and your ears ringing.

  You’re lucky. Because you were flying backwards as the train was speeding forwards, you didn’t hit the tracks very fast—and because you landed on top of the boy again, his protective clothing saved your life.

  Still, when the world stops spinning, your whole body hurts. Every centimetre of skin feels bruised.

  ‘I say!’ the boy wheezes. His voice b
ounces off the distant peak. He sounds British, and a bit posh.

  You look at him. He’s sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky, a big grin on his red-cheeked face. He has a straight nose, narrow shoulders and high, thin eyebrows that almost look pencilled on.

  ‘I say!’ he says again. ‘Incredible.’

  You sit up, groaning as all your joints protest. ‘We nearly died!’ you say.

  ‘Piffle.’ The boy waves a hand. ‘We’re fine.’

  He stands up and brushes some snow off his clothes.

  ‘Fine?’ You gesture at the wasteland of dead trees and frozen rocks around you. The skeleton of a wild animal is sprawled in the distance. ‘We’re stranded halfway up a mountain!’

  ‘And me without my snowboard,’ the boy agrees gloomily. ‘Can you imagine riding these rails back down the hill? It would be marvellous!’

  Your teeth chatter. Your jacket is too thin to keep out the cold. How long will you survive out here?

  You reach into your pocket for your phone. But it’s shattered into a thousand jagged pieces which prick your fingertips. Your compass seems to be intact, but other than telling you which way north is, it won’t do much good.

  ‘I should introduce myself, I suppose,’ the boy says. He sticks out his gloved hand. ‘Taylor Morton, at your service.’

  Go here.

  You fling out a hand, trying to catch the falling boy. The seatbelt bites into your shoulders and hips. But even with your fingertips outstretched, the boy remains out of reach. He tumbles past, a blur of hair and clothes and wild eyes, before he slams into the back of the carriage.

  ‘Hit the brakes!’ you scream. ‘Stop the train!’

  Too late. The rear door whooshes open—the boy must have hit the emergency button when he fell. He rolls out into the daylight and disappears.

  The wind roars at the open door. The brakes squeal, and you’re thrown forwards against the seatbelt. Everyone is yelling.

  The train was going so fast that by the time it eventually stops, you feel like you must be kilometres away from where the boy fell out. You’re halfway up the mountain. If you weren’t so scared, the view from the window would be enchanting.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Pigeon asks. She’s breathing heavily. Some spit is dotted on her chin. Hopefully it isn’t yours—you were screaming pretty loudly.