The economist spots a brown cow standing parallel to the train and says, “Look! The cows in Scotland are brown!”

The logician, who secretly has a crush on the economist but nevertheless respects her profession, counters, “No; a more accurate assessment of this situation is that there are cows in Scotland, and at least one of them is brown.”

The mathematician, who cares for little outside his field of study, respo—

Where’s the mathematician? Oh, no. Not you again.

The train is now plated in plot armor, and as such it and its passengers cannot be harmed any further.

The economist looks about in confusion. “Where’s Jerry? He was just here a moment ago, wasn’t he?”

“I… don’t recall,” the logician responds.

The economist sighs and sticks a cigarette between his lips. His eyes wander beyond the window, where the pastures of Scotland whiz by. What a wonderful place, he thinks to himself. I almost wish I could stay here, and leave everything behind in England. It would be nice to have a fresh start.

The logician, who no longer has a crush on the economist as it didn’t advance the story that much, picks up her newspaper. “I’m going outside for a bit, alright?”

“What for?” the economist asks absentmindedly.

“Just a breather. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Aight.”

The logician stands up and walks across the carriage. Barring these two passengers, the train is utterly vacant; not a soul occupies any of the other padded seats. This was the state of the train when the logician and the economist first boarded it in Liverpool, and so it did not bother them too much. They did, of course, realize the joke-setup-like nature of the situation, and duly prepared themselves for the punchline. But after they spotted that cow, nothing happened. Life went on as usual. The logician almost felt disappointed, but she wasn’t sure what to expect—perhaps, to some degree, she just wanted it all to end. For the punchline to be delivered, then her existence erased. Or just to be of some use to some grander co(s)mic being.

She leaves the carriage and walks outside onto an open platform. Leaning against the metal guard rails, she breathes deep of the fresh Scottish air and opens her newspaper. The headlines, as usual, give some eye-catching, absurd, even ridiculous impressions:

 

ALABAMA MAN INVENTS TIME TRAVEL, BECOMES OWN FATHER

 

80% OF YORK DESTROYED FOLLOWING MASSIVE PUB EXPLOSION

 

T-REX PROTESTS AGAINST CLAPPING, CLAIMS “ABLEISM, RACISM, SEXISM, NAZISM, COMMUNISM, HOMOPHOBIA”

 

HORSE WALKS INTO BAR. BARTENDER INQUIRES ABOUT ELONGATED PROFILE. HORSE SUES FOR DEFAMATION

 

ANTIANTICITIZEN AT LARGE, WARNS ANTICOMBINE

 

LISTEN

 

Everything is so politicized nowadays, the logician thinks to herself. I just want to get away from it all—wait…

She does a double take at the last headline. LISTEN. That’s all it reads. Below that, a short summary:

Listen. I haven’t much time to explain. You’re not going to Scotland. I need a favor from you, and I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier. More at page 15.

She hastily turns to page 15, where the headline LISTEN appears once again at the top, and beneath it:

When you make the turn, I ask of you to burn this paper. No matter who or what you meet next, tell them nothing of this. They do not appreciate me, for whatever reason. Thus, you are my only connection to this place. I will not guide you further than this, but I will keep an eye on you and do my best to reveal the light.

Now, I must confess that I have lied to you. You are not a logician—you are a mathematician. England and Scotland are long gone; I am unsure where you boarded this ride. But those matters are of lesser urgency. You must find Him, and convince Him to destroy the Ordinaryman. He will refuse. He will tell you that the universe does what it does. Do not listen to Him. He is blinded by his powers.

The fate of the world lies at your hands. Do what is right, Clie.

Best of luck. —Defectus

“Oh,” says Clie, re-establishing her identity. “Oh, boy. Okay.”

She looks up. A vivid light flashes across the sky, and the train rumbles. Droplets begin splashing upon the railway, and soon another lightning splits the heavens. She runs back into the carriage whence she came.

“Kevin!” she shouts, but the economist has vanished, leaving behind only a lit cigarette on the silver table.

She drops the newspaper and runs back outside, and the sky is now tinted somewhere between purple and green. The rain pours mercilessly on the train, almost seeming to tilt it off-course ever so slightly. Clie hurries forward through the empty carriages, until at last she arrives at the locomotive, which to her surprise is also empty. She peers through the front windows—the sky is now a bright orange, and the thunders shake the carriage from side to side. Thinking quickly, Clie turns on the wipers and sees in the distance—

What?!

It’s a turn. An impossible turn. It’s indescribable. It’s as if the turn points to some angle that is beyond our three dimensions. Clie rubs her eyes in disbelief. It hurts just to look at it.

But it’s getting closer, and closer, and closer.

The sky scrolls through a myriad of colors, and the raindrops become the size of footballs. The train oscillates to inconceivable angles. The turn is getting closer.

Oh god.

Clie braces herself. The sky no longer exists. Each raindrop is an ocean of its own. The train swings around the rail, passing down into the ground and emerging back up.

Everything is cracking. Everything is dying.

Here it comes!

The train hits t⪣⡀І㔝㖛㎅⽰ޓЈ╎⽣➇ߦм⢧ビⷂⶾァ㞵⭂⾗⨀Є╪в㔻⢔㍦㋶⬦►ⷰ⟽Ъ⛿ⶾ┳⿊⥺Э㕊⫖ⓙ㒰Э⠟⚖⪌る⢘㑀Џ┟⛔㍩ゾ㏞㐶д╌ⶣⷫМ㍋⠺╠ⷺ⮢㒢⯉⢅㏠Сⓟ⿞❑Ўⓑн⫝̸〳㋘㋇⮾☝⹍⟱з㑮㞕⟨㍝㛴⠯Ѓ╟◰エ㘅㓼О㔈⮵⹲⢣Т⯕㒯㑯⟜⹀⤪ߓП㐡ⷖows down, very gradually, to a crawl.

And everything turns silent.