Free False Sight by Dan Krokos

darkness. After another hundred feet, my beam catches the broad wooden back side of a fourwheeled cart. Like the kind I imagine coal miners used but bigger, big enough to hold all of us and then some. The huge wheels are rust-brown but solid. We circle the cart, shining our flashlights on it from every angle. The sides are made of old, gnarled wooden planks banded together by thick iron strips.
“No engine,” Rhys says.
“Would it have an engine?” Peter says.
Rhys leans over the side of the cart and shines his flashlight around. “No mechanism to propel us manually, so yeah, I’d suspect an engine.”
The cart looks old but whole. Not degraded in any way. I swing my legs over the side and plant my feet on metal rusted to the color of my hair.
And the cart begins to move.

12
“
    G

et out!” Peter says.
“You get in!” I reply.
    No time for them to argue. Peter and Rhys sprint after me—I’m accelerating quicker than I expected—and I pull them up and over the back end.
    Within seconds we’re traveling too fast to jump off. The wind buffets us and we sit down, heads just above the sides of the cart, barreling into darkness. The wheels howl and screech on the track, vibrating the cart’s frame, making my teeth buzz. The ground is still flat; the cart is definitely moving under its own power.
    “We didn’t think this one through,” Peter shouts. “Did you want to walk the rest of the way?” I shout back, hoping this was the right decision. I try to relax the tension in my muscles, but with only darkness ahead it feels like we could drop off the rails and into an underground cavern at any second.
    Rhys says, “If Nina made this trip, we’re in the right place. Soon we’ll find out why. Or maybe the cart will come off the rails and dash our heads against the walls.” He laughs, but we don’t. His face grows serious as he aims the flashlight under his chin. Supposed to laugh in times like these, he says, too quiet to hear over the noise, but I read his lips.
    The cart screams, the wind tears at my hair. Portions of the tunnel are lighted now. I see them in the distance as glowing yellow specks, and the next second we’re there, and the next they’re behind us, dwindling to darkness. I can’t even guess how fast we move. For a while I kneel at the front, hands grip- ping the front wall, staring forward into the black. The wail of metal on metal knocks any thoughts out of my head before they can fully form.
    I lean back against the cart and settle down. It’s almost comfortable, minus the hair lashing my eyes. To my left, Peter strobes with light every ten seconds. His face is hard and determined, watching the way ahead of us.
    The cart vibrates under me, rocking. A hundred miles an hour, at least. More. And it doesn’t end. We don’t drop off into a cavern, and I stop expecting us to. We’re going somewhere, that much is clear.
    I stay awake for what feels like an hour, but nothing changes. We keep flying on the rails, but the route has become smooth. No curves to press us into the walls of the cart. Just a steady hum, a subtle tremor I feel with my entire body. The cart is doing its best to lull me to sleep.
    Peter touches my arm lightly, startling me. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll let you know if something changes.”
I nod, grateful, because I don’t know when I’ll get to close my eyes again. Somehow I drift into something half-aware and half-asleep.
    I’m outside a log cabin nestled against the sheer face of a cliff. I remember this place. We were doing a training exercise in the national park and came across this cabin. Noah convinced me to go inside, because we were both stiff with the freezing winds. Inside there was a fire going, but no one around. We shared our first kiss next to the flames, one side of my face bak- ing in the heat, the other stinging with the chill. I was fifteen.
    Now the trees around me are green and alive with bird - song. I walk to the cabin and push through the