The 12:15 Signal¶
Seventeen minutes until the 12:15.
Mireille adjusted the dial on the vacuum tube receiver, her fingers smudged with soot from the tunnel walls. The device sat atop a steel trunk marked Concordia Rail – Property of the City. Beside it, it flickered: a single red bulb casting shadows that danced like jitterbugs across the damp concrete.
“You’re blocking the track,” Étienne said, his voice flat as a filed-down knife. He stood at the tunnel’s mouth, legs apart, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield. His overalls were spotless. Always. As if dirt were a personal affront.
Mireille didn’t look up. “The signal’s stronger today. Like it’s breathing.”
“Or it’s the same garbage static you’ve been chasing since Tuesday. Move the equipment. The 12:15’s coming.”
The receiver burbled. A sound like wet newspaper being crumpled underwater. Mireille leaned closer. Beneath the noise, a rhythm pulsed—three clicks, a pause, two clicks, a pause. Morse code, but for what? She jabbed a pencil at her notepad: … _ _ _ …
Étienne stepped into the tunnel, his boots echoing. “You’re fixated. Remember what happened last time?”
“How could I forget?” She finally faced him, grease streaking her cheek. “You threw my receiver into the Seine.”
“It was a radio,” he said. “Not a Ouija board.”
The device shrieked. Both froze. From the speaker, a voice emerged—genderless, gravelly, as if spoken through a mouthful of marbles: “The horses are coming. The horses are hungry.”
Étienne crossed himself. Mireille grinned.
“See? Not static. And it’s early! We’ve got twelve minutes to decode it before—”
“Before the train smashes your precious box into scrap. Move.”
“They announced the Hindenburg disaster over the airwaves,” she said, sudden and sharp. “People wept in the streets. But you know what they didn’t do? They didn’t ignore it.”
Étienne’s jaw twitched. “This isn’t 1937. This is a subway tunnel.”
“And the horses?” she pressed. “What if it’s a warning? What if—”
A thunderous screech split the air. Both turned. Down the track, the first hint of light bloomed—a train rounding the bend, three minutes early.
Étienne lunged for the receiver. Mireille tackled him, clipboard and notepad flying. They scrabbled on the greasy floor, elbows knocking. The voice from the speaker grew frantic: “The horses are here the horses are here—”
The train’s headlight bathed them in white. Étienne broke free, dragging the trunk toward the wall. Mireille lunged again, but the receiver was already rolling onto the track.
Too late.
The train hit the box. A shower of sparks. A crunch. Silence.
Étienne stood, panting. Mireille stared at the wreckage.
“Well,” he said, brushing off his knees. “That settled nothing.”
She picked up a twisted wire, its end still crackling. “It said ‘the horses are hungry.’ What if it meant the train? Like, metaphorically?”
He groaned. “You’re impossible.”
Behind them, the tunnel’s speakers—somehow still intact—began to play a tango. Loud, cheerful, absurd.
Mireille smirked. “Or maybe the horses liked the music.”
Étienne closed his eyes. “We’re submitting a report about malfunctioning equipment. No ‘horses.’ No ‘hungry.’”
“Fine. But when the zealots come crawling because their radios start preaching in Aramaic, don’t say I didn’t—”
“Mireille.” He sighed. “The Hindenburg was a tragedy. This is a subway.”
The tango ended. A news announcer’s voice boomed: “…and in local news, authorities confirm the mysterious disappearance of all streetcars on Line 9…”
They looked at each other.
“…Okay,” Mireille said, “that’s new.”
Aboveground, church bells began to ring. Wrong time of day. Wrong rhythm.
Three clicks. A pause. Two clicks. A pause.
Étienne picked up the twisted wire.
“…Do you think it’s too late to apologize to the horses?”