“Um… Are you sure you shouldn’t be the one to carry this, Shiroshi?” Sitting down in the other armchair, Seiji opened his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster. It held the revolver he’d swiped from Odoro. As an aside, the gun was apparently a Smith & Wesson Model 19.
“Hmm. In terms of appearance, I think you could bluff with it more effectively.”
“Well, yeah, probably.”
“And in my case, it would make for a better threat if I produced yokai instead of a pistol.”
“…Yeah, it would.”
Their conversation trailed off, and Seiji’s gaze moved to the fixed window.
The train was still enveloped in fog.
Only night lay beyond the mist. The view made Seiji feel as if there might be no city, no people—nothing at all aside from the platform.
“Um, don’t tell me Murder on the Orient Express takes place on a foggy night,” he said.
“Heh-heh. Personally, this reminds me more of Night on the Galactic Railroad.”
“Oh, the one about Giovanni and Campanella… How did it go again?”
“It’s a children’s story written by Kenji Miyazawa. Giovanni, a boy living in poverty, goes for a journey on the galactic railroad with his friend, Campanella.”
Hm. Seiji seemed to recall reading that one in grade school…but he barely remembered anything about it. Only that it had struck him as an awfully pretty story, with the Milky Way and galaxies and crystals and things.
Had the two friends managed to get back home safely after setting off for such a faraway place?
“Well, it’s nearly time for us to depart.” Shiroshi slowly got to his feet, and Seiji followed him out of the compartment.
As they made their way down the train toward the back, they reached a space that looked like a study. According to the diagram, it was a common area called the library.
As the name suggested, it contained bookshelves with glass doors stocked with railroad-related books and photo collections. A vermilion lamp shone on a writing desk furnished with stationery, a fountain pen, and a telephone like the one in their compartment.
“My,” said Shiroshi. “Unlike the one in our room, this window appears to open.”
“Oh, you’re right.”
That’s Shiroshi for you. He’s got sharp eyes. The window might have been for ventilation: It was possible to raise or lower it by turning a crank.
Leaving the library, they found the lounge beyond it.
“Wow. This really is classy.” Seiji’s eyes widened in delight.
His initial impression was that it looked like the lounge of a high-class hotel. Four earlier arrivals had made themselves comfortable and were drinking glasses of champagne beneath a magnificent chandelier.
The first thing that caught his eye were the couches facing each other beyond the upright piano. One was occupied by a girl who looked like a high schooler and a woman in her thirties. The girl’s colorful party dress contrasted sharply with the woman’s drab business suit.
The two men on the other couch seemed like polar opposites as well. One was a swarthy twenty-something in a motorcycle jacket. The other was a stern older man who looked like a professor; for some reason, there was a whiskey shot glass near his hand.
Huh? That’s weird. Weren’t there supposed to be six other…? Oh.
There he is.
A slight young guy in an oversize hoodie and jeans was standing by the wall, wearing a pair of earbuds. Is he a college kid? Seiji was wondering, when out of nowhere—
The room was suddenly full of monsters.
“Huh?”
The first ones to leap out at him were yokai he recognized.
The first was a shoukera. It had a mouth that split its bald head all the way to its ears, and it was clinging to the back of the couch with hawklike talons. Beside it was a makuragaeshi, which looked like a miniature Deva king. The third was an azukiarai, an old man no taller than a child, who was busily stirring a wooden washtub with his hand.
And…
“Y-yeek!”
The one that had made him shriek was a bloodied baby. Half of one sofa had turned into a rock scarred by a large slash from a sword, and the infant lay on top of it. It wailed loudly, its lizard-like face twisting with…what? Hunger, resentment—or sadness?
Then abruptly, a shadow loomed up from a spot by the wall. A starving demon, drooling heavily, glared at Seiji with bloodshot eyes. It thrust out a two-fingered hand, as if it meant to strip the flesh from his face.
“Wagh, agh!”
Seiji tottered backward, but a hand connected with his back, supporting him just in time. It was Shiroshi.
“Well. How many of them looked like yokai?”
“A—” Seiji tried to say All of them, but the words stuck in his throat.
And then…
“Well, that’s embarrassing. I accidentally took a nap. I hope I’m not late.”
The clear, fresh voice sounded out of place. When Seiji turned, he found a man wearing a suit jacket without a tie. He was smiling wryly, the picture of a pleasant young man—until his face turned pitch-black.
“A-agh…” Seiji stared at the vague black shadow, stupefied. It looked a bit like a robed monk. Its lips were moving deliriously, and he made out the words I’ll give back the oil. I’ll give back the oil.
That’s when it hit him.
Every one of the other six passengers was a Hell-bound sinner.
“…I see. It appears we’ve stumbled into a demon horde’s night parade,” Shiroshi murmured, guessing the truth from Seiji’s expression.
Just then, with a heavy clunk, the wheels started to move.
The night train began to roll over the rails, carrying six monsters—sinners who had escaped judgment.
The demon horde’s night parade had begun.