There it went. Tracks rumbling, wheels clacking, engine huffing like a rabid dog. Powdered snow swept across his view, bristling against the skin above his weather-worn gloves. From this far out, he could just barely make out the shape of the car. It took this route often.
James’s horse huffed, shifting his hooves as if he could feel the admiration that flickered through his rider. The beauty of the train’s speed and the scent of burning coal seemed almost patriotically irresistible, a masculine endeavor. James felt the calling too, sometimes, when he was in the depots or by a station; the size of those behemoths was beyond his wildest dreams. He’d even had a full map at one point, so complex it seemed more tapestry than guide. He’d memorized it at some point, having tracked them for all these years. The colors were, tonight, all netted across James’ mind.
The snow whistled in the hardened wind. It swept northward, according to James’ compass, Buffalo-bound. He figured their last stop must have been hours ago. By the looks of how many kerosene lamps still flickered in the windows, though, the passengers were anything but tired.
James shifted his own weight as his horse had, tipping back his cap to take a cold, sharp breath of the frigid, grey air. The sky was a flat, black blanket all ways around, and he was more grateful than ever for his lantern. He readjusted his working bag, huffing at the inconvenience of it. His hand nearly slipped on the light’s handle. In the glow, he picked at a bug tangled into Romeo’s mane. The horse didn’t quite like James plucking at his hair, but he knew better than to buck in protest. James couldn’t get his hands around it well enough, fingers shaking and hypothermic. He gave up. The thing had to have died, anyway. In these conditions, it’d have to be some sort of demon in order to survive.
The train clacked louder. Yes, James was reminded, the allure. Then again, he’d always been a traditional man, and this horse had never done him wrong. Romeo was cheaper, too. A good steed, loyal and trained. Not pure, he’d been the runt of the group and so he’d come at a hefty discount. James took him in as a foal and trained him up to now. It was well worth it, too—for all the work they’d both put in, his salary was enough to cover a warm stable, a small house, and some good oats. Neither one liked loneliness too much. The agreement worked in both of their favors.
The light of the outpost’s shed flickered between the snowflakes. He couldn’t see the attendant, but he knew the spot was always outfitted. This place was a little stingy with their superstitions. He couldn’t exactly blame them, though; just last week he’d seen a job in the papers to travel on some liner and tighten up wheels at each stop. He figured something must be bad if they needed that much upkeep.
Wind and cold whipping his face, he ducked his head and looked down at his pocketwatch. It read that the train was nearly three hours past due to this area. If the conductor wasn’t fired, he was surely going to lose money for it. Rich man’s burden, James supposed. Not that he’d ever do the job. He was better at observing and—as the mallet’s weight on his side reminded him—repair.
God damn, he was cold. His coat was built for this weather, but he couldn’t manage it after so many hours. His hair felt alien on his face and his head, and his nose had long since gone numb. He tucked his scarf higher onto his face—from the West came a stronger gust of wind. Romeo bucked, tried to turn away from the air, and James rushed to grab his reins.
He twisted the wires of the reins around his wrist. He’d surrendered the scarf where it was.
“Easy,” he shouted over the winds. “Easy, calm down.”
Romeo ducked his head, tried to move again, and James was nearly thrown over his head. His boots caught in the stirrups. Probably saved his life, even. He whipped forth, and then, when Romeo decided to let the slack back off the reins, he slammed back down onto the saddle. Leather cold from the glacial winds, it felt like solid rock. He could feel the pressure hammer its way up his spine until his nose was full of leaden pain. The scarf twisted itself from his neck, caught in the undertow of the heavy gusts. No heat could be spared tonight.
James hurried to grab it. From behind him, there was a deep whistle. Romeo bucked back this time, nearly hauling James off. He grabbed his arms around Romeo’s thick neck, held on for dear life. His lantern crashed to the ground and fell open. It took nary a second to go out.
When they’d settled, and the wind had gone down, James turned back to the train. He pet at Romeo’s mane; he scoffed, his breath coming out in thick clouds.
“Jesus Mary, Romeo. Actin’ like you want to meet our maker. We’ll be gone soon.”
The train was slowing down, he realized. It was near the footbridge now, past the sparse woods. He could see it all much more clearly now. The passengers didn’t stare out the windows—eerily, their gazes stayed fixed before them. He squinted, trying to make out an expression rather than a silhouette.
Then, there it was.
Ice. Slush and ice, spraying up from the rear car.
It had come off the tracks.
Rattling wood and metal shook itself loose from the sleeper cars. Brittle, the lumber snapped on impact and exploded like grenades. There were screams, echoing in the bottle of winter that they stood in. He could hear them as clearly as if he himself had been in the car.
There was a sunken feeling behind his ribs, that feeling that sets in before you know what it’s all about. A weight in his gut, his bones. Hollowed out. He stared, and he knew it then: he was going to witness death tonight. One week from Christmas. These people wouldn’t see a new year. He was going to watch death. He was going to see the end.
The train screeched, more cars coming loose off the tracks. The bridge was approaching.
The drop was only fifty feet. Some lucky survivors could be found, if the fire marshals came quickly enough. But they wouldn’t, and James knew it. And even if he ran over, tried his best, they’d be so injured it wouldn’t matter, anyway. Men past medicine, James’ brother used to say. They ain’t got a shot.
Gold caught his eye: a lamp. He watched it—last car down, shaking in the window. It trembled like an earthquake. James watched it as it wrestled itself off the hook.
Some passengers were seated, screaming, grabbing for each other. But the rear car was already on its side, dragging hard, and hurtling toward the bridge gap fast as lightning. He watched men and women in the far car, falling to follow the car’s gravity; back, toward the stove. The car broke loose, smashed on the ground.
Then there was fire. Fire in the back, fire on the front, a pit right before the nose of the missile. The wood was tangling itself into a disturbing arrhythmia. The second-to-last car twisted itself the opposite way from the other carriages, hurled over the bridge’s edge. He watched it fall. At the same time, the last car burst into flames.
Romeo whinnied, the closest thing to a scream James figured the creature could make. He himself felt like screaming, but no sound could come out. His lantern gone, he was aware he was drenched in the darkness, bound to silence with the rest of the night.
He watched the flames lick up the bridge supports. At its base, he saw a little girl. She pushed at an older man, dead on her lap. He couldn’t see her expression, but he could hear her shrieks clear as a bell. He watched the flames approach her, watched the girl grabbing for anything she could. The flames caught on her sleeves. She waved her arms.
James couldn’t watch. He knew what would happen—the skin melting, the hair going crisp, the skin charring. He took the reins.
“Help!—” Screams and begging erupting from the inferno—“Help! Someone!”
James glanced backward. He tugged at the reins.
Romeo turned away.
They ain’t got a shot.