The Train’s Coming
Short fiction
by Mark Keane
Heron clambers onto the makeshift rail-cart and wedges himself between Gull and Crow. Hunched over, feet on the pedals, they aren’t able to force him off. Heron clings onto the frame.
“Get off,” Gull cries.
“I’m not going nowhere,” says Heron.
No room to manoeuver, they can’t dislodge him.
“For God’s sake,” pleads Gull. “We can’t get enough speed with three of us. There’s only space for two to pedal.”
“The train’s coming,” Crow says, his dark eyes bulging.
Gull looks back, and sees two lights and the shape of the first carriage as the train rounds a bend in the narrow pass. Two minutes away, three at most.
Gull and Crow push as hard as they can. Breathing heavily, they pound the pedals. Not fast enough, nowhere near fast enough, not with Heron’s extra weight.
“Get off, you fat bastard,” Gull wheezes. “You’re slowing us down.”
“Me, fat?” says Heron. “If anything, I’m too skinny—not a lard arse like you.”
“There’s no way we can make it.” Crow looks up, sweat spilling from his face.
“I’m not getting off.” Heron tightens his grip on the frame. “If I do, I’ll be run over.”
They pedal with all their might. Lungs ablaze. Sinews straining.
Gull moans. “I’m cramping.”
“Don’t be such a loser,” Heron screams into Gull’s ear. “Pedal harder. There’s a siding less than a mile away. We reach that and we’ll be safe.”
Gull bends farther forward, arse in the air. He forces his legs up and down. Slower and slower. Painfully slower. Inexorably slower.
“I can’t take any more.”
Gull nudges Crow. They stop pedalling.
“I’m getting off.” Gull drags his leg over the frame. “With you two pedalling, you’ll make it to safety.”
“No, Gull,” says Crow. “Don’t do it. Heron should get off.”
“He won’t.” Gull sighs. “You know what he’s like.”
Heron watches the other two without speaking.
“Ah, fuck it.” Crow spits on the ground. “Heron, you’re a complete shit.”
The rumble of the train grows deeper. Hot metal on metal, no more than a minute away.
“All right,” says Heron. “If Gull’s getting off, then so am I.”
“What do you mean?” Crow shakes his head. “I can’t go fast enough by myself. We’ll all be killed.”
“So be it.” Heron shrugs. “I don’t see why I should give you the pleasure of living by allowing Gull to die.”
“Fuck it.” Crow bangs the frame. “You’re the worst sort of fucker ever. I’m getting off.”
“Suit yourself,” says Heron.
Crow stands beside Gull on the track. The train flashes its lights. Heron places his feet on the pedals and reaches to one side.
“You pathetic numpties, you had the brake on the entire time.”
He pulls a lever and, pumping his long legs, sets off at a good clip, waving back at his two companions.
Heron turns into the siding.
The train whooshes by, carrying with it bits and pieces of Gull and Crow.
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