Wrecked

Torrential rain fell like a swarm of diving hornets. In the storm, a freight train of twenty-three cars carrying lumber sliced through the water, a relentless metal beast with a blackened steel grill. Rain water slicked off its sides--almost horizontally from the unmitigated speed. During the course of the trip, the wipers at the head of the train had stopped working and the constant cascade of rain produced a blurry sheen of water on the windshield that made visibility nigh impossible. The train operator had stuck his head out the side but retreated when he was soaked through in less than a minute. He maintained speed. They were on a track. What was there to see anyway?

Five miles up the track at a railroad crossing, Tammy Greely was having her own wiper problems. Things were fine and dandy until the storm had picked up. When she switched her wiper speed to its fastest setting, the already fraying rubber from the blades committed suicide and ripped completely away from the wipers and flew off into the storm, leaving her with a squeak-squeak scratching noise but no visibility. Maybe if she could see, or hear over the thundering rain, or pulled over like a rational person, she would have noticed the ringing of the bell or seen the lowering of the railroad crossing arm that was adorned with a red X, universally understood as a sign that further forward motion was inadvisable. But she was oblivious to such things, that is until her car sneaked under the descending arm and crossed halfway over the tracks, a sensation that one does not need to see nor hear to realize its implications.

Halfway over the tracks is where the laboring Ford Focus died, coughed its last lung-full of exhaust. It was then that she lowered her window to examine her situation and it was then that she heard the tell-tale ding-ding sound of impending doom. Through the rain, she could see the source of it heading straight for her, tons and tons of it. She put the car in neutral and went outside to push. But the assaulting rain prevented her from getting a good footing and without it, she couldn't roll the wheels over the tracks no matter how much she tried to rock the car.

The train operator noticed a white, glowing orb of light appear on his windshield growing larger. It was unexpected enough that he stuck his head out the side again. He blew the horn again and again but the car wouldn't move. He braked but there wouldn't be enough track to stop the hulk of a train. As the train came closer, he could see a figure trying to push the car across. Frantically blowing the horn, he waved at the person, hoping whoever it was would have the sense to get out of the way, sacrifice the car.

The train had seemed so slow when it was far away. But now it couldn't be more than a hundred yards away and every time she blinked, it seemed like it was moving faster despite the sparks coming from the wheels indicating otherwise. She could see a man in the head car waving at her and the horn blasts were becoming deafening. Defeated and drenched, she ran back from her car of eleven years and watched, cold, shivering and grabbing at her arms.

The next instant in time was not like you'd expect, not like the movies. There was no explosion, no dramatic music playing inside her head. One moment the car was there. The next, half of it was gone. Maybe it was the rain or maybe she was in shock, but didn't remember hearing the actual sound of the crash, the metal smashing metal, the contorting and ripping of steel. She stood there watching the many cars of the freight train run through and over the debris like a battering ram composed of lumber and coal. She remained standing there for many minutes until the train operator who had finally managed to stop the train ran back to check on her.