Dreamrail

An enormous ball of flame rises above the wreckage of iron and glass that had been my car on the California Zephyr only moments ago. I reel backwards, away from the heat, looking for a place of refuge, searching for others needing to get to safety. My passenger car had been full; at least fifty people on board, yet outside the carnage, I am alone.

The far end of the car is thirty feet in the air, pushed against the one in front of us, as the train has crumpled like an accordion from the force of the derailment. I can see nothing beyond the high-rise inferno. The fire that makes little sense to be so intense obscures the front of the train. An explosion suddenly forces me further back, and I fall against a metal fence that borders the track. I watch as the wall of flame drops down the tilted aisle inside the car that was mine, as if carried by fuel, giving the appearance of lava, and for the first time I hear screams.

My cell phone is ringing; it vibrates heavily against my chest. Instinctively, I grab it and feel the heat while stumbling back further and further from the blaze. Others finally join me from the back on the train, from cars not lost to the hell on our front.

“What happened?” they ask.

I don’t have an answer for them. We watch for what seems like hours before sirens can be heard. Everybody that could has gotten away from the train; no real rescue effort could weather the flames. Again my phone rings, but I leave it be.

Chicago to Denver, that was my plan; trading a Southwest Airlines pass for the scenic route, a business trip with a fun ride aboard the Zephyr. My Tragadar voice had told me to stay out of the air. Somehow I thought this time would be different; I would change my plans and avoid the disaster. I might not prevent it, but it will stay away from me.

Help has arrived. Water is at last being sprayed on the fire. People are walking toward the trucks and cars that have arrived, getting in the way. My phone rings for a third time, and I answer.

“Dad,” yells the voice on the phone. “Are you alright?”

“I think so,” I say. “Why? Have you heard the news?”

“Yeah. I’m sure it scared the hell out of you. You couldn’t have done anything about it.”

“Of course I couldn’t.” I say.

“I’m just glad you changed your mind, and didn’t take that plane.”

“You’re not making sense, son. What’s that about the plane?”

“It crashed, dad. I thought you knew. A hundred miles from Denver.”

I look up to the dying inferno, and drop the phone to the ground. A tail wing, still partially intact is now within view above the car in front of mine. Southwest Airlines, it reads. I remember my son and search for my phone, but he is gone.
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The End