Choices

By Patrick McCormack, Kansas City, Missouri. Patrick is currently a copywriter at a Kansas City ad agency. He is also a musician and martial artist.

The electric spark of the severed cable shot his eyes open. Getting oriented, he found himself on his back, the cable dancing sparks over his face. As the fog in his head cleared more of his surroundings came into scope. Above him was seat number B15 the same number on his train ticket.

Head throbbing, he raised himself to his feet, grasping a seat for balance. Flames gathered and flickered all around him illuminating the splayed bodies of the other passengers. Some alive, most dead. It finally hit him – the train had derailed. Who knows where they ended up, how many survived or if help was on the way. If it wasn’t for the shock he would’ve passed out right there. The noxious smoke choking his lungs. No visible way out. Faint coughs and pleas for help crept around him.

There had to be a way out somewhere. A door; a window; or the gaping hole made on impact. He crawled his way through to the next dark, smoldering car. Bodies everywhere. Apparently he stumbled into the dining car, full of feasting families. Or what was left of them. Place settings, shards of glass and food littered the carpet of passengers. He rubbed his aching eyes and pressed on.

As he stepped over the mess of people below him a thunderous BOOM! of flames threw him forward. The gas grilles in the kitchen had just exploded, blanketing the car in flames. Face down in a plate of prime rib he felt the heat of the flames behind him, devouring the dining car. At that same moment a cool night breeze caressed his face. He looked up to the left – a hole large enough to crawl to safety! Instinct took over and he bull-rushed the hole. Flames flooding toward him.

Nearly to safety, thoughts of relief flooding him, a faint cry of ‘help’ echoed to his right.
A small girl lay directly across from his exit, staring up at him with fearful innocent eyes begging for rescue as her voice failed with crushed lungs.

This instant seemed like an hour. There was only enough time to jump to safety himself or pull the girl out and toss her from the blazing mass grave. The savage flames threatening.

He made his decision.

He grasped the girl’s hand and held it tight. For that one split second looking at each other their minds were one. Her eyes pierced his. His hand in hers he raised to a crouching position. He took one last glance at the hole, then back to the girl.

“I’m sorry,” his strained voice yelled.

And with that, he freed his hand and dove out from the mangled, flaming grave. Tumbling and rolling down an embankment covered in wreckage. He finally stopped, hands clasped at his chest and gasping at the cool night air, he looked up to the train. It all burned as sirens approached in the distance. He laid there clinging to his life, and nothing more.