SCREECH

I had been admiring the snow-capped mountains in the distance through my window.

The train conductor had barely enough time to react before he clicked on his microphone, his authoritative voice ringing through the speakers:

“This is your conductor speaking…Please make sure you are in a seated position and buckled in securely at this time.”

And then, only about a minute later:

“Brace yourselves for impact! I repeat, brace yourselves for impact!”

The screeching sound of metal-on-metal was the last thing I remembered before my head had crashed into the glass window and knocked me out.

The conductor had later told the press that he at first had tried not to sound distressed as a way to avoid freaking people out, but he also didn’t want to candy-coat the inevitable once he had realized how close they were getting to the obstruction.

It had all been caused by a logging truck. It had stalled and the driver could not just easily put it in neutral and push it off the set of tracks. The trailer itself was what was blocking the tracks, fully-loaded. The driver had immediately called for a big rig wrecker. Folks from a nearby restaurant at one point had even gotten behind the trailer to see if they could all get it to roll, but they couldn’t get it to budge an inch. 

The conductor and his assistant in training (what a day to learn something new that he would not soon forget) had locked up the brakes. They had then exited the first engine and made it as far as almost entering the second engine when they looked out one more time. They had then agreed to leap off the train.

Before taking their leap of faith (literally and figuratively), both conductor and trainee had managed to slow it down some. They had endured some scrapes, bruises and ankle sprains—but no broken bones on the x-rays. They probably would not have even lived to talk about it had they tried to belt themselves into some vacant seats in the first passenger car.

Thankfully, none of us had perished that day. It was simply a freak accident.

It had been a miracle for many. The folks outside had moved out of the way before the two engines in the front took the brunt of the impact and derailed. All the passenger cars miraculously stayed on track.

There had been several heroes that day. The one hero was the truck driver who had placed the call, and the driver of the wrecker who while en route to the scene had managed to report it to the proper railroad authorities whom then got the message to the conductor. It was then when the conductor had immediately made the announcement and swung the brake lever into position a second later.

Timing was critical that day. I had walked away from it with only a minor concussion and many others were hospitalized as well. We were blessed. By far, it could have been way worse had there been no two-way communication.

Eventually both train engines had caught ablaze and some of the logs. It had turned out to be a five-alarm.

While still aboard the train, I remember how I had watched the children. Many of them had clutched onto their stuffed animals (bears, frogs, dinosaurs, unicorns, Pikachu) a bit tighter that day. Moms and dads also pressed their children tighter against themselves, and counted their lucky stars above.

The medical responders had evacuated us from the train in rapid fashion. At this time, it was dusk out and the lead engines were still ablaze but smoldering. The firemen had squelched out the logs that had caught. We had been led toward the rear of the train to avoid smoke inhalation.

Some of the elderly had been given oxygen masks to breathe through that covered their entire mouths. Seeing this had made me think of the masks we had worn (and some still wear) to help prevent viruses and such from spreading.

Amazingly, the fire departments had put out the blaze before the truck probably would have exploded. It was insane.

It all had seemed like a nightmare that day/night—but to me, now looking back, it was a dream come true. Angels had to have been among us. I have no doubt.

Perhaps I speak for the majority when I say I don’t take anything for granted these days. I personally avoid trains now only because of the trauma it had caused me, but planes can be just as dangerous, cars—any form of transportation for that matter.

It had been a couple weeks after the accident when I connected with the truck driver who still had some guilt over what happened. I had tried to put myself in his shoes. He had told me how he suffered from PTSD and had night sweats, often waking up from night terrors. He told me about how one night he had imagined the rig had caught fire that day and how the explosion had made the people from the restaurant melt like hot candle wax, including himself. It had definitely sounded like one heck of a nightmare—or more like a horror movie the way he had described it.

I told him I had nightmares too but that in time they had gotten better. I also told him how sometimes I had good dreams like how I imagined the staff had had more time to unlatch the train cars so they could decelerate on their own and not even be involved in the collision.

He had a glum expression, and so I had tried reassuring him. I had reminded him that there were no casualties and that I believe things happen for a reason. I had at least gotten a nod out of him as he took another sip of his coffee.

I remember he had stared at that cup of coffee for a while after he had set it back down on the table, lost in thought. Then, as if the caffeine had finally kicked in, he had proceeded to tell me how he got out of the transportation business altogether and got a job in construction with a hard hat, steel-toed boots, and all the rest that comes with it.

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, always new projects to keep my mind busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“What about you?”

“Well, I’m a computer technician by day, and like to hone my writing skills when I find time at night, when I’m not spending time with the family, usually when everyone is sleeping.”

“Always good to make time for the fam when you can!”

“You betcha!”

Before we parted, I had asked him if he would mind if I included him in a story of mine, a work of fiction, and that I wouldn’t refer to him directly by name. He had said he didn’t mind so long as it was more on the lines of turning tragedy into triumph. He had added that if it ever got published, he wanted a copy.

I had told him I would try my best and at least got a grin out of him.

We shook and I wished him all the best.

Anything set in motion I guess must stop eventually, planned or unplanned. Even outer space, as vast as it is, has its share of collisions, many of which we aren’t even aware: meteors exploding, stars imploding (I believe they’re called supernovas), space junk burning through the atmosphere, perhaps even Elon Musk’s Tesla Roadster getting pelted by space rocks—including the mannequin behind the wheel.

Sometimes when I’m writing at night with the window cracked open, I hear a metal-on-metal screech off in the distance, coming from a set of tracks not far from my house. The sound always brings back memories of a time when I had felt unstoppable, like Superman in the comics…until that big heavy metal train was stopped with me on it.

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to find triumph.