Memory Train

They parked at a Circle-K and hiked up the canyon trail behind the store, making it to the top of the ridge by sundown.  The day had been blazing, katydids buzzing past them in lethargic arcs the whole way.  Tall grass bit at them and stuck to their sweat-soaked clothing but presented little challenge otherwise... but now the sun was down and warm desert winds gave way to cool breezes.

The railroad tracks were as they remembered, twin gleaming beams carrying moonlight off to the horizon in both directions.  Track so straight they appeared photoshopped, movie magic as done by lazy CGI animators who couldn't be bothered with realism.

She bent down to touch one cool rail.  It sang in her hand.

"Soon," she looked up at him, expression unreadable.  "We haven't much time."

He nodded, unslung his pack.  Started removing items: tent, camping gear, food for breakfast.  From the bottom he fished out a tiny digital camera and tripod, began setting it up directly in the center of the track pointed west.  The camera had an unusual bulge over the lens, an expensive night-vision attachment purchased from a Russian ex-military merchant on eBay.

She gripped the rail tighter, closed her eyes, listened to something only she could hear.  Nodded in satisfaction.  "Very soon," she whispered.

"All set up," he announced, dusting his hands.  He noted a distant rumble from the west, as if a storm approached with continuous thunder.  He squinted but saw nothing.  Not yet.

She stood abruptly, took his hand.  He noted it was colder than it should have been.  He squeezed reassuringly.  "We've done this a few times... you know it'll be okay."

Her shrug was non-committal, and he almost missed it as the headlight appeared off in the distance.  It made him jump.  The rumble grew louder, too, and with it: a plaintive whistle.  Something from the 1930s, steam blasting through pipes, not normally heard in modern times.

"It comes," she said, nodding, eyes closed.  He adjusted his stance next to hers, one foot inside the rails, the other outside.  Braced himself.

The light grew with shocking speed and intensity.  The world exploded with new light, pale and yellow.  Cold.  And with it, came the thunder: the roar of a machine manufactured a century ago, thumping and grinding its way on steel wheels towards them at impossible speed.  Its whistle blasted repeatedly, dopplering weirdly.  And in a flash--

--it was upon them.  Through them.  It blasted through their bodies with no sensation other than chilling cold, and yet they leaned into it, hearts hammering frantically.  She screamed then, wordlessly defiant.  Released his hand to hold hers up, palms spread to face the specter.

Car after car rumbled over them, through them, the clackity-clack of wheels challenging their heartbeats.  It smelled of burning oil and wood, of leather, of hay and animals.  A whiff of perfume, the scent of a cigar, of liquor and steak.  The flickering sensations came and left so quickly they felt like a seizure: their brains forced to process impossible information at impossible speed.

Then it was past.  The silence was shocking, the rumble receding to the east, behind them.  They gasped in unison.  She gripped his hand again, suddenly, turning with him to watch the caboose's red lights diminish down the tracks.

"Soon," she repeated, sadly.

She squeezed his hand convulsively as the wreck happened.  The way it had always happened: shriek of tortured metal wheels throwing sparks, the collision with -- something, nobody knew what -- and the endless rumbling slow-motion explosion that followed, cars tumbling off the ridge as toys.  Distant screams dying off.  The flickering flame of burning wood cast in a circle surrounding the wreck.

Then, silence.  The scene faded before them and all was serene.  Eventually crickets began their symphony around them again, and the cool breezes returned.  She released his hand then, staggered, sat down on the ground.

He was already reviewing the camera footage, touching and stroking the LCD panel to rewind and replay.  He shook his head slowly.

"Nothing," he announced.  "Same as before."

"Same as before," she agreed.  "I told you that wouldn't work."

"Next time, maybe I'll try going retro.  Maybe I could borrow the Hasselblad from Bill, find some high-speed film.  Go oldschool."

"Won't work.  Mark my words."

"Oh well, next time."

He put the camera away and began assembling camp.