by Pete Hautman
Me? I’ll be in my khakis and chambray, veins sluggish with rhino tranquilizer.
The train, picking up speed now, approaches the West Madham Tunnel. There is a danger sign as it enters the tunnel—some problem with the track ahead. The engineer ignores the warning. As the train exits the tunnel it hits a bad section of track. Cars rattle and sway, wheels chatter, phosphorous spills from the Coalveyor onto the steel rails.
Here it comes.
A huge crowd—153 plastic people—is waiting at the entrance to the Andrew Morrow Bridge. The train slows as it begins its crossing. The scene is one of great excitement, anticipation, and joy. Several people have climbed up to the bridge cables to watch the inauguration—troubled teens, no doubt. The mayors of East Madham and West Madham are waiting at the exact center of the bridge, each of them holding a champagne bottle to break across the bow of the locomotive as it passes.
Suspender cables quiver as the train rolls majestically onto the bridge. One of the teenagers falls from the main cable and lands headfirst on the second locomotive. Oh no! He’s hurt! The train does not stop. Another boy falls from the bridge, this time into the nameless abyss. Death has come to Madham.
The entire train is now on the bridge. As it nears the midpoint, a crosswind hits the Coalveyor, dusting the mayors and the bridge deck with red powder. The Madham Special continues across the span, leaving the mayors coughing and hacking. It reaches the end of the bridge, where yet another crowd waits, cheering.
The first crossing is successful. The bridge architect sighs with relief as plastic mothers mourn their dead sons. The crowd cheers; the engineer increases speed. The train accelerates through the woods outside of East Madham, past the school, the soccer field, the terminal, the stadium. It barrels through downtown Madham and approaches the West Madham Tunnel at three-quarter speed. Rough track ahead. The engineer boldly increases speed; wheels clatter and spark. There is a bright flash as some of the spilled red phosphorous ignites. The train races on, leaving behind it flaming track. It takes the big curve through the West Madham residential district and again enters the Andrew Morrow Bridge, crossing at near maximum speed. More troubled teenagers fall from the cables, onto the tracks, into the abyss. Phosphorous spills from the Coalveyor, the train flies across the bridge and into East Madham. The fire spreads from the tunnel into central Madham. The movie theater is in flames, people are melting, an acrid cloud of black smoke mushrooms on the ceiling.
The engineer goes to full throttle.
The Madham Special plows into the flames. For one frozen moment, as the first locomotive emerges from the pillar of flame and smoke, it looks like it will make it through, but a lick of flame catches the coalveyor cargo and the mound of red phosphorous goes off with a tremendous whoof. The engineer staggers back. The train continues through the tunnel and toward the bridge, the Coalveyor trailing long, hungry licks of flame.
Will the Madham Special make it across the Andrew Morrow Bridge a third time? It looks good … but one of the mayors has fallen onto the tracks. The locomotive plows into him, the train jumps the track, and the red phosphorous on the bridge deck ignites. The suspender cables begin to burn, snapping one after another. Fire races down the bridge, engulfing the passenger cars, the box cars, the tank cars filled with phosphorous.
I look up at the sky and see flames spreading across the basement ceiling.
The bridge is sagging. The fire has spread to East Madham. The air is filled with smoke and shrieks and yelling.
Is that my father’s voice?
The first tank car explodes with an ear-cracking, face-stinging bang, louder and sharper than any cherry bomb. The front of my shirt is peppered with bits of burning plastic. A second tank car goes off; I am blinded by the flash.
Is that my ears ringing, or am I screaming?
I am burning and I am blind and I can’t find the stairs and I do not know how to get out of Madham.
37
MADHAM
I am sitting in the park, watching the smoke, when a shadow falls across my lap. I look up. It’s Andy again.
“Hey, Dougie,” he says with a grin.
“Hi,” I say.
He sits down on the grass beside my wheelchair. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“How you feeling?”
“Okay.”
We sit for a while. That’s pretty much all I do these days. Sit and watch the smoke.
“So … what’s new?”
“Not much.”
“That’s cool.”
We sit for a while longer, and nobody bothers us. I can hear the train in the distance. You can almost always hear the train, but you never actually see it.
Andy says, “It’s nice here.”
“I suppose.” We sit for a while longer watching the plume of black smoke over the horizon. The fire is always there, always burning, but it never gets closer. Some days I can smell it. They say it’s been burning for years.
“Well, I gotta go,” Andy says.
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“I know.”
I watch him walk away. After a while the orderlies come and wheel me back inside through glass doors that read:
MADHAM HOSPITAL
•
BURN UNIT
They wheel me down the long white hall. I look into the rooms as we pass, at all the blackened, melted people. The smell of red phosphorous and burnt plastic is everywhere. My grandfather is here someplace, they tell me, but no one seems to be able to find him. I hope he doesn’t find out what I did to his train.
The orderlies lift me from my chair and lay me out on my bed. I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, then turn my head and find Andy sitting there.
“Hey, Dougie,” he says with a grin.
“Hi,” I say.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“Nice room.”
“It stinks in here.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I suppose,” I say, but I think that I will never get used to the smell of burnt plastic.
“Well, I gotta go,” Andy says.
“Andy?”
“What?”
“Are you really here?”
“Sure I am.”
“You were really there all the time, weren’t you?”
“You’re my best friend. I’ll never leave you.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“I know.”