Bob Wanstead walked around the black engine, pausing for a moment to pat one of the big driver wheels, something he’d done before every trip since he started on the line forty-four years before. It left a film of coal dust on his hand, but he didn’t mind. His flannel shirt was already tinged gray from the dust lingering in the air. Stepping back, he looked up at the name plate on the side of the locomotive. Queen Belle, ol’ #371. Walking back to the cab, he climbed inside and nodded to his fireman, Pat Gentry.
“She’s ready to go, Bob.”
Wanstead nodded. Behind the tender, thirty-four hoppers of Kentucky Coal waited, the only other equipment in the small yard at the Bell Number Seven mine.
“I don’t think I’m ready to go, Pat,” the engineer said, looking out across the yard.
The dark-haired fireman shook his head. Only thirty-two, he’d hire on at some other line, maybe even switch to the diesels most railroads were going to. But Bob was too old for that.
“Hell, Bob. The vein ran out. Ain’t much we can do about that.”
“I guess you’re right.” Wanstead took his seat as Gentry opened the firebox and scooped on more coal. Behind them, the mine whistle sounded, signaling the end of a shift with no workers. Wanstead waited a moment before pulling the cord to sound his own whistle. Pulling back on the Johnson bar, he used his other hand to release the brakes.
Queen Belle started rolling toward the edge of the yard, away from the coal chute that had loaded the cars behind them. Passing onto the main line, he began to pick up speed, topping out at a slow fifteen miles an hour.
It didn’t matter. There wasn’t a schedule to keep, no full load waiting at the mine for his return.
They could take their time.
***
No one was waiting at the crossing near Harles Creek. The boys who once stopped their play to stand and watch the train go by were gone, moved on to new homes near different mines. Wanstead sounded the whistle out of habit as Queen Belle thundered past the village and onto the old wooden bridge.
He’d never meant to be a railroader, but he’d gotten sick after two weeks in the mine. The doctor told him he needed a surface job, and the only thing the mine had available was on the railroad hauling coal down the mountain.
From brakeman, he’d moved to fireman, before finally taking the controls thirty-two years ago. The line was twelve miles long, but he knew every inch of it, the bridges, the tunnels under Fraiser Mountain, and the long trestle across the Pierce River.
They were passing the spot where #29 had jumped the rails his first year as an engineer. Moose Dawson had been his fireman then, a powder-keg of a man who spent years working with Wanstead. Every time they tried to promote him to Engineer, he refused.
“Can’t break up the best crew we’ve got,” he’d always say.
But Moose had been in the home at Springtown for eight years now, missing a leg from the diabetes, his lungs giving out from years of inhaling coal smoke.
***
Now the train rolled along the banks of Pickett Creek. Wanstead looked out at the track ahead, letting his body move with the rhythm of the engine. They were almost home, and Gentry had taken his seat on the tender. The fire would keep them going into the yard at Springtown, then it would burn out for the last time. Queen Belle was to be sold for scrap, melted down into bayonets or maybe turned into a ship for the boys in Korea to use. It wasn’t a bad fate, Wanstead supposed, but he didn’t want to see her gone.
Coming out of a tunnel, they turned to follow the river. In another mile, they’d cross the viaduct, then roll into the Springtown yard.
“River’s running high,” Gentry said, coming over to look out the window.
“It does this time of year,” Bob said. “Been storming in the mountains all day.”
“Look at those logs,” Gentry pointed out the window. Bob shook his head.
“That’ll be the mill at Collins Branch. It’s flooded so damn many times I’ve lost count.”
Ahead of him, he could see the trestle, the river threatening to flow over the top. The logs and debris were getting caught among the bridge supports, blocking the water’s flow. Behind it, the river was growing, the force of the water pushing against a bridge that hadn’t been maintained in the two years they’d known the mine was closing. The old bridge was leaning, and Wanstead realized it could go at any moment.
“Jump!” he yelled to Gentry.
“What?”
“Jump, Dammit!” He pushed the fireman off the engine. Pat tumbled down the grade, grabbing a tree to stop himself before rolling into the water. Returning to his seat, he ignored the brakes. There wasn’t enough time, and even if he stopped, he’d be on the bridge with no way off.
He heard creaking as Queen Belle rumbled onto the bridge. He’d hoped the weight of the train would help to stabilize it, but Wanstead felt the engine start to lean with the bridge. With a loud snap, the bridge broke under the force of the water.
The engine tumbled into the water and began to sink as the wall of water rushed over it, pinning Wanstead to the roof of the cab. There was a shudder as the engine hit the rocky bottom. One of the coal cars landed on top of the engine, trapping the engineer in the cab.
Wanstead realized he was still holding the whistle cord. With a smile, he gave it a final pull.
Joe Stout is an east Tennessee based emerging writer who focuses on short stories and flash fiction. When he’s not writing, he enjoys exploring the mountains and spending time with his children. You can follow him on Facebook at Joe Stout Writing or Instagram @joestoutwriting.
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