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I whirl around, breathing hard, wondering where that voice came from. The form of the other railroad worker—the one I thought was dead—is weakly holding up his right hand. He’s a much older guy, with thinning white hair and the well-worn face of someone who’s spent a lot of time outdoors. Yet right now his face is graying out before my eyes.
I hurry over to him, kneel down, and look at his bloody chest, and he whispers. “First aid kit, over there.”
The kit is clipped to the wall near an instrument bank, and I tear off two fingernails getting it free. My combat-medic training kicks in as a chant starts up in my mind:Stop the bleeding, stop the bleeding.
I unzip his thick dungaree jacket, tear open the flannel shirt, spot a white T-shirt soaked through with blood.
“I’m Amy,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Brian…”
“Brian, just relax, you’re going to be all right—we’ll get some help here in a bit.”
“Alvi.”
“Dead,” I say, pushing a compress bandage on one chest wound, then a second on another. They both quickly sop through so I place a fresh one on each, then get a roll of light-brown medical wrap and say, “Sorry, this is going to hurt.” I lift Brian up, necessarily hugging him, and he softly cries out, like a small child—which cuts through me more than I think. Then I do my best to wrap his upper torso and secure the two compresses.
“Why…”
“I shot him,” I say. “There are bombs on the train. They’re set to go off shortly…when we pass another train.”
“Emergency brake…” comes another faint whisper.
“Already engaged,” I say. “We’re slowing down…tell me, how long does it take to stop a train like this?”
“A mile…maybe a mile and a half.”
I quickly stand up.
Look through the unobscured window.
Spot the train Lisa and I had stopped earlier, coming closer and closer into view.
A mile and a half!
I go over, throw open the door leading to the narrow catwalk.
Definitely slowing down, but we’re still moving.
Yet not too fast for me to go out there, hit the dirt and roll, then start running like hell.
“Please…” comes the plaintive voice. “Please don’t leave me…”
I look out again.
Slowing down even more. The squeal of the brakes doing their job seems louder now. We’re passing through an industrial area—warehouses, parking lots, chain-link fences, trash piled up on embankments.
I could jump right now, get a good run in, and seek some sort of shelter before the bombs erupt and the gas cloud starts spreading.
To save me…to save my husband’s wife…and most of all to save my daughter’s mother.
“Please don’t leave me…”
And a third phrase from the Ranger creed comes to mind:
I will never leave a fallen comrade…
I go over to Brian and say, “Never thought of it. Hold on—this isreallygoing to hurt this time.”
