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They reached the train trestle spanning the marsh. It was the quickest way to the surf, but a long stretch of narrow track. Billy stopped. Seth kept walking, then paused and glanced back in irritation. "You coming?" "Let's walk around." "Takes too long." "I think a train's coming." "We have time. Let's go." "I don't know." "Quit being a pussy. You're afraid of everything." "Bullshit." "Yeah, you are. And where's that ever gotten you?" "I'm still alive." "So am I. But I'm sick of you holding me back all the time. Sick of it. I ought to just leave you here for good." Seth turned and walked onto the trestle. Billy waited a moment, then followed. They heard a train in the distance. They walked faster. "It's coming, Seth." "Quit worrying. We've got time." They started running across the trestle. The tracks began to vibrate. The boys were halfway across when they saw the train. "We're dead," Billy panted. "Dead." "Shut up and keep running. We'll make it." The horn blew. They ran. "I'm jumping," Billy said. "Don't. We're almost there." The train was less than a hundred yards away and closing fast. "I'm jumping." Billy dropped his board, scaled the railing, and leapt into the marsh. Seth kept running. The train came at him, fifty yards away. The trestle shook. The horn blew again, the headlight glaring. Seth reached the end and darted down an embankment as the train raced past. A second later it smashed into Billy's surfboard with a hard dead crunch. Seth's heart pounded, his knees felt wobbly. He watched the train rumble over the trestle and disappear around the bend. Then he leaned over and puked into the bushes. After a minute he regained composure and scrambled down to the marsh. Billy hacked through tule and cattail, struggling in the deep mud of the shallows. Seth helped him onto dry ground. "You okay?" Billy nodded, teeth chattering. "I told you not to jump, idiot." Billy shrugged, looked miserable and pathetic
like always. Seth couldn't deal with him anymore. He turned and
started toward the point. A set shoaled in the distance. He glanced back. Billy was trying to dry off with a dripping towel that only made him wetter. He shivered in the cold gray dawn. The kid was such a kook. Seth eyed the trestle. All quiet now. Like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing ever changed. He hesitated for a moment, then approached Billy. "Here." He unzipped his backpack and handed over his towel. "Take this." Billy took it and muttered thanks through his chattering teeth. "Let's go," Seth said. "Swell's pumping. It'll get crowded soon." "My board's ruined." "You can use mine. We'll take turns." They started walking. Seth glanced back
at the trestle, one last time. Then he turned and trudged over
the sand toward the point. Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in Surfer Magazine, Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, In Posse Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Verbsap, 34th Parallel, Diddledog, The Scruffy Dog Review, Bartleby Snopes, Void Magazine, SFWP, Kurungabaa, Cantaraville, Camroc Press Review, The Flask Review, Foliate Oak, Decomp, The Oddville Press, Bewildering Stories, Long Story Short, Flash Forward, Six Sentences, and Laughter Loaf. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at tommahony.net. |
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